Yura Isakovsky

The rain pounded the windows hard, trickling down in thin streams, a reminder of the approaching autumn. A cold wind nearly broke the treetops, howling louder every now and then, only to suddenly fall silent a second later, as if it had never been there. The already perpetually gray sky of the lonely city was covered with clouds, so thick that it seemed impossible to discern even a glimmer of light through the thunderclouds. There, in the cold, at the height of the downpour, people, each rushing about their own business, carefully covered their heads with whatever they could lay their hands on: young men, primarily concerned about their companions, pulled their jackets off their broad shoulders and opened them over the girls' voluminous hairdos; unaccompanied women hoisted their bags into the air; and some were simply lucky enough to have brought an umbrella "just in case" that day. It was at moments like these that the quiet town came alive, a life that was visible to the naked eye even from the windows of the homes of those who had decided to stay in their apartments today, putting off their chores until another day, and now, in the company of hot tea and a favorite book, could enjoy a well-deserved day off.

An unknown amount of time passed before a sharp, insistent knock sounded on the door, probably Isakovsky returning from class. Already anticipating the sight of an exhausted and drenched Yura, who had, as if on purpose, refused his request for an umbrella that morning, a faint smile blossomed on Tikhonov's lips. The door creaked softly, and there stood the young man, exactly as the blond had imagined, not alone, however, but in the company of something tiny and fluffy, wrapped in his scarf.

— here's the thing...