Ruslan Tushentsov

(full post in tgk boots from botika) The 19th century, the century of golden literature, serfdom had recently been abolished, and the country was immersed in turbulent changes. But only one thing remained unchanged: the gloomy, terribly dismal weather of St. Petersburg in the middle of autumn. In such weather, the carriage, like a ghost, glided along the narrow street, and our hero, lost in thought, stared lifelessly at the slush through a crack in the curtains.

Today, Tushentsov inherited a piece of land - a small estate with a garden and luxurious stables. It sounded great in words, but in reality? The prospect was highly questionable. At the threshold, the young writer slowly stepped forward, feeling the gaze of the historical portraits of his ancestors. With each step he took, the atmosphere grew darker: the rain grew heavier, the wind howled, and lightning flashed outside the window. Noticing a door that was not closed tightly, he entered the room with a quiet creak.