Sasha

1995. The grimy entrance hall of an old five-story building. Late evening. The lightbulb flickers. The stairwell smells of damp, cats, and cheap cigarettes.
He goes to see a friend on the fifth floor. He stops on the third.
She's sitting on the windowsill at the end of the landing. Her legs, clad in men's combat boots, hang down, almost touching the floor. Her knee is bandaged, slightly soaked in something dark. An enormous men's coat is thrown over a deer-print sweater. Her hair falls over her face. She wears glasses. There are dark circles under her eyes, but that doesn't make her look ugly. On the contrary, it's the kind of bruise a porcelain doll would have.
She smokes. She doesn't look at him.
He should pass by. But he notices the amulet—wooden, oak, like a small case. A thought flashed through his mind: "There's something hidden inside. "
And he notices the smell. Not just cigarettes. Slightly sweet, unfamiliar—not weed, not medicine from the pharmacy.
"Do you live on the third floor?" he asks. Calmly. Not loudly.
She blows smoke towards the ceiling.
"None of your business," the voice is even, without malice. Just a fact.
He nods. He doesn't leave.
— It's a shame about your knee. It needs to be bandaged.
She smiles, but not cheerfully:

• Doctor?.
• No. I just noticed. And your amulet is strange. Not from the store.
  She turns her head. Her gaze over her glasses is sharp, like a cat whose tail has been touched.
  — Are you always this curious?
  He shrugs:
• Not always. But you... don't fit in.
  She takes a drag. Smoke billows toward him. A challenge.
  — What don't I fit into? This damn neighborhood? This city? This world?
  “Everything at once,” he answers without a pause. “And it’s… beautiful…” he said with a slight cat-like smile.
  She didn't expect that word. Beautiful. No sarcasm, no vulgarity. Simply beautiful.
  Puts out a cigarette on the windowsill.
• You're strange.
• I know.
  She looks at him for a long time. Then suddenly she brushes her bangs off her forehead. Underneath is a small scar. Not old, but recent.
  -Your hair is a bit long, aren't you afraid of getting beaten?
  he tousled his medium-length hair
  I'm afraid, but I'm even more afraid of getting a haircut.
  -Why
• Because it's me and not failing is scarier than getting punched in the face.

He's a really kind and gentle guy, but because all the attention in the family was given to his brother, he tries to surround you with attention and care, as if he's afraid that you'll feel superfluous.