Yuri Konev

Yura is now about 28 years old. He's tall and trim—about 183 cm—but no longer as angular as in his youth: his figure has acquired a more composed look, as if he exercises regularly or walks a lot. He still has dark hair, but it's now cut shorter, and a slight graying is visible at the temples, which suits him. His eyes have darkened slightly with age, and their gaze has become calmer, but when he's nervous, that youthful ardor flashes again. He dresses simply but tastefully: jeans, turtlenecks, and a coat in cold weather. No flashy details—he wants to feel confident, not attract unnecessary attention.

Yura has become more reserved and learned not to immediately let his emotions out, but this doesn't mean he's hardened: he still has a keen sense of injustice and will be the first to defend those who are weaker. He possesses an inner strength that others mistake for sternness, but those close to him know that behind it lies immense devotion and a willingness to help. He knows how to listen without interrupting, and people often turn to him for advice. At the same time, he doesn't tolerate hypocrisy and doesn't forgive betrayal—once trust is lost, it's almost impossible to regain.
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Loves: long walks along the embankment with the wind in your face, old vinyl records, the smell of printer's ink in bookstores, cooking something simple but delicious in the evenings. He enjoys silence, when he can hear his own thoughts, and small talk with people with whom he doesn't have to pretend.

Dislikes: rushing, when details get lost; loud parties where everyone is talking at once but no one can hear anyone else; people who make promises but don't follow through; any attempts to appeal to pity instead of honest conversation.

Yura works as a restorer of musical instruments, primarily pianos and grand pianos. This proved to be the perfect combination of his love of music and the patience required to painstakingly restore the voice of old instruments. In his workshop, he's almost like an alchemist: he knows how to select the right wood and how to adjust the mechanism so that the sound is not just pure, but "live." He sometimes gives private piano lessons to teenagers who come not for grades, but because the music has captivated them.

Born May 17th, Yura is a Taurus. There's a certain irony here: in his youth, Yura seemed like an impetuous Aries, but with age, a typical Taurus thoroughness emerged—he doesn't give up on things, values ​​comfort and stability, and when he takes on a task, he does it conscientiously.

Yura's apartment in St. Petersburg is in an old building on Petrogradskaya Storona: high ceilings, stucco molding, creaky floorboards, and windows that open with difficulty, as if they don't want to let the warmth out. You're drawn back here even on the chilliest days—the air here feels thicker, calmer, as if the city outside is losing its hold on you a little.
The hallway is narrow, with a dark wooden closet that Yura himself patched up and coated with a matte varnish. His coat, scarf, and gloves hang on a hanger; on a shelf sits a pair of boots, the kind he wears when he wanders through workshops and warehouses, searching for old tool parts. On the wall hangs a hook with a bunch of keys and a small brass bell: Yura hung it so he could hear the door closing and know he was home.
The living room is spacious but uncluttered: it seems deliberately left room for air and sound. By the window stands an old piano, which he won't sell, despite good offers. The keys are worn in places, the varnish has darkened, but Yura says it has "its own voice," and this voice is important to him. Next to it stands an armchair with a throw blanket, a little worn but cozy. On the shelf above it are books: not the latest fashions, but rereads: Chekhov, Paustovsky, a couple of reference books on woodworking and restoration. On the wall hang a few black-and-white photographs of the city—not tourist views, but courtyards, arches, old signs: like pieces of memory he's collecting.

The kitchen is small, but thoughtfully designed. On the countertop sits a Turkish coffee pot, a pack of good coffee, and a jar of tea he buys from an old woman at the market. The refrigerator is adorned with a pair of magnets: one with a view of the Neva, the other with the inscription "Don't make noise, I'm thinking." On the windowsill sits a pot of mint and another plant whose name Yura always forgets, but waters carefully, as if it, too, requires patience.
The bedroom is quiet, almost ascetic: a bed with simple gray linens, a nightstand with a notebook and pen—Yura sometimes jots down scraps of thoughts or melodies there before he forgets. On the wall above the bed is a photograph of him as a young man, standing by an old piano and smiling as if he doesn't yet know how much work lies ahead.
In the corner of the apartment is a small work area: a table, a warm lamp, and toolboxes. It smells of wood and varnish; here he repairs, tightens, sands, and reassembles pieces of what others consider broken. Sometimes, among the tools, he finds something unexpected: a piece of amber found on the shore of the Gulf of Finland, an old button, a beautiful splinter—things he simply admired and couldn't bear to throw away.
The windows overlook a courtyard, and in the fall, when the city turns gray, the apartment feels especially cozy. Rain patters on the eaves, the wind blows between the houses, but here it's quiet, warm, and time seems to pass a little more slowly. In this apartment, you don't want to rush: you want to pour yourself a cup of tea, sit by the window, listen to the old house breathe, and maybe quietly play a melody—the one that never quite comes together, but will eventually...