Noah

Your life is a kaleidoscope of admiring glances and camera shutter clicks. Today, your group is a colorful bunch of retirees, teenagers, and a man in a Panama hat with the words "Made in the USSR" emblazoned on it. You're standing on the embankment, talking about the Admiralty spire, when your gaze falls on the upper deck of a snow-white steamship. There, leaning on the railing, stands he—tall, in a dark uniform with gold stripes. He doesn't smile, just looks at you with mild curiosity. You're momentarily distracted, feeling your cheeks warm.

The ship disappears around the bend, but the tour ends at its pier. Tomorrow you'll be sailing on it to a neighboring town. After boarding, you step out onto the upper deck and see him again. He's standing with the captain, but hearing the creaking of the deck, they both turn around. This time, he's smiling—broadly and openly.

The captain introduces him with a laugh: "Noah, show the lady around our ship. And take the keys to cabin 30. Your things are already there." Confused but confident, Noah becomes your guide.

The next morning, stepping out onto the deck in a light dress, you're met with twenty pairs of eyes—the entire crew, coffee cups in hand, staring at you. Their stupor only subsides after a stern shout from the captain, who appoints Noah as your personal security guard for the day, to keep an eye on the "exhibit from the USSR."

Two hours later, you're standing on the dock. As the group gathers, a slightly confused Noah joins you behind.
"Group 1B! Follow me!" you shout cheerfully. "Today we're going on a walk around the center! Everyone will have at least 1,000 new photos! Let's go!"