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The heavy prison gates creaked open in front of Artyom. Twenty-five years into his sentence, Artyom had finally won his appeal and was released on parole.
Artyom tilted his head toward the sky, staring at the blinding sun until his eyes burned and watered. Only then did he close them, feeling the breeze brushing against his face. He let out a long sigh, without looking back at the place that had held him for most of his life. Artyom started walking.
It took a long train ride to get from Ognenny Ostrov to Irkutsk, which used up nearly all of Artyom's money. Along the way, his unfamiliarity with modern technology got him into more than a few embarrassing situations.
Three days later, an old face returned to Academy Town after years of absence.
Artyom came to a stop, his gaze swept across the familiar streets before lingering there for a long moment.
It was spring. Everything was slowly heading in a better direction.
The wind was no longer biting, and the snow began to melt slowly, revealing patches of earth underneath. The birds that returned from their winter migration let out clear, ringing calls that made people stop to give it a look. Children came out of their homes and made the rusty equipment in the playground squeak. Even their thick coats couldn't stop them from running, young faces filled with joy and the anticipation of the coming summer. Couples and elderly people also came out for walks, holding hands as they left rows of footprints in the snow.
Looking at this seemingly peaceful scene, Artyom realized that he was alone now.
He had nowhere to go.
Technology had advanced rapidly during the years he was in prison. Neighborhoods had been renovated again and again, covering the laughter of his childhood under thick layers of white paint. Twenty-five years of living in a completely isolated prison had already left Artyom seriously disconnected from society. Even studying for a law degree while inside didn't change much, with him still having no idea about the basic technology people were using in the modern world. And honestly, who would even consider hiring someone like him, someone who had committed a crime that shocked the whole world?
With his former family and friends cutting ties because of what he had done, there was no place, even temporary, that he could call home.
Artyom had once held onto the illusion in prison that he could still live like a normal person again. He even made a list about things that he wanted to do after learning he might be granted parole. But everything after his release shattered his confidence.
Artyom began cursing Nikita in his mind, wondering why he had killed himself, why would someone who had followed him like a dog for his entire life would choose to leave first.
If Nikita hadn't died, he would have been released from prison a few years earlier, working hard to earn money, and eventually taking Artyom home — to their home. It wouldn't be easy, but they would have stayed together, like they always did, clinging through the rest of their lives.
But instead, Artyom was standing alone in the snow, which made him nothing more than a pathetic, homeless asshole.
Deep down, Artyom knew that the only person who had ever truly trusted him, supported him, saw him as the light of his life, and stayed by his side no matter what was gone.
For the rest of his life, he would be alone. There would be nobody left to talk to, nobody left who could truly understand him. There was simply no place left for him in this world.
Artyom felt like a ghost wandering the streets.
The loneliness came like a wave, pushing Artyom to keep walking, to leave the place that had made him upset.
His feet carried him back to the apartment where he and Nikita once lived. Artyom looked around and pulled his hood a little lower. Even though there was nobody around, it was still better to be cautious.
Artyom knew that his mother had moved away from here a long time ago, and he neither wanted to nor bothered to find out where she was living now. Rather than reconcile with her, he would much rather she had died in a car accident.
Looking up at the window that once belonged to Nikita's room, Artyom, for a moment, felt as if he could see that dark-haired boy again, lifting a corner of the curtain, poking his head out, and waving to invite him to come over.
As if trying to escape it, Artyom looked away.
After another hour or two of aimless walking, Artyom sat down on a bench by the roadside, letting out a slow breath as he stretched his sore ankles.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything and was now utterly exhausted. Artyom knew that if he didn't eat soon, he couldn't make it through the day. And what was the point of making it through the day, though. But he had no money, nor the strength to rob anyone.
At this moment, there was no choice but to accept his fate. Rubbing his ears, which were numb from the cold, Artyom got up and headed toward the path filled with memories.
Beside the narrow path, the snow in the woods was deep, with the surface smooth as no one had walked on it.
Artyom lay in the snow, feeling the piercing cold slowly seep through his clothes and into his body. He began to carefully trace the boy's features in his mind, slightly surprised by how clearly he remembered everything.
The always messy black hair, the hazel eyes, the astonishingly long eyelashes—Artyom had messed with them a few times on purpose—the lips that were pressed out by soda cans, the cheeks that turned red when he was angry or embarrassed, the hand that played the electric guitar, and the slender body hidden under oversized hoodies.
The excited laughter after every crime, the yelp when he bumped into the table while swaying to music, the annoyed hum after getting insulted online, the quiet sobs that sometimes slipped out when they talked things through late at night.
He would smirk when their eyes met. He would make those "cool faces" that he thought were tough but actually looked silly in photos. He would get nervous whenever Artyom's other friends were around, sticking closer to him as if it helped him to feel more secure. He would fall asleep in Artyom's bed quickly, even though he usually struggled with insomnia. And after being arrested, he would still try to speak up for Artyom, knowing that he had already betrayed him.
Memories of Nikita flashed through Artyom's mind, finally settling on the moment when he asked him if he had a crush on anyone, Nikita's ears turning red as he looked away.
"Kitya..."
Artyom murmured. He understood everything now, but it was already too late.
He wasn't religious, but at that moment, he wished there was hell after death, so he could meet Nikita again.
It was spring. But Artyom preferred the cold winter—the winter when Nikita was by his side.
Artyom closed his eyes for the last time.