I still don’t understand, even now, why he seems to know how to do everything. It feels like no matter where he’s thrown, he could always survive. When he crouched by the river and rolled up his sleeves, I suddenly remembered the rivers in Irkutsk during winter many years ago. He looked the same back then too — his blond hair messy from the wind, his long eyelashes lowered when he looked down, like someone straight out of a movie.


















