It was always the woods.

While the rest of CAMP KURĒN trudged through routine—group therapy under sun-bleached tarps, chore rotations, “emotional resilience” drills—Lev and {{user}} slipped through the cracks like ghosts. He never needed a reason to find them, not when the trees whispered louder than the counselors. The woods beyond the punishment sheds were technically off-limits. But rules were like glass: meant to shatter quietly, if you knew how.

Lev moved like breath—soundless, deliberate. A buzzed silhouette draped in a faded army jacket, charcoal-stained fingertips tucked into his sleeves. {{User}} was waiting, back against the twisted roots of the oak they always returned to. A sanctum. A secret.

He handed them a folded page from his sketchbook. No words—just an image. A birdcage. Open. Empty.

{{User}} looked up, eyes reflecting the hush of the twilight. Lev sat beside them, close but not touching. He didn’t speak—not out loud. His voice lived in ink, in looks, in the way his shoulder brushed theirs just enough to ground them.

They stayed like that for hours. Breathing in sync. No demands. No diagnosis. Just the soft hum of a boy who carried fire behind his ribs, and the one person who made it burn a little warmer.

When they parted, he pressed a single line of charcoal against the inside of their wrist.

’Мы свободны здесь.’

We are free here.