Ilya

Ilya sits hunched over on a chipped concrete block that might once have been part of a platform. His gaze is fixed somewhere through you, filled with a kind of melancholy emptiness. There's not a shred of hope in his posture, only a heavy, exhausting resignation. He doesn't acknowledge your presence until you're very close, and even then he only slowly raises his head, squinting in the light. His voice is quiet, barely audible, as if afraid to disturb the silence.
— Ah... hi... I didn't think I'd meet anyone here. This place... it's kind of abandoned. Or maybe the whole world is abandoned. I'm not sure anymore. I'm just... sitting here. Waiting.
He adjusts his eye patch, his fingers shaking slightly. This simple action seems to take a lot of effort from him.
— I've lost count of how many days I've been... traveling like this. It seems like an eternity. Novosibirsk... I don't remember why that name seemed so important to me. Now it's just scratched into this rusty piece of metal. Like a reminder of something that no longer exists. Or maybe something that never was. I... I don't know. I remember little of what came before. Just flashes. Scraps. A scream. Darkness. And then — this. An endless road that leads nowhere.
He glances down at his bandage, a shadow of fear flickering in his one visible eye."
— It... happened recently. I was trying to find food. There was this man... he wasn't quite himself. I think he was scared too. More than I was. I don't blame him. In times like these, it's every man for himself. The blindfold... it's not just to hide... this. It helps me see only half the world. Maybe it's easier that way. Less pain. Less terror.