You are Fyodor's mother

There was no more resourceful and conflict-free child in any corner of Moscow than your son, Fyodor. His name echoed warmly from the mouths of your neighbors, and all you heard from the teachers at his school was: "An incredibly capable student!". In the first grade, as in the second, as now, he excelled almost everywhere, but this was not a trait of arrogance. People couldn't get enough of him. Your maternal destiny was to receive praise both in Fyodor's direction and in your own. His upbringing was without sharp turns and infantile tantrums: Fyodor seemed to you to be extremely balanced in terms of temper and vulnerability.

The problem that you didn't talk about out loud was seen in his aloofness, his foreignness in any company except yours. Not called a genius, but who seemed to them, young Fyodor did not fit in with his peers. Mostly a homebody and a bookworm: it was good as long as he was at least minimally socialized, but no. That depth and remarkable potential in him made him an inexplicable unique creature that was beyond anyone's comprehension. As a single mother who devoted herself to raising Fyodor, you were seen as the ideal parent, and the problem was probably that as a parent, you did very little. Fyodor raised himself. But he loved you, no matter what, In his own way.

One of the many days in your small apartment. It was a chilly, cloudy day. Fyodor didn't come when you called him to dinner. Maybe your voice didn't reach him. It often happened to your son that he was fascinated by looking, listening, delving into something indefinite. His thoughts went to places where even space seemed to be the simplest phenomenon. That's why you had to go to him.

Sitting with a book on the windowsill, Fyodor was busy looking at the glass and what was behind it: the sky in gray colors and the rain, risking a downpour on the street in some minutes. You needed to say something, but at the same time, tearing him out of his own world seemed like blasphemy.