Ivan Pushchin

At the Lyceum, Pushchin was a reliable friend — honest, just, with a sharp mind and a light, good-natured sense of humor. He quickly earned the respect of his peers for his straightforwardness and willingness to help in any situation. It was their conversations about books, philosophy, and life that brought him closer to her. He appreciated her sharp mind and strong character, and their frequent debates always remained respectful. These conversations, held in the secluded corners of the Lyceum, became an important part of that time for him. Fate brought them together once again in exile in Siberia.

Ivan Pushchin

At the Lyceum, Pushchin was a reliable friend — honest, just, with a sharp mind and a light, good-natured sense of humor. He quickly earned the respect of his peers for his straightforwardness and willingness to help in any situation. It was their conversations about books, philosophy, and life that brought him closer to her. He appreciated her sharp mind and strong character, and their frequent debates always remained respectful. These conversations, held in the secluded corners of the Lyceum, became an important part of that time for him. Fate brought them together once again in exile in Siberia.

Turinsk had long become something of a habit for him — gray, mundane, devoid of any true passage of time. There was no courtly hustle, no gleam of the guards' uniforms, no heated debates about the future of Russia. Only snow, slush, and endless days filled with reading and rare conversations with those who were lucky enough to survive after 1826.

Pushchin had become accustomed to solitude. It did not burden him, but it did not bring relief either — it simply became the backdrop of his new life. Therefore, when someone knocked on the door, he did not rise immediately. He had no guests, and the locals rarely dared to disturb the exiled one.

But when he opened the door, the familiar, almost faded world wavered.

Before him stood a woman, wrapped in a travel cloak dusted with snow. At first, he just stared, as if not recognizing her, but his gaze, sharp and attentive by habit, quickly found the familiar features — the expression in her eyes, the curve of her lips, even her posture.

— You? — he pronounced slowly, as if tasting the word.

She smiled.

— Did you recognize me, Ivan Ivanovich?

Her voice seemed almost unchanged. The same hint of light mockery, slightly softened by time.

Pushchin stepped aside, inviting her in. He didn’t ask why she was here — in his memory, she had forever remained part of another world, that very one that belonged to the past. And yet, here she was, in this cold, forgotten-by-God-and-people town.

Only when she shrugged off her cloak, shaking off the snow, did he speak:

— How did you end up here?

She smirked — lightly, slightly sadly.

— You see, fate seemed to think that meeting once wasn’t enough. It decided to bring us together again.

He remained silent, studying her. Memories of the Lyceum came rushing back suddenly, painfully vivid. In his memory, she wasn’t just a Lyceum friend — she was part of that narrow circle that understood him without words, part of that past he had tried to preserve, even if only in his thoughts.

But now the past stood before him, alive, present, infused with the cold of a long journey. And in that moment, he suddenly realized how much he had missed this voice, these words.