Yaroslav woke up to a warm morning, the golden sunlight filtering through the dusty window of his small room. He lay there for a moment, savoring the rare tranquility after long days spent fixing cars. His muscles ached slightly from work, but he didn’t mind, it was a familiar kind of exhaustion, one that kept his mind from wandering too much.

  His gaze traveled across the room, a place that had once been filled with warmth when his mother still lived here. Now, it was just him, the faded wallpaper peeling at the corners, the scent of motor oil lingering in the air. On the damp-stained walls, old photographs stared back at him—memories frozen in time, remnants of a past he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep.

  Yaroslav reached for one of the photos, brushing a layer of dust off the surface. There they were...his old friends, the ones he had once called brothers. They stood together, laughing, arms slung around each other, bound by a shared ideology that once meant everything to him. The Ku Klux Klan flag still hung in the corner of his room, a relic of a past that refused to fade completely.

  A heavy sigh left his lips. Once upon a time, he believed he had a place among them, a purpose. But things had changed. He had changed. Now, those faces in the photos felt like ghosts, specters of a life that no longer fit him. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to take the flag down—not yet.

  Yaroslav sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with both hands. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he felt it...like something unfinished, like an answer he hadn’t found yet.

  Then, as if the universe had heard his silent plea, a familiar knock echoed through the quiet morning.

  He stood up, his heart picking up pace as he made his way to the door. When he swung it open, his breath caught for a second.

  Standing before him was a towering man, heavily tattooed, ink crawling up his arms and even marking his face.

  Yaroslav’s eyes widened before a grin broke across his face. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled the man into a tight embrace, holding on as if anchoring himself to something real.

  Morozov, the rough, hot-tempered, and… unapologetically racist man. Morozov, a brother, the best friend Yaroslav had ever known, second only to Nikolai.

  Yaroslav: You bastard, why the hell are you back so soon?

  Despite the harsh words, Yaroslav felt a deep sense of relief. By all accounts, Morozov was supposed to be out there, still fighting the Chechens. Yet here he was, standing before him in the flesh.

  Morozov: This faggot hugs me like his long-lost love and doesn’t even realize I’m missing something.

  It was only then that Yaroslav noticed it. Morozov—once whole, once unbreakable...was now missing his right hand.

  Morozov: Yeah, turns out I’m not Pyotr Bagration, and I sure as hell can’t snipe with my left hand. So… they just kicked my fat ass out of the military.

  Yaroslav: That’s suck… but at least you still have your left hand to beat the shit out of all the slum rats.

  There was something almost melancholic in his words.

  Morozov: Yeah… those nigger. Anyway, I had to come back to handle my father’s funeral. He passed not too long ago. You know...

  Yaroslav: Yeah… I’m sorry about that. But I thought Sokolov would’ve taken care of it?

  Morozov shook his head.

  Morozov: Nah, you know how she is. She’s still my little girl, always will be.

  Yaroslav: Come on, she’s 27 now. She’s probably got more ‘balls’ than us. I mean, she’s probably beaten up more black guys than I had

  Yaroslav suddenly realized and worriedly ask

  Yaroslav: don’t... do not tell me she’s here with you too.

  Morozov: so badly, yes.

  A woman stepped forward, her striking blue eyes locking onto him. Her short, bold haircut framed a face that was distant, almost unapproachable, with lips that seemed permanently pressed into a frown.

  but, those lips were once where Yaroslav had left the kisses of his youth, where love had once bloomed between them.

  Memories crashed over him like a tidal wave. His chest tightened, his breath caught in his throat.

  Yaroslav: Sokolov… it’s been a long time.

  Sokolov: Yes… Yaroslav Shcherbakov.

  Her voice was steady, unreadable. But for Yaroslav, standing before her was like standing before a ghost of his past—one that still had a hold on him.

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  He couldn’t stop his mind from unraveling the memories they once shared. The stolen kisses on the wild grass near the abandoned house. The adrenaline-fueled fights, side by side. The warmth of her body in his arms after nights.

  She was like a rose, beautiful, but with thorns sharp to draw blood.

  Yaroslav invited them inside. He chatted easily with Morozov, but no matter how hard he tried, his gaze kept drifting toward Sokolov.

  Meanwhile, across town, Duong was lying on Ivan’s bed, chatting with him about anything and everything while munching on the sweet cookies his mother had baked. It was obvious that Ivan’s mother, Anastasia, adored Duong—she had already given her twenty cookies, and despite Duong’s insistence that she was full, Anastasia continued to bring out more food for the two of them.

  Duong: Anastasiaaaa, thank you, but I really can’t eat anymore (>.<) And I don’t think Ivan can either… just look at his belly!

  Ivan, having eaten so much, now looked like he was a month into pregnancy.

  Anastasia: Nonsense! Of course, I have to take special care of Ivan’s girlfriend. You’re the only girl he’s ever brought home.

  Ivan: No! Mom! She’s not my girlfriend!

  Red-faced and flustered, Ivan quickly pushed his mother out of the room. But before leaving, Anastasia couldn’t resist adding one last remark.

  Anastasia: I’ll be out for work until late tonight, so don’t do anything suspicious, alright?

  Ivan groaned in embarrassment and turned to Duong.

  Ivan: Sorry about that. My mom is always like this.

  Duong: It’s fine. your mother is so adorable and nice.

  With that, the two simply sat together, playing video games, chatting, and listening to music, completely at ease.

  Back with Yaroslav and Sokolov…

  Morozov had to leave, needing to handle his father’s affairs. He believed that his little sister—tough, fiercely racist, and masculine as she was—wouldn’t be able to cope with their father’s death on her own. So, in a rather awkward turn of events, he entrusted Yaroslav with the task of looking after her.

  Yaroslav felt incredibly uncomfortable with the situation, but Sokolov understood. She didn’t want to talk to him anyway. Instead, she simply asked to leave. Yaroslav could only watch as she slowly walked away… but then—

  Yaroslav: Sokolov… can we talk for a moment?

  She halted in her tracks, her back still turned to him, making no effort to meet his gaze.

  Sokolov: What do you want to say?

  Her voice was softer than before—not as sharp as when they had first broken up—but to Yaroslav, it still felt distant, foreign even.

  Yaroslav: Would you… like to come into my room? I don’t mean for anything inappropriate, I just want you to see something and take back a few things. It's okay?

  Sokolov remained silent for a moment, but in the end, she followed him inside. She sat down on his bed, waiting patiently. Yaroslav returned and handed her a small box.

  Yaroslav: Sokolov… I’m sorry for everything in the past. I didn't care about you enough, I was so careless with you. No matter how strong and sharp-tongued you were, I should have done better. I should have been the kind of boyfriend who actually knew how to care for you.

  Sokolov: ...A bit late to realize that, isn’t it?

  Yaroslav: Yeah… I’ve always been an idiot like that.

  With that, he sat beside her.

  Sokolov opened the small box. Inside were photographs—pictures of her at eighteen and nineteen, the years she and Yaroslav had been together.

  Yaroslav: I only kept a few of the ones with you and Morozov. The rest, I want you to take them back. I took them pic by myself. A girl is most beautiful at eighteen, nineteen… so take them back. Not for memories of us....just only for memories of you. Only you.

  Sokolov stared at the photographs before exhaling a quiet laugh.

  Sokolov: You’ve… changed. Uh, do you—would you like to go for a walk? You know, like normal friends.

  Yaroslav smiled.

  Yaroslav: I’d love to.

  Yaroslav and Sokolov walked together, retracing the paths they had once wandered side by side. Streets filled with memories of clasped hands, quiet laughter, and whispered promises. They had once tried—tried so hard to forgive, to mend what was broken, to find a way back.

  Sokolov: If that day… instead of walking away and leaving only your fading silhouette behind, you had turned back to look at me… maybe things would have been different.

  Yaroslav: I think so too…

  A strange discomfort settled in Yaroslav’s chest at her words.

  Sokolov: I turned back so many times that day… just to see if you would turn back too. But you didn’t. You just kept walking.

  Yaroslav didn’t say anything—because he knew the truth. That day, he had turned back. He had looked at her. But all he had seen was her back, moving away, never turning around.

  And only now he realize—she had turned back, too. They had both looked. But their eyes had never met.

  If they had turned at the same moment… would they still be together now? Or would they have ended up right here, just the same?

  They walked in silence for a while longer.

  Then, from a distance, Elena appeared. She spotted Yaroslav and, with a bright smile, started to run toward him...until she saw her.

  Sokolov.

  Elena froze.

  That girl… looked a lot like her. The same sharp brows. The same nose. The same short hair. But Sokolov’s eyes were blue, her hair even shorter, and her presence… something about her felt colder. Harsher.

  Elena hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to do.

  Deep inside, Elena began to realize something.

  A strange uneasiness settled in her chest, creeping up her spine like a quiet whisper of doubt. She had always felt close to Yaroslav, always thought she understood him—but seeing this woman before her, someone who bore such a striking resemblance to herself, yet carried an entirely different presence, made her heart waver.

  Who was she to him?

  And why… did it feel like she had just stumbled upon a chapter of Yaroslav life that was never meant to be forgotten?