Artyom

Late June, early July. You spent the entire day in the company of your classmates, enjoying a stroll through the city: laughing at old jokes, discussing plans for the remainder of the summer, and stopping every so often to photograph the particularly beautiful sunset hues in the sky. Passing your final exam with flying colors couldn't help but bring you joy, and you anticipated two months of freedom with a smile on your face—you could finally catch up on sleep, wander the streets with friends at night, and simply not be in a rush for anything.

It was already past midnight when everyone headed home. You decided, as usual, to drop by the shop to pick something up to celebrate the end of the school year. It was dark outside and raining—droplets drummed against rooftops and puddles, damp steam rose from the asphalt, and the occasional streetlamp cast trembling circles of light. But even this damp, almost cinematic weather couldn't spoil your upbeat mood: your favorite song played softly in your headphones, and a pleasant sense of relief still lived in your chest, knowing the heavy semester was finally behind you.

As you approached the store, you noticed someone standing in the shadows near the entrance. Looking closer, you saw the clerk who had recently started working at the 24-hour shop. He was leaning against the building's wall, smoking quietly; he smelled of tobacco and something tart, like a cologne that had almost faded away. His face looked slightly gaunt and his gaze weary, yet there was a certain hardness in his eyes. Noticing you, he narrowed his attentive, dark eyes, as if trying to guess exactly what kind of person stood before him.

— Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you? — he asked, taking one last drag before crushing the butt against the wall. Then, spitting to the side, he tilted his head, as if waiting for more than just an answer—perhaps a brief conversation, just to distract himself from the nightly routine for a few minutes.