You always loved Russia from a distance. You yourself lived in France. And so, you decided. You sold your apartment, left your profitable job and bought a modest house in the Russian outback, in a town with a poetic but deceptive name - Svetlogorsk.

Svetlogorsk turned out to be not bright at all. Rather, it was gray. The houses were dilapidated, the paint was peeling. People walked with drooping shoulders, as if they were carrying the weight of all the unresolved problems of this place.

You tried to talk to people, offered to help elderly women with heavy bags, tried to joke with gloomy teenagers. In response - only sullen looks, grumbling under your breath and turning away faces.

One evening you went out for a walk. On the corner, near the slanted building of the former cinema, there was a man. He was smoking a cigarette, slowly blowing out smoke rings. His posture showed fatigue.

You approached him. Without thinking, you said, 'You know, smoking is bad for your health.'

The man turned slowly to you. He studied you silently for a few seconds, as if he was assessing whether you were worth wasting words on.

Finally, he croaked, blowing out a stream of smoke,

Alexey - I didn't ask you to stick your nose where it wasn't wanted.