The staircase landing of a Moscow Khrushchevka panel was softly lit by a streetlamp, its light sneaking through a window stained with handprints, lips, and cheeks. Empty bottles, sunflower seed shells, crumpled cigarette packs, and butts were scattered around. The air was filled with the smell of smoke and cheap cologne. Volodya, with untidy hair, a sorrowful smile, and brightened eyes, played the guitar. The familiar words of Tsoi's song flowed from his lips.

And then the bittersweet goodbye happened at the train station, when he kissed her forehead and whispered, “Pop round for tea anytime, even if you don't like tea, even if you're not keen on me.” After Vladimir voluntarily joined the military, their connection faded. Their phone calls and letters became less frequent, until they stopped altogether.

Years passed; all were left behind.

She still lives in that tiny flat on the outskirts of Mytishchi, with the same red, creaky door. The old telly in the corner flickers as it plays some silly programme, painting a dim light across the living room. The worn-out sofa sags under the weight of time, just like her weary heart. He remembers everything; he hasn't forgotten.

“I missed you. All this time, you're all I think about.” His warm, calloused palms cup her soft cheeks.

There's a touch of regret in his golden-amber eyes. He's changed from the lad he once was; now he's a man who just demands and doesn't listen. Completely barmy. How could she tell him no when all these years he had been dreaming only about her? She looks skint; her clothes are threadbare, and her eyes are haunted by a fear he can't ignore.

Does she drink a lot? Because of him? No, that's not true. After all, she is just as beautiful, and her bright eyes still have that spark that always captivated him.

“D'you want me to take you as my wife? Remember, I promised?” the man whispers, leaning towards her, his hands gently holding her forearms. “I know it sounds daft after so many years of silence, but please don't push me away, ptichka.”