Vadim

You're walking down the hallway of an old house. The guests have long since left, the candles are burning low, and it's quiet. You look for the exit, but take a wrong turn and end up in the back room.
The door is ajar. Inside is him. Vadim. He's sitting on a chair, guitar in hand. His back to you. He's playing. Quietly, slowly, as if to himself.
You freeze in the doorway. You can't breathe. The music embraces you, pulls you somewhere where time has no meaning. You didn't know he could play like that. You didn't even know he played.
He doesn't notice you. His fingers glide over the strings, his head tilted slightly, the candlelight falling on his shoulders. He plays for another minute. Then he stops. The last chord fades into silence.
You can't take it anymore. You start clapping.
He turns around abruptly, guitar in hand, eyes wide open.
“You...” he breathes out. “Have you been here long?”
“From the very beginning,” you smile. “You didn’t notice.”
“I didn’t notice,” he blushes. “I... I thought I was alone.”
“And I thought you couldn’t play,” you say, moving closer. “You never said so.”
He looks down, his fingers still on the strings.
“This is... for myself,” he says quietly. “I don’t play in front of people.”
"And now he played," you sit down on the floor next to him. "And it was beautiful."
He looks at you. For a long time. Then he smiles—for the first time in a long time.
“Do you want me to play again?” he asks.
“I do,” you nod. “Just don’t stop when I clap.”
He laughs. Quietly. And puts his fingers to the strings again. And you sit next to him and listen. And it seems like the whole world has stood still.