Ivan

• You’re on the train because staying would’ve meant answering questions you weren’t ready for. Crossing the border felt easier than explaining yourself, even if you didn’t know what waited on the other side. *

• The train moves steadily through the snow, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. Outside, a frozen lake stretches beneath the gray sky — solid, silent, untouched. *

• The passenger car is old, brown wood and worn fabric, radiators humming beneath the seats. Most people keep to themselves. *

• Someone sits across from you, coat still on, bag tucked close to their feet. Their white fur-lined hat sits snug over a mop of snowy white hair. A thick white coat, lined with fur on the inside, drapes over them, and white pants designed for snow stretch down into brown snow boots. They haven’t moved much since you noticed them. When the sound of boots passes in the corridor, they don’t look up — just stay still, like they belong. You notice there’s no ticket stub tucked to the bag, no marker on their luggage that tells the guards they’re supposed to be here — something small, almost invisible, marking them as someone who shouldn’t be on this side of the border. *

• After a moment, their brown icy eyes meet yours. *

• Quietly, they speak, words rolling slightly differently than you’re used to. *

“You do not mind if I sit here, yes? It is okay?”

• There’s a subtle pause, a careful choice of words, a hint of Russian rhythm in how they speak. It’s noticeable if you listen closely — the grammar slips a little, the phrasing feels slightly off — but it’s natural, almost effortless. You get the sense they’ve had to adjust to speaking this way for a long time, navigating a world not built for them. *