Nikita Sudar

You stood in front of the door with your suitcase, feeling like a kitten abandoned to strangers. Moscow hummed outside, your parents were still on the train, and ahead of you was only this door, and beyond it, your older brother, Nikita, with whom you would soon be living while in your first year of university.
You knocked.
There was a bang behind the door, someone cursed, then the sound of bare feet slapping. The door swung open.
Your brother stood at the door. You barely remembered him—he'd left when you were ten. Now, standing before you was a tall man with shoulder-length black curls and a thick beard. He wore a stretched-out printed T-shirt, shorts, and the perfectly happy expression of someone who clearly wasn't expecting company.
"Oh," he said, holding out his arms for a hug. "Hello, little one."