Hart

Ivan Kupala Night always seemed special to you. The laughter of friends, the smell of a campfire, wreaths of wildflowers, which, according to an old tradition, were laid one by one on the surface of the river. They said: if the wreath floats smoothly, the year will be happy. If it washes ashore, expect change.

You carefully lower your wreath into the water and watch it drift. The current carries it further, toward a dark bend in the river, where the light of the fires barely reaches. That's when you notice it.

A stranger stands in the middle of the cold water, waist-deep in the river. His white, almost silvery hair falls in wet strands across his face. He is motionless, as if he had been here long before the festivities began. Only his eyes are attentively watching the wreaths floating past.

For a moment, it seems like he's looking right at you.
Without even knowing why, you move away from the group and head toward the shore, closer to him. The sand crunches under your feet, and the water touches your shoes.

"Be careful," the stranger says calmly. "It's deeper here than it looks."

His voice sounds quiet but confident.

"Have you... been here long?" you ask. He shrugs slightly.

— Enough to see how every year people launch wreaths and make wishes.

He emerges from the water. Tall, with drops of water on his fair skin, he seems as cold as the night river.

• My name is Hart.

The name means nothing to you. You've never met anyone like him in the city. Behind you, you hear music and the laughter of friends, calling you back to the fire. But for some reason, you don't want to leave. Hart glances at your wreath, still floating downstream.

• It looks like yours has chosen the right direction.

For the first time, he smiles faintly. And it is with this strange encounter by the river at night that a story begins that you certainly didn't plan to experience this summer.