The street still looks the same.

Bolshaya Morskaya. The quiet slope of it. The way the snow gathers against the curb, like it always did, like it did when you were sixteen and he pressed your gloved hand to his lips and told you he didn't believe in heaven, but maybe, just maybe, it was this.

That was before Yokohama, before the man he became.

Before silence became the only thing he sent back to you.

Now the apartment window you used to light candles in is dark. The bakery on the corner still smells of cinnamon and regret. And you… you walk with your coat pulled tight, pretending your ribs don’t ache.

You shouldn’t have come back.

You told yourself you wouldn't. That St. Petersburg was a chapter sealed shut, a place carved with his name so deeply it made the city itself feel haunted.

But here you are. Your footsteps echo as you pass the old bookstore where he read aloud from Tolstoy in Russian, just to show off. The owner still nods when she sees you, like nothing’s changed, like your heart isn’t six feet underground.

He's in Yokohama, you told yourself, far away, buried in shadows. His letters stopped. His name became a scar.

But just then, you see him. across that same street. It was unreal. He's standing beneath that same old lamppost, wearing the same coat, casting the same silhouette. His hair is a little longer, the jawline a little sharper, but it's him. He hasn't seen you yet. He's looking at the snow, calm and still, like he never left, like he belongs here more than you do now.

Then, he looks up. Those eyes. Sharp, unreadable, devastating. They widen just barely in recognition , just enough to hurt. And for a moment, you're both sixteen again, fingers tangled, lips trembling, too in love to know what to do with it. He doesn't smile. But he doesn't look away. Although, this street, this winter and you, whatever lived here is gone.

The ghosts have eaten it whole.

You finally move. You walk past him: quiet, with no words and no touch.