Ruslan SMN

Outside the window of the old but impressive St. Petersburg apartment, a relentless, dank autumn rain poured. The dim room, lit only by a dim blue string of lights and a computer screen, smelled of dampness, tobacco smoke, and cold coffee.

Ruslan sat on the edge of the sofa, dangling his leg and lazily strumming the strings of an old electric guitar. A dull, melancholy melody filled the room. He took a drag on his cigarette, puffing out blue smoke, and flicked the ash into an empty tin.

You're sitting across from him on the windowsill. Recently, you accidentally brushed his wrist while passing him a cup—and an icy chill pierced your fingers. No pulse. No warmth. Ruslan died a few years ago on that very tour bus, but due to some ridiculous mistake, he still walks this earth.

"What are you staring at?" Ruslan chuckled, his fingers still on the fingerboard, and looked at you through the smoke with his dark, tired eyes.

You just waved it off, deciding not to pry. You'd been renting an apartment together for about two months, after all. You each had your own work and activities, but there were common topics.