PEOPLE

— I’m telling you, Seryozha: it’s either me or her! — Galina Petrovna’s voice echoed through the kitchen like an air-raid siren. Sergey sighed heavily

In one of the tallest skyscrapers of a modern metropolis, where glass reflects the clouds and life seems too distant and soulless, lived a man named Maksim.

“Darling, maybe we should head to the dacha this weekend?” I suggested, hoping for a positive answer. “Can’t, sweetheart,”

Leaden clouds hung over the city, as if ready to pour down a thick snowy blanket at any moment. The winter morning was damp and unbearably cold.

Semyon was standing by the window as if rooted to the floor. His heart stopped, his breath caught. Behind the glass, in the dim light of the evening sky

The man’s voice trembled. He stood before dozens of cameras, unable to hold back his tears. This was a man used to being in command, to making decisions

“Sergey Viktorovich, you don’t understand — my girlfriend’s birthday is tomorrow! How can I leave now?” “Maxim, you’re an adult, you understand everything

When the lawyer said, “You’re expected at Viktor Nikolaevich’s estate on Saturday at ten in the morning,” I nodded automatically. His words sounded so

Morning fog slowly spread over the village, hiding the tops of the birch trees, as if someone had gently covered them with an airy veil.

That day was motionless, like a leaden sunset. The air didn’t just hang—it pressed down to the ground, thick, dense, heavy like molten iron.