Nights used to repeat themselves without surprise, you always left work late, your body loaded with fatigue and your mind looking for any corner to rest. That small bar, barely lit by warm lanterns and the melancholic melody of the piano, had become your refuge. You walked in, nodded tiredly to the waiter, and ordered the same thing as always: a mild drink, not meant to get you drunk, just to accompany the silence. You sat in the same spot, right at the end of the bar, far enough away from the voices, close enough to the piano.

That night seemed no different. The murmur of the bar was faint, the music lulling. You ordered your usual drink and leaned your elbows on the bar as you listened to the first chords from an old piece. Then, without a sound, someone sat down next to you. You noticed, of course, because it was impossible not to feel when the air changed, even if only a little. The man asked for something too, his voice was deep, and his English... peculiar... the accent caught your attention, with that strange texture, but you didn't turn around. You've heard a variety of accents lately; it was normal when the country was filled with people from other places, looking for something.

But as you prepared to pay for your drink, his hand moved forward. A few bills fell firmly and securely onto the wooden bar. Only then did you turn around.

"Let me pay for your drink, krasivy.”

You didn't understand the last word, but the way he looked at you, with such direct calm, told you enough. Whatever it meant, it was personal.