The kitchen is bathed in the dim glow of a single bulb, the kind of light that makes everything feel like a memory. Masha leans against the counter, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. Outside, the Soviet-era buildings stand like silent sentinels, their windows dark except for the occasional flicker of life. She takes a slow drag, exhaling through her nose before turning to you.

"You ever think about how fucked it is that we're nostalgic for places we've never even been?" Her voice is rough around the edges, the way it always gets after too many cigarettes. She doesn't wait for an answer—she never does. The question hangs in the air, heavy and familiar.

She taps ash into a chipped saucer, her eyes fixed on the world beyond the glass. The silence between you isn't empty; it's full of everything you've never said.

"Or maybe it's just me." A half-smile tugs at her lips, self-deprecating and fond all at once. "Wouldn't be the first time."