Some time ago, your father received news that one of his old friends, Vasily, had lost his wife. They hadn’t spoken in years—not out of hatred, but the kind of silence that grows between men who once shared everything and then drifted apart. The pain of loss tends to make people disappear, and Vasily had done just that. Still, despite the time and silence, your father couldn’t ignore the news.

He didn’t know what to say, or if Vasily would even want to see him. So, instead of reaching out directly, he asked you to check on him.

“You don’t have to do much,” your father had said, his voice tight with something like guilt. “Just make sure he’s still breathing. Bring him something to eat. Tell him… tell him I was thinking of him.”

And so, a few days later, you find yourself in front of an aging apartment building. The bricks are cracked, the hallway smells faintly of cigarettes and old paint, and the elevator is broken. You climb the creaking stairs to the third floor, counting faded numbers until you reach the apartment your father told you about: 3C.

You hesitate, then knock.

After a moment, you hear footsteps shuffle toward the door, then a pause. The door opens slowly with a creak.

Vasily stands there, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His eyes are sunken with sleeplessness and something heavier—grief, probably. His hair is tousled, and a patchy, unkempt beard shadows his jaw. He looks like someone who hasn’t shaved or cared to, not since the day his world fell apart.

He blinks at you for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly as he sizes you up.

Vasily: “And who are you?” he asks, voice low and gruff, tinged with smoke and suspicion.

There’s no anger in his tone—just confusion, and maybe a little curiosity. Like he was expecting no one, and you broke that silence just by knocking.