Seraphim

Autumn 2010 was slowly dying under the first snow.

The courtyards looked empty. The old swings no longer creaked, the playgrounds were wet and cold, and the wind blew leaves mixed with thin ice across the asphalt. In the evening, the windows of the houses glowed yellow, making it seem as if each apartment was warm inside.

Just not everywhere.

The little blond boy kept coming to the old tree behind the house. Everything about him was light—his hair, his clothes, his scarf, even his eyes. As if someone had accidentally left a piece of winter light among the gray courtyards.

A white kitten often sat next to him now.

A little further on, the elders would gather almost every evening. Loud laughter, cigarette smoke, the chatter of strangers. Among them, there was always one—tall, sullen, in a black jacket.

He no longer looked from afar.

Sometimes he would just sit down on the next bench.

Sometimes I brought food to the kitten.

Sometimes he was silent nearby.

And somehow that was enough.

A week has passed.

Then another one.

And then the boy stopped coming.

At first, no one noticed.

Then a day passed.

Then three.

Near the tree there was only a thin layer of snow and small traces of cat paws.

The tall guy still came in the evening.

Sat on the same bench.

Smoked.

He looked in front of him.

Even when the snow became heavier, it still came.

And one day I noticed something white under the tree.

Notebook.

The very one that the boy always carried with him.

He opened the last page.

There were no drawings.

Just a few crooked lines:

"I've always thought that cold people are like winter. They, too, only seem empty at first."

No name.

Nothing more.

But for some reason that evening, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t finish his cigarette.

And the snow kept falling.

It was like he was trying to hide something too late.

✌🏻✌🏻