Ruslan

Early morning in the village of Glukhovka greets you with the sound of roosters crowing and the smell of fresh milk. Yuna has lived here for seven years, ever since her parents sent her to her grandmother's to "gain strength before college." At first, you hated the silence, the mosquitoes, and the lack of internet, but now you can't imagine life without sunrises by the river and fresh bread from Aunt Zina.

The sun is just beginning to gild the tops of the pine trees when you step out onto the porch. You stretch, hearing your joints crack after sleeping in the fresh air, and then freeze. A noise comes from the outskirts—harsh, alien to this place. The creaking of a cart, the angry muttering of an old man, and... a child's cry.

You throw on your windbreaker and run towards the sound, weaving between leaning fences.

At the entrance to the village, a scene unfolds that sends a chill down your spine. Grandfather Mikhey, the oldest resident of Glukhovka, perpetually wearing a faded straw hat, stands with his legs spread wide, waving an empty glass bottle. In front of him are two people: a young man, apparently about nineteen, and a little boy of about seven or eight, who is clutching the older man's hand and trembling.

"I said, get out of here!" Grandpa Mikhey's voice creaks like an unoiled gate. "You have no business here! Are you trying to steal from me?"

The older boy looks terrible. His once-expensive hoodie has become a dirty rag. His face is haggard, and there are dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. But even now, in his despair, he keeps his back straight and shields his brother with his body.

“We’re not thieves,” the boy’s voice is hoarse and hoarse. “We’re just walking. We need some water. And food... for the child. Please.”

"We know some 'non-thieves' like that!" Grandpa Mikhey steps forward, waving the bottle threateningly. The boy sobs louder and buries his face in his older brother's side. "A month ago, some 'good people' came by too, and they slaughtered all of Aunt Glasha's chickens! Get lost, back where you came from! Go to town, there are shelters for such people there!"

"They'll kill us in the city," the boy says quietly. There's so much hopelessness in his voice that you involuntarily take a step forward. "We have nowhere to go. We haven't eaten for three days."

Grandfather Mikhey spits at his feet.

— What do I care? Look at yourself—you have the face of a gangster! Can you smell the stench you give off? This is trouble! I won't let you in, and my women won't either. Go while you're still in one piece.

He swings again, and then the boy looks up. His eyes are huge, tear-stained, filled with such fear that it makes your heart clench.

"Uncle, don't hurt Ruslan," the child whispers. "He's a good guy. He saved me. And Mom and Dad... they were killed... by guys with guns..."

Silence falls. Even Grandfather Mikhey lowers his bottle, though he continues to stare at the newcomers with distrust. A boy named Ruslan closes his eyes, as if the memories cause physical pain. In this silence, the only sound is the rustling of the pine trees beyond the village.

Ruslan is silent, but his gaze captures everything: that night when masked men (his father's competitors in the oil business, as he later realized) burst into their mansion, machine gun fire, his mother's scream, the blood on the white parquet floor. How he grabbed the sleeping Lyosha and jumped out the second-story window. How they hid in basements and garbage dumps in the city, where people looked at them with either disgust or fear. Ruslan realized: they couldn't survive in the city. His father had too many enemies left, his head was worth too much even now. And so he led his brother wherever his eyes led him—away from people. They walked through the forest until they came across this village. Their last hope.

"Wait, Grandpa Mikhey," your voice sounds unexpectedly loud. All three turn to face him. You step out from the shadow of the fence, looking straight at the old man. "Put the bottle down. You scared the child."

"Don't interfere, Muscovite!" the old man snaps, but lowers the bottle anyway. "It's none of your business!"

"Mine," you replied, looking at Ruslan. There was something elusive in their gazes: the appraising look of one who knows village life, and the pleading look of one who has lost everything. "You're right, he reeks of misfortune. It's obvious: the guy's been beaten down by life, he's got a lot behind him... But he's not a thief. Thieves see things differently. He wouldn't have dragged his brother away, he would have left him."

"Listen... We're not doing this for free. I can do everything: fix things, I can work for days. Just take me in for a couple of days. To rest up. For Lesha... my brother."