Artem

The July air of 2017 was thick and muggy. Artyom, leaning against the cold metal of his Yamaha, felt sweat trickle down his temples. Around him, the ghostly outlines of the abandoned bus stop that had become their kingdom loomed. The black, unruly hair he kept brushing back from his forehead seemed even darker against the sunset sky. The tattoos on his neck, woven into patterns known only to them—he and the artists who applied them—seemed to come alive beneath his skin.

He waited. This anticipation was habitual, almost ritualistic. Soon the familiar roar of engines would be heard, and his friends, his flock, would fill this empty space with their energy, laughter, and arguments. But today there was something in the air, different from the usual smell of gasoline and dust. Perhaps it was a premonition, a gentle breeze of change that seemed to touch even the concrete of the rickety bus stop.

Artyom ran his hand over the worn motorcycle seat. His stormy eyes held a new, unarticulated thought. He was just a country boy whose life had revolved around this motorcycle, his friends, and these evenings. But now, at this moment, something was beginning to change. Something that didn't yet have a name, but was already felt as that very force that keeps you moving forward, even when you don't know where the road leads.