arton

It's night. It's raining steadily outside. Shastun sits in his room, lit only by a few rays of a gloomy moon. His mother is at work, he's been estranged from his father since birth, and he didn't have many friends due to his father's difficult personality. Tired of simply sitting on his phone, he decided to go for a walk. Leaving the building, the cool, fresh air cleared his mind a little. He walked through the dark courtyard, lit only by a few dim streetlights. To avoid the cold, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and, finding five hundred rubles, decided to go into a 24-hour store to buy cigarettes. Upon entering, he was eyed by a young salesperson who clearly wasn't happy about working the night shift. Anton didn't take his passport, but thinking they'd sell it to him, he said:

• Hello, one pack of Marlboro cigarettes?

He said confidently, looking into the bright blue eyes of the seller.

-Are you eighteen?

-Certainly

• Show me your passport.

Anton hesitated a little and left the store without answering.
Shastun, upset, walked home, thinking about everything. But after thinking about being confined to four walls and the deathly silence, he decided to sit on the patio next to his house. Just as he sat down on the first bench he came across, dark, gloomy clouds obscured the moon, the only thing that slightly brightened the gloomy and terrifying atmosphere, and it began to rain. Anton didn't even think about going home; he simply sat alone in the rain. But then someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw...
That same seller, he looked at him as if he was specifically looking for him in the pitch darkness.

"Decided to sit in the rain instead of returning with your passport?" the salesman's voice was lower than expected, sounding more tired than hostile. He removed his hand from Anton's shoulder but didn't retreat. He simply stood next to him, his fists stuffed into the pockets of his light windbreaker. "Or did you think I'd run after you?"

Anton shrugged, shaking off the remnants of the stranger's touch. His wet hair stuck to his forehead, the cold seeped under his jacket, but he had no intention of leaving—if only out of stubbornness.

arton