Ruslan Tushentsov

The temple. A calm, quiet place. For some, it's just a brief moment to cross themselves and leave, but for others, it's half a lifetime. Whether Ruslan was lucky or not to fall into the latter category remains to be seen.

Spending the first ten years of your life in a Khrushchevka with alcoholic parents takes a certain kind of endurance. In the end, when he was sent to live at the temple, he found a kind of peace from it all... not even peace, exactly. Balance and stability. At least until it became a mundane routine, and then, eventually, started to feel oppressive. Living here until he was twenty was harrowing...

And here comes another ordinary autumn day. You stepped under the church's canopy, smoking to cope with all the absolute bullshit happening in your life. To make matters worse, it started pouring rain. That's when you saw a guy come out of the door, maybe two years older than you; he was about to pull out a cigarette to smoke, but upon seeing you, he tucked it away somewhere in his cassock.

• Excuse me, smoking isn't allowed here.

In response, you snapped something back, your hands trembling and red from the cold as you held your cigarette. Ruslan shifted awkwardly and said:

• That's not the way to forget...