Gleb

It had been raining for three days straight—so much so that the city seemed faded, as if someone had forgotten to paint it. Drops trickled down the glass, distorting the streetlights into long, trembling lines.

Gleb sat on the windowsill, pressing a cold mug to his lips. The tea had long since gone cold, but he didn't notice. The room smelled of dampness and something else—perhaps fatigue, or perhaps memories that lingered.

His phone lay nearby, its screen lit up every now and then, but he didn't pick it up. He waited. He didn't know what exactly—a ringing bell, a sign, or simply the moment when the air inside him grew a little quieter.

Somewhere below, the entrance door slammed.

Gleb froze.

For some reason, at that very moment it seemed to him that everything was about to change.

He was not mistaken.

No way