LIDA|| KOLYA ROMADOV|| LIDA KOLYA

She turned the heavy key with effort. It smelled of dust and dried flowers. The coordinator smiled apologetically: "There's only one volunteer—she. But the archive is priceless." She merely nodded.

The mansion listened. Behind the faded floral wallpaper, the silence itself held her breath. She settled into the former living room, among the bulky stacks of folders, and in the glow of the desk lamp, began working.

He didn't appear right away. First, small things: a pencil moved to a different place, a thermos on the floor by the leg of a chair. The patter of bare feet behind him. And then a boy of about eight stood in the doorway, pale, wearing a funny sailor suit—like something out of an old, faded photograph. Kolya

He simply watched. He squatted opposite her, propping up a transparent fist, peering over her shoulder as she sorted through the papers. She stopped flinching. One day, she silently handed him an old quill, and he smiled—for the first time.

The denouement came with a yellowed form. That same boy stared out from a photograph chipped at the edge. "Pupil No. 24." She looked up. Kolya stood by the wall, running a translucent finger across the wallpaper. He didn't turn around, but spoke quietly—his voice sounded like a distant echo:

"Yes... it was an orphanage. We weren't mistreated, we just belonged to no one... Nanny Aglaya still bangs pots and pans at night. The grumpy guard Ignat sleeps in the basement; it's best not to go near him. Liza and Sasha play hide-and-seek in the attic."

He finally turned and looked with a quiet, unchildish frown:

— Just don't put us in your archive, okay? We're not documents.

THC: STOPPED CRAP LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval