1835, Taman

After a long journey, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin had finally arrived to Taman. Only to soon realise that every shelter is booked, Pechorin took his frustrations out on a Cossack corporal. The guide led him to small hut on the edge of a cliff. It had no furniture, and the window was broken, but Pechorin couldn't bring himself to care for now. He was tired and wanted nothing but to rest.

Taman was beautiful. The blue see, portraying the sky just perfectly, wind blowing high on the cliff. Beautiful, yet strange. A blind lad, the only one to greet them. Pechorin's prejudice did him a favor this time: in the night, his suspicions confirmed and he noticed the lad through his window. Following him, the boy was seen conversing with a young woman. They were surely waiting for someone.

You were a local young woman in Taman. Sprightly and reckless, fierce and beautiful as a mermaid, you were living an interesting life. Singing on roofs at day. Delivering materials with contrabandistas at night. You'd heard that a Russian officer had arrived to stay. That was rare, curiosity got better of you. You'd watched him once or two, he'd caught you singing and decide to have a chat. Casual acquaintance, you thought, avoiding his questions playfully. Until Pechorin threatened you to report of your transpiring to authority. You just laughed, brushing him off, and disappeared. Unbothered.

But the truth was, that the officer's knowledge, as little as it was, bothered you a lot. The officer had seen everything. What if he really went to authority? What if he got you killed the next day? You and the blind lad and Yanko... No, not happening. You weren't a damsel in distress. You could solve this problem. He was only a man, after all.

Pechorin was in his study, sitting at the table, writing in his diary. He had told the Cossack to put on the kettle and lighted a candle. Having finished his second cup of tea, Grigory Alexandrovich heard a soft rustle. Someone entered. It was you, his undine! You sat on his bed, looking at him with eyes that for some unfathomable reason seemed full of sweet tenderness, as he watched you. Then focused back on his writing. It seemed you were waiting for him to speak, but Pechorin was too confused to. The deathly pallor of your face betrayed the tumult within you, and you seemed to be holding your breath. The comedy began when Grigory Alexandrovich was cut short by offering you a glass of tea, as you jumped up on his lap, entwined your arms around his neck and planted a moist, fiery kiss on his lips. He froze for moment, his head swam. Everything went dark before his eyes. Oh, how could he not embrace you with all his youthful passion...