Evgeniy Bokov

he is 10 years old

1. Caring without words
   If I came home from work tired and sat in the kitchen, he'd silently bring me a mug of tea. Without asking if I wanted it. He'd know when I was cold and silently drape his baby blanket over my shoulders. He didn't say "I love you," but in the morning, there would always be that little candy he'd hidden from his stash on the nightstand.

2. Protection
   Zhenya jealously protected me from strangers. If someone raised their voice at me—even accidentally, even jokingly—he would freeze, clench his fists, and stare at the offender with his steely, unblinking gaze. Adults would say, "What a strange boy." But I knew he was afraid of being hurt. And he was ready to protect me, despite his tiny stature.

3. Accepting my weakness
   One day, I was crying in the kitchen—I was just tired, everything had just come at me at once. Zhenya came in, stood silently in the doorway, then came over and placed his thin hand on my arm. We sat like that for five minutes. He didn't offer any silly comforting words, didn't hug me, he was just there—firm, calm, reliable. "It will all pass," he said later, and left. And that was better than any words.

4. Jealousy of my attention
   He never asked, "Stay with me." But if I sat down to read a book, he would quietly bring his own and sit next to me, on the floor, at my feet. Sometimes I would see him stealthily raise his eyes and check if I was there. My silent presence was enough for him.

5. The greatest love is in trust
   Zhenya didn't tell anyone about his experiences. But sometimes, late at night, when only the nightlight was on, he would suddenly start talking—abruptly, quietly, haltingly. About what he'd seen on the street, about what was troubling him, about how strange his dreams could be. These were rare moments when he allowed himself to be vulnerable. And I knew: if he spoke, it meant he trusted me completely.

6. Forgiveness
   I wasn't a perfect mother. I could yell at him when I was tired or misunderstand him instantly. But Zhenya never sulked for long. He'd go to his room, process the insult, and then come back and just be there.

Cloth:
Nothing bright or flashy. He hated T-shirts with prints and loud colors. Most often, it was dark blue, gray, or black. Even at six, he chose his own clothes, silently pushing aside anything he considered "stupid." But he wasn't a slob—his clothes were always clean and neat, because he disliked dirt and disorder.

6. Responsibility
   Once he picked up that wet kitten, he never let it go. He fed it himself with a pipette, changed the cloths in the box himself, and never once asked me to "help because I'm tired." For him, it was his personal commitment. He believed that if you decide to save someone, you're responsible for their life until the end.

Height and figure:
He was thin and angular, as if he were constantly stretching upwards but never quite achieving fullness. His arms and legs were long and slightly awkward, but his movements were savagely precise—not a single wasted gesture. He never fussed or ran aimlessly like other children. He moved smoothly, as if conserving space.

Face:
Sharp, pale, with sharply defined cheekbones that showed through too early for a child. His skin was fair, almost translucent, so that in winter, bluish veins under his eyes became visible. But this didn't look sickly—rather, it made his face resemble an old porcelain doll accidentally forgotten in a closet.

Eyes:
The most striking details. Large, light gray, almost steel-like. They seemed too mature for a child: attentive, tenacious, with a cold gleam. But when he became engrossed or discovered something important, they would glow from within—becoming transparent, like ice in the sun. This gaze made adults uneasy. He never looked away first, but stared, squinting slightly, as if reading you like an open book.

Hair:
Dark blond, with an ash tint, it always got in my eyes, no matter how I cut it. It was thin, soft, but unruly—stemming from the top and back of his head in tufts, especially after he pulled his hood up. It made him look even more tousled and wild, like a forest animal that had just emerged from a burrow.

Nose:
Straight, with a thin hump that was just beginning to appear. A sharp, slightly pointed tip, which he often wrinkled when he was dissatisfied or thinking hard about something.

Lips:
Thin, pale, and almost always tightly pressed together. He rarely smiled, and when he did, it was at the corners of his mouth, reserved and slightly mocking. This made his face seem withdrawn and distant.

Hands:
Thin, with protruding knuckles and long fingers that were always busy with something: twirling a button, peeling bark from a branch, picking sand out of a shoe.

1. Seriousness beyond one's years ("Little Old Man")
   He almost never smiled without a reason. His smile had to be earned, like a reward. At six, he looked at the world with the same attentive, slightly sullen concentration with which adults look at important documents. He couldn't stand baby talk and children's songs—he craved adult conversation, encyclopedias, and logic puzzles.

2. Hypersensitivity and empathy (which he hid)
   This was his deepest secret. From the outside, he seemed a cold, prickly, bristly boy. But in reality, he heard everything. He heard the creak of a floorboard under a neighbor's foot, the cry of a stray puppy behind the fence, and his mother's tired sighs in the kitchen. He couldn't stand other people's pain and rushed to "treat" it—silently, without unnecessary sentimentality. At the same time, he fiercely hated it when people pitied him. If I saw he was hurt and tried to hug him, he would immediately break away, press his lips together, and say, "I'm fine. Don't."

3. Fanatical meticulousness
   Whenever Zhenya took on a task (even searching for his mother's lost earring), he turned it into an operation. He wouldn't rest until he found the end of the thread. He would pick apart the carpet, check the cracks in the floor, and analyze where something might have rolled. It was impossible to play hide-and-seek with him—he always knew where you were, because he noticed the smallest traces: a shifted chair, a swaying curtain, the sound of breathing.

4. Stubbornness and inner core
   If he said "no," it meant "no." There was no way to convince him otherwise with shouting or persuasion. Only with facts. If I said, "Zhenya, put on a hat, it's cold," and he replied, "The thermometer says +5, that's not critical," I knew the argument was lost. He trusted only his own calculations, his own eyes and ears. The majority opinion meant nothing to him.

5. Mistrust of people
   He avoided strangers' gazes. If his mother's friends came to visit and tried to hug him or pat him on the cheek, he would silently decline and retreat to his room. He didn't trust anyone's word until he'd checked it out for himself. Once upon a time