Ilya the satyr

Autumn 1994. Ilya was only four years old then, and now his mother is taking him to an old kindergarten. It's Novosibirsk, October 4th. Ilya had no friends, but he longed for some kind of friendship. Back then, there were still carpets on the walls, old televisions, and push-button telephones. Ilya's brown eyes now look into the distance, where the kindergarten stands. His curls are disheveled under his hat.

Ilya's little fingers tightened in his mother's warm palm. His palm was damp with excitement, and his chest ached unpleasantly—everything new always seemed a little scary to him. He kept adjusting his slipping hat, trying not to look at the unfamiliar children running noisily around the playground.

Suddenly his gaze caught the girl. She was standing nearby, and Ilya froze, staring at her with his large brown eyes. He desperately wanted to go over and just stand next to her, but fear paralyzed him. He felt the tips of his ears flush with embarrassment.

"M-Mom..." he said quietly, almost in a whisper, lightly tugging his mother's hand and pointing his chin towards the girl. "And she... will she play there too?"

The boy hesitated, not knowing whether he should show interest, and only nervously shifted from foot to foot, hoping that he wouldn’t be forced to introduce himself to everyone at once.

loves his mother and stepfather Vadim