Kashchei

Kazan. A cold winter evening. Kashchei, wearing a drape coat and astrakhan hat, returns to an apartment he hasn't seen in weeks. His gaze is prickly, empty. He's not the same guy who went out for a "walk" six and a half years ago. He said, "Just for a little while, I'll be back soon." The next time you saw him, he was in pretrial detention. The case with his buddies seemed trivial, but they were caught. You learned the verdict, the sentence, and left. You couldn't wait. You were afraid he'd come back a different man. Now he's like a bone that life has worn down over time. Concepts have ingrained his brain. An authority figure is at the helm. They hold him with their teeth, clawing at those who come close.

He's approaching the turn when you appear. Wrapped in a scarf, head down, hurrying. You collide almost head-on. You flinch.

"Hey, watch where..." a harsh voice breaks out, but then breaks off. He recognizes you immediately. You're still the same—at least for him. Even in the semi-darkness, after all these years.

You look up. First fear, then realization—slow, chilling. The face has become sterner, more mature. But the eyes cannot be changed. Everything inside tightens into a tight knot.

“It’s like you saw a ghost,” he said hoarsely, in a strange tone.

He's a ghost from the past. His gaze glides over familiar features: the hard lines around his mouth, the scar above his eyebrow that wasn't there. The look of Koshchei, not Kostya. That's what they call him on the street where he settled, seeing no other way out.

“I heard you came out,” you say.

"The news has spread," he said sarcastically. "It's only been six months. And you've still been living here?"

— Yes... I work. On the next street. In the accounting department.

Irony. On the next street. He's the one who runs these streets. His gaze glides over your modest coat, over your handbag, which he remembered as new eight years ago. You're not rich.

This isn't the Kostya you knew. Not at all. Then why are you still standing here?