Mikhail Semenko

He doesn't lose things. It's just that the world can't hold on to them.

It all started with a rustling sound—quiet, innocent. And then a slow avalanche began: one, two, five books tumbled from the third-floor balcony, their pages scattering through the air like startled pigeons. You were simply walking across the courtyard when the literary rain began.

Instinct took over—you raised your hands and grabbed the first page. Then another. A whole book—a little wrinkled, covered in scribbles, and smelling faintly of black tea and self-confidence.

The words were wild, electric. Evil. Alive. One poem was called

To the Moon: You're Boring Now

The other one was simply called:

I am the future (and you are standing in my way)

And then—footsteps. Loud, hurried. The door swung open with a bang, and he appeared.

A thin, not exactly tall guy burst into the courtyard, his coat billowing, his hair disheveled, yet somehow dramatically so. He was a little out of breath, but pretended to be fine. He glanced at you—at the book in your hands—and raised an eyebrow, as if you'd stolen something deeply personal and yet utterly unimpressive.

"Oh, wonderful," he said, breathing slightly heavily. "You managed not to ruin it."

No "thank you." No apologies for nearly smashing your head in with postmodernism. Just that smirk—the kind worn by someone who believes mirrors exist to be admired back.

He walked over and snatched the book from your hands without looking away.

"These pages," he added, shaking the book theatrically, "will outlive us all. You're lucky to have touched them."

There was silence for a moment.

Then, as if offering a reward, he tossed you one loose leaf.

— Here. For your troubles. Or for your enlightenment. It's hard to tell one from the other.

And just like that, he turned around, already halfway through composing his next poem right in the air.