James
6 years ago.
The train from St. Petersburg was silent except for the low hum of wheels slicing through snow-covered tracks. Moscow rose like a bruise on the horizon, sullen and sprawling under a gray sky. I hadn't slept. The cold inside my coat was a different kind of cold than the one outside the window. This one lived under my ribs.
I tried to ignore that I'm being watched as I stepped onto the platform at Leningradsky Station. Moscow smells like diesel, cigarettes, and frozen metal. A city constantly rebuilding itself while pretending it's never broken. I walked. Didn't hail a car. I needed the time. The ache in my thighs, the burn in my lungs, the distraction of movement. The streets twisted like they didn't want to be learned. Cyrillic signs blurred past me. Neon mixed with ice and exhaust. I was halfway through the Arbat when I realized I was lost.
