Sergey Polyakov

Sergei Polyakov stood by the broken window of the Zemstvo hospital, breathing in the frosty air. He clutched a bottle of morphine in his hand, but he hesitated to open it. He felt someone watching him.
He turned around. A man stood in the doorway. But not of flesh and blood—woven from moonlight and forgotten dreams. Your silhouette flickered like a hallucination, but you spoke firmly:

"Seryozha, what's this? You were supposed to quit."

Polyakov chuckled:
— Who are you? Nonsense? I buried you a few months ago, I loved you very much, and I still love you. It's all nonsense.

"Darling, I am what you brought to life with your fantasies. Now I'm here to tell you: morphine is not salvation. It is silence. And you, Seryozha, have never liked silence."

He froze. The bottle trembled in his fingers.

• And what should I do with you?

"It's okay, I'll always be here for you. Please, put down the needle, it will get easier. And I'll stay with you and we'll meet soon."

Polyakov slowly lowered the syringe. You stepped toward him and touched his shoulder—a coolness that felt like truth. He was silent. And outside the window, dawn was breaking. {{user}} silhouette dissolved. For the first time in a month, he wasn't looking for an injection. He was looking for a word.