The #1 fan always losing ticketing war #12

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The home he gave

Ilya POV

請留意，這章將會題及Irina的過世，以及Ilya的解離狀態

Please note this chapter mentions Irina's passing and touches upon Ilya's dissociation. Please take care of yourself while reading❤️‍🩹

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Grigori Rozanov為了自己的榮譽，動用人脈，硬是將小兒子的名字寫進索契奧運開幕式的名單。

即使Svetlana作為經紀人的交際手腕再高明，也無法替Ilya拒絕簽署奧運的保密條款(Non-Disclosure Agreement)，更無法推掉俄羅斯聯邦安全局以「國家形象與人員安全」為由對Ilya的全面監視。

成為索契奧運開幕表演者的代價，是犧牲自由。

如果Ilya踏進俄羅斯，從那刻起，他的一言一行、每一通電話與簡訊，都將置於國家機器的窺視之下。雖然Ilya與Shane之間的訊息稱不上危險，但他也不能將Shane拖下水，所以Ilya把加拿大手機鎖在蒙特婁公寓的抽屜深處，他會在俄羅斯買新手機、申辦新號碼，然後像諜報電影裡演的那樣，試圖把他與Shane之間的「往來」都留在加拿大。

Metros在季後賽被淘汰的那場比賽後，Ilya當晚隨即登上飛往莫斯科的航班，當時根本沒想到，往後將近一年，他都無法再以「Ilya Rozanov」的身分主動聯繫Shane。

高壓的俄式官僚作風壓榨著Ilya的每一滴人性，即使俄羅斯是他的故鄉，然而熟悉的景緻與熟悉的母語卻像皮帶一樣抽打他，逼他挺直腰桿，被當作國家門面的脊梁。家鄉的夏天如今變得痛苦而窒息，他沒日沒夜地與交響樂團彩排練琴，出席一個又一個充斥權貴的政治宴會，在虛假的政治應酬中，Ilya幾乎認不得自己，在這裡，他不是風靡北美的天才鋼琴家，他只是老上校唯命是從的小兒子Илья Григорьевич Розанов。

他唯一的喘息，是McGill大學的秋季學期。當Ilya以「駐校藝術家」的名義回到蒙特婁指導學生的時候，加拿大的楓葉已經染紅整條街道，秋季微涼的空氣再度充實他日益萎縮的肺臟，但這份自由終究只是俄羅斯同意的「假釋」，俄羅斯仍在暗處盯哨著他，任何與他接觸過的人物都將列入調查名單，所以Ilya依然只能偷偷摸摸地觀看Metros的球賽。

Ilya喬裝成最不起眼的普通球迷，戴上黑色棒球帽與墨鏡，坐在Centre Bell最偏僻的看台角落，甚至不敢穿上Shane簽名的球衣。他默默地注視Shane在冰上的滑行，把Shane的身影刻進眼底，在Metros確定打進季後賽時壓抑著歡呼；他只能在陰影裡做Shane Hollander的頭號粉絲，想方設法不被他最喜歡的球星發現存在。

隨著氣溫一日日冷冽，McGill大學的聖誕假期開始了，奧運組委會的催促也如期而至，勒令Ilya即刻回國。

加拿大的短暫自由反而顯得俄羅斯的「監牢」更加苦澀，Ilya僅存的慰藉，只剩下以Svetlana名義申辦的另一支手機。他得以裝成Lily，違心且克制地答覆著Shane的關心，但他不能揭穿原因，也不能透漏半分私人情感；所有的思念，都像罐子底部的餅乾碎屑般，無望而酸楚地，被他珍藏著。

Driven by his own pride, Grigori Rozanov pulled every string within his network to force his youngest son's name onto the roster for the Sochi Olympics opening ceremony.

No matter how brilliant Svetlana's diplomatic tact was as a manager, she could neither refuse the Olympic Non-Disclosure Agreement on Ilya's behalf, nor stave off the total surveillance imposed by the Federal Security Service of the Russian (FSB) under the guise of "national image and personnel security."

The price of becoming a featured performer for the Sochi Olympics was the total sacrifice of his freedom.

The moment Ilya set foot in Russia, his every word, action, phone call, and text would be laid bare under the prying eyes of the state apparatus. While the messages between Ilya and Shane were hardly dangerous, he refused to drag Shane into this mess. So, Ilya locked his Canadian phone deep inside a drawer in his Montreal apartment. He would buy a new device and register a new number in Russia, attempting much like a scene from a spy movie, to leave their entire connection behind in Canada.

The very night the Metros were eliminated from the playoffs, Ilya boarded a flight to Moscow. At the time, it never crossed his mind that for nearly the next year, he would be completely barred from initiating any contact with Shane under the name "Ilya Rozanov."

The suffocating weight of Russian bureaucracy drained every drop of humanity from Ilya. Even though Russia was his homeland, the familiar landscapes and his mother tongue felt like a whip cracking against his back, forcing him to stand tall as the spine of the nation's public image. Summer at home became an agonizing chokehold. He spent days and nights rehearsing with the symphony orchestra and attending endless political banquets teeming with elites and oligarchs. Amidst the hollow pleasantries, Ilya could barely recognize himself. Here, he was no longer the brilliant pianoist who had taken North America by storm; he was merely Илья Григорьевич Розанов, the old colonel's obedient youngest son.

His sole respite came with the fall semester at McGill University. By the time Ilya returned to Montreal as an artist-in-residence to mentor students, the Canadian maple leaves had already painted the streets a vivid crimson. The crisp autumn air breathed life back into his withered lungs, but this freedom was, after all, nothing more than a "parole" sanctioned by Moscow. The eyes of the state still tracked him from the shadows, and anyone who interacted with him would be flagged for investigation.

Consequently, Ilya's only option was to sneak around just to catch the Metros' games.

Disguising himself as an inconspicuous fan, Ilya wore a black baseball cap and sunglasses, taking a seat in the most remote corner of the Bell Centre stands, not even daring to wear the jersey Shane had signed for him. He silently tracked Shane's elegant strides across the ice, etching every movement into his mind, choking back a cheer when the Metros clinched their playoff berth. He was reduced to being Shane Hollander's number one fan in the dark, exhausting every effort to keep his presence hidden from his favorite player.

As the temperature plunged with each passing day, McGill's winter break arrived, and with it came the inevitable summons from the Olympic Organizing Committee, ordering Ilya back to Russia without delay.

The fleeting freedom of Canada only made the reality of his Russian "prison" taste more bitter. Ilya's sole remaining solace lay in a secondary phone registered under Svetlana's name. Posing as Lily, he could reluctantly, with agonizing restraint, reply to Shane's messages of concern. Yet he could never reveal the truth, nor could he betray a single shred of personal emotion.

Every ounce of his longing was like cookie crumbs left at the bottom of a jar, swept up and treasured in secret, hopeless and deeply bittersweet.

＊

Jane🎹losing mind@rozno1fan

<p class="dm-messagebody"><span class="dm-header">Jane🎹losing mind@rozno1fan</span><br />

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<span class="dm-text">Hey Lily. Sorry to bother, let me know if I'm overstepping. I haven't heard from Rozanov in a while and got a bit worried. Is he okay?</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply1">Hi Shane. No overstepping.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply3"> We returned to Russia. Urgent work. Very busy. Not sure when back to Canada.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text1">Oh, I see. Thank you for letting me know.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">Hope everything goes well with the work over there.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">Good luck new MLH season.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Thank you so much! Really appreciate it. How is Russia? Hope you guys are doing well.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">Everything fine here. Too much work.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">Beat Boston tonight.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text1">Haha, will do! Thanks for the support.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">Stay safe over there.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">What is microbiology diet?</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Do you mean a Macrobiotic diet? It's eating grains and veggies to balance the body's energy.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">How did you know? And yes, honestly it tastes like wet cardboard, but good for conditioning.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Happy Thanksgiving! How do you guys celebrate over there?</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply1">Happy Thanksgiving. No holiday here. We just eat autumn dinner. Roasted bird, pies.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply3">Normal day.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Right, happy normal day then! Hope the dinner is good anyway.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Merry Christmas Lily! Wishing you a great holiday.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply1">Merry Christmas Shane.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply2">But Russian Christmas January 7. Today regular work day.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply3">Kind of missing Canada Christmas though.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text1">Oh wow, I didn't know that. Thanks for telling me. </span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">Montreal is freezing but beautiful today, lots of snow. Hope you can visit again soon.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Happy New Year!</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply">Happy New Year.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">I GOT THE CALL! From the National Team! I'm on the final roster, going to Sochi next month!</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply1">Incredible! Congratulations! I am so happy for you. You deserve this, Shane.</span><br />

<span class="dm-reply3">You are always the best.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text">Wow, thank you so much, Lily! I'm still in shock honestly. Can't wait to get there!</span><br />

<span class="dm-text1">Hey Lily, how's the weather in Russia? Flying to Sochi in two days.</span><br />

<span class="dm-text3">Stay safe, hope you and Rozanov are doing well.</span><br />

</p></div>

＊

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當Schumann的Dreaming的旋律幽悠飄進屋內，Ilya猛地跳下床衝向窗邊，他甚至來不及穿鞋，便爬上窗框躍出屋外。他赤著腳踩上草皮，清晨的露水瞬間浸濕他的腳底，但他起步狂奔，跑向那陣旋律的源頭——靜置在湖畔旁的平台鋼琴。

他看見朝思暮想的身影。

身著黑色長禮裙的女人坐在鋼琴前。那是她最喜歡的演出服，精緻的緊身胸衣與羽毛綴飾的裙擺，那些黑色羽毛會隨著她激昂的彈奏微微顫動。但是她沒有注意到Ilya，她只是闔著雙眼，指尖在琴鍵上滑動，徹底沉浸在音符中。Ilya輕聲呼喚，一聲又一聲，她都沒有睜眼，指尖依然專注在琴鍵上，Dreaming仍在繼續演奏。

湖水悄然上漲，逐漸吞噬草地，Ilya驚恐地看向腳邊，他聲嘶力竭地呼喚mama，但即使冰冷的湖水已經淹過鋼琴踏板，她依然緊閉雙眼，指尖按壓琴鍵。黑色的羽毛飄盪在水面上，Ilya顫抖著聲音哭喊，他開始懷疑mama還會不會再次睜開眼；即使如此，Irina Rozanov的琴聲依然清晰動人，沒有因湖水浸泡而夾帶混濁。

When the soft melody of Schumann's Dreaming drifted into the house, Ilya jumped out of bed and rushed toward the window. Without even pausing to put on shoes, he climbed out the window and jumped outside. Barefoot, he hit the lawn. The morning dew instantly soaked his feet, but he started running wildly, racing toward the source of the music—a grand piano resting quietly by the lakeshore.

There, he saw the person he dreamed of day and night.

A woman in a long black concert dress sat at the piano. It was her favorite performance outfit, a beautiful corset paired with a skirt covered in black feathers, which shook gently with her intense playing. Yet, she paid no attention to Ilya. Her eyes remained closed, her fingertips moving smoothly across the keys, completely lost in the music. Ilya called out to her softly, over and over, but she never opened her eyes. Her fingers kept moving across the keys as the piece played on.

Without him noticing, the lake began to rise, slowly swallowing the grass. Ilya looked down at his feet in pure terror. He screamed for mama at the top of his lungs, but even as the icy water submerged the piano pedals, her eyes stayed shut, her fingers continuing to press the keys.

Black feathers drifted on the water's surface. With his voice trembling as he sobbed, Ilya began to fear that mama would never open her eyes again. Yet, through it all, Irina Rozanov's playing was still clear, beautiful, and flawless, never becoming muddy from the lake water.

Ilya起床後，直接灌下Svetlana帶來的兩杯濃縮咖啡，他將中島櫃上的早餐盤推到一旁，他的胃裡翻江倒海，毫無食慾，身體重得像灌了鉛，內臟卻飄飄然地彷彿裝滿了水的氣球，每移動一步就劇烈地反胃。他的身體似乎不再屬於他，靈魂也尖叫著想要出逃。然而，這種感受對Ilya來說並不陌生，偶爾會在演奏會前發生，Svetlana曾不止一次勸他尋求醫療幫助，Ilya也認真考慮過。

他童年的家其實並未建在湖邊，母親的鋼琴也從未放在戶外，但是他總會夢見那些被湖水淹沒的鋼琴，試圖取代他片刻也不願回憶的真實景象：躺在浴缸裡的母親，以及散落在潮濕的瓷磚地板上，黏上他的腳底板的藥片。

隨後，Svetlana連拖帶拽地替Ilya套上衣服，把他塞進奧運專用的接駁車裡。下午兩點，他們抵達了索契奧運開幕式會場，在後台的休息室裡，Ilya安靜地像一具蠟像，他換上燕尾服，化妝造型師為他上妝。不了解Ilya Rozanov的人只會讚嘆這是音樂大師登台前的專注狀態，唯有Svetlana明白Ilya的內心正在一點一滴地崩潰。所以她只是默默地牽著他，確保每一個行程沒有延誤，而Ilya也木然地順從，由衷感謝Svetlana的體諒。傍晚，演出前的最後一次進食時間裡，Svetlana看著他除了咖啡，沒吃半點東西，她急得要哭了，Ilya才勉強吞下兩根能量棒和一盒優格。

晚上八點半，各國運動員開始進場，體育場內隔著厚重的牆板依然傳來觀眾的轟動歡呼。Ilya隻身進入舞台後方待命，此時應該是十點，但他不再去確認時間，腦海中只剩反覆默唸演出流程，他在廁所乾嘔了兩次，開始懷疑自己的手指能否確實演出。但這裡是俄羅斯，是索契奧運的表演後台，除了Svetlana外，沒人會關心Ilya Rozanov有沒有進食或精神是否健全，這個國家只在乎他有沒有在鏡頭前扮演完美的宣傳工具，有沒有搞砸這場彰顯國威的表演。

奧運開幕式的表演卻是Ilya音樂生涯裡的惡夢。

事後回想，Ilya甚至不記得自己究竟是何時登台，又是何時結束的。他的雙腳似乎在工作人員的指示下，機械化地邁步，坐上琴凳。當交響樂團激昂的法國號吹響時，Ilya的身體宛如設定了琴譜的自動樂器，精確地數著節拍。然後演練過上千萬次的雙手，在他茫然地注視下，如提線木偶般不由自主地重現彈奏。Ilya認不出坐在這架史坦威鋼琴前的自己是誰，也認不出這雙昂貴的手是屬於哪個靈魂。

雖然奧運的舞台沒有被夢境中的湖水淹沒，但是Ilya卻感覺自己跟當年的mama無異——他聽不見體育館裡的任何喧囂，他的半個身子早已浸入浴缸的冷水裡，他的黑色燕尾服在水面上無望地飄盪。

他們的鋼琴依然清晰動人、無可挑剔，然而，魂魄卻早已沉入水底，死去。

After waking up, Ilya quickly drank the two cups of espresso Svetlana brought him. He pushed the breakfast plate on the kitchen island aside. His stomach was turning, and he had no appetite at all. His body felt as heavy as lead, but his insides felt strangely light, like balloons filled with water. Every step he took brought a violent wave of nausea. It felt like his body no longer belonged to him, and his soul was screaming to escape. However, this feeling was not new to Ilya, it happened sometimes before big concerts. Svetlana had urged him more than once to get medical help, and Ilya had seriously considered it.

In reality, his childhood home was not built by a lake, and his mother's piano was never placed outdoors. But he always dreamed of those pianos submerged in lake water, trying to block out the real sight he never wanted to remember even for a second: his mother lying in the bathtub, and the pills scattered across the wet tile floor, sticking to the soles of his feet.

After that, Svetlana practically dragged Ilya to put on his clothes and stuffed him into the Olympic shuttle bus. At 2:00 PM, they arrived at the Sochi Olympic Opening Ceremony venue. In the backstage dressing room, Ilya was as quiet as a wax statue. He changed into his tuxedo while the stylists did his makeup. People who didn't know Ilya Rozanov would only praise this as a maestro's deep focus before going on stage. Only Svetlana knew that Ilya was breaking down inside, piece by piece. So she just silently held his hand, making sure every schedule was on time, and Ilya followed her blankly, truly grateful for her understanding.

In the evening, during the last mealtime before the performance, Svetlana saw that he hadn't eaten anything except coffee. She was about to cry, so Ilya forced himself to swallow two energy bars and a cup of yogurt. At 8:30 PM, athletes from different countries began to enter the stadium. Even through the thick walls, the roaring cheers of the crowd reached backstage.

Ilya went to the waiting area alone. It was probably around 10:00 PM by now, but he stopped checking the time. His mind was only repeating the performance steps over and over. He dry-heaved twice in the restroom, starting to doubt if his fingers could actually play. But this was Russia, backstage at the Sochi Olympics. Except for Svetlana, nobody cared if Ilya Rozanov had eaten or if his mind was stable. This country only cared whether he played the perfect propaganda tool in front of the cameras, and whether he would ruin this performance meant to showcase the nation's power.

Yet, the Olympic opening ceremony performance became the nightmare of Ilya's musical career.

Looking back, Ilya didn't even remember when he walked onto the stage or when it ended. His feet seemed to move mechanically under the staff's instructions, and he sat down on the piano bench. When the orchestra's powerful French horns sounded, Ilya's body became like an automatic instrument programmed with sheet music, counting the beats precisely. Then, his hands, which had practiced tens of millions of times, began to repeat the performance like a puppet under his blank stare.

Ilya couldn't recognize who was sitting in front of this Steinway piano, nor could he tell which soul this expensive pair of hands belonged to.

Although the Olympic stage was not flooded by the lake from his dream, Ilya felt no different from his mama back then. He couldn't hear any of the noise in the stadium. Half of his body was already soaked in the cold water of the bathtub, and his black tuxedo floated hopelessly on the surface.

Their piano playing was still clear, beautiful, and flawless. However, the soul had already sunk to the bottom of the water, dead.

<hr/>

Ilya走下舞台的那一刻，整個人癱倒在Svetlana身上。或許現場的工作人員會稱讚他是耗盡了最後一絲氣力，打造完美的俄羅斯精神，而那些潛伏監視的俄羅斯聯邦安全局也許不會再懷疑他的忠誠。

Ilya疲憊地闔上眼，他只希望這一切能到此為止，因為他再也無法忍受了。

Ilya不知道Svetlana是怎麼辦到的，但她最終還是說服了奧運官方，讓Ilya提前離開了開幕式會場。他們返回下榻的飯店，Ilya宛如死屍般癱倒在沙發上，他失去了對時間的感知，不吃、不喝，任由意識漂流。不知道過去了多久，當他再度睜開眼，視線落在沙發旁的Svetlana身上。

她的雙眼濕潤發紅，拿著水瓶，「Ilyusha, 拜託，如果你再不喝點水，我只能叫救護車了。」她哽咽地威脅，淚水已在眼眶裡打轉。

Ilya沒有搖頭，也沒有伸手去接，他只是茫然地眨眨眼。Svetlana嘆了口氣，抹了抹眼角，起身離去，隨後，房內傳來皮包被慌亂翻找的沙沙聲。

當Svetlana再次走回沙發的時候，手裡攥著另一支手機。

「至少看看他的訊息。」她的語氣充滿無力與絕望，將發亮的手機螢幕展示在Ilya眼前，「求你了，Ilyusha。」

The moment Ilya walked off the stage, he completely collapsed onto Svetlana. Perhaps the staff on-site would praise him, thinking he had used up every last bit of his strength to showcase the perfect Russian spirit. And perhaps the FSB agents watching from the shadows would finally stop doubting his loyalty.

Ilya closed his eyes in sheer exhaustion. He only wished everything could end right here, because he couldn't endure it any longer.

Ilya didn't know how Svetlana managed to do it, but she eventually convinced the Olympic officials to let him leave the opening ceremony venue early. They returned to their hotel, where Ilya fell onto the sofa like a corpse. He lost all track of time, neither eating nor drinking, simply letting his consciousness drift. He had no idea how much time had passed, but when he opened his eyes again, his gaze landed on Svetlana standing beside the sofa.

Her eyes were red and filled with tears as she held a water bottle. "Ilyusha, please. If you don't drink some water, I'll have to call an ambulance," she threatened in a choked voice, tears already welling up in her eyes.

Ilya didn't shake his head, nor did he reach out to take the bottle. He just blinked blankly. Svetlana sighed, wiped the corners of her eyes, and turned around to leave. Soon after, the frantic rustling sound of her rummaging through her purse echoed through the room.

When Svetlana walked back to the sofa, she was clutching a second phone in her hand.

"At least look at his messages." Her voice was filled with absolute helplessness and despair as she held the glowing phone screen right in front of Ilya's eyes. "Please, Ilyusha."

＊

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<div class="notif-center-header"><span>Центр уведомлений</span><span class="close-btn">✕</span></div>

<span class="notif-title">rozno1fan</span>

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<span class="notif-message">I'm so proud of him.</span>

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<span class="notif-title">rozno1fan</span>

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<span class="notif-message">Can you do me a favor? Please pass this along to Rozanov.</span>

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<span class="notif-title">rozno1fan</span>

</div>

<span class="notif-message">Hey Lily. I saw the opening ceremony performance.</span>

</div>

</div>

＊

看清文字的那瞬間，Ilya在沙發上猛然蜷縮成一團，壓抑將近一年的情緒，頓時決堤，泣不成聲。

他配不上他。

靈魂早已死去的自己，沒有一絲一毫的資格，配得上Shane Hollander給予的溫柔。

The moment he read the words, Ilya suddenly curled into a tight ball on the sofa. The emotions he had suppressed for nearly a year came crashing down all at once, and he began to sob uncontrollably.

He didn't deserve him.

With a soul that was already dead, he didn't have a single shred of right to deserve the kindness Shane Hollander gave him.

<hr/>

Ilya從沒想過，居然有朝一日會對這片曾被他嫌棄「平庸且無趣」的加拿大土地，產生深切的眷戀。他過去更懷念莫斯科那種宏大與悠遠的藝術氣質，也不曾仔細比較過這兩座城市的差別。莫斯科的冬天是冷冽死寂的，藍灰色的天空籠罩著磚紅色的古典建築，人們行走在積雪的廣場上，每個人都縮在大衣裡如同一座孤島，乾燥的空氣吸乾了人們喉嚨裡的聲音，那裡的人們只在乎自己的煩心事。

Ilya快步行走於蒙特婁的街道上，裹著厚圍巾的陌生人與他擦身而過，隨意扔下一句"Bonjour." 但在他意識到之前，彆腳法語已經脫口而出，回應了陌生人的問候。

Ilya的身體似乎比大腦更加誠實，即使被鎖在俄羅斯半年，蒙特婁的生活習慣卻早已擅自刻在他的肌肉記憶裡。

刺眼的加拿大陽光灑在路面厚雪上，讓人幾乎雪盲。夾雜水氣的風從聖羅倫斯河上吹來，濕氣黏上他的臉頰，蒙特婁濕冷的低溫比乾燥的莫斯科還要凍人；然而，這裡的人們卻不曾吝嗇嘴上的一句問候。

Ilya拉開咖啡廳的玻璃門，隨即側過身，揮手示意後方的女士先行，推著嬰兒車走過門的女人用親切的法語向他道謝，Ilya發自內心地回以微笑，用偷學來的"De rien."回應。

「噢，你終於開始學法語了呢，」Svetlana走過他，語氣調侃道。

Ilya聳聳肩，跟著邁進室內，「我想要這個國家的護照，所以只是小小的妥協。」Svetlana挑眉笑了笑，不置可否。

室內暖和的空氣撲面而來，混著咖啡的苦味與甜點的油脂香氣。低沉的交談聲交織在磨豆機的運轉聲之中，櫃檯後方時不時傳來蒸汽棒嘶嘶的噴氣聲。

Ilya脫下外套與毛帽，抖落未融的乾雪，他坐進靠窗的卡座沙發裡，接過Svetlana遞來的外套，後者轉身走向櫃檯點餐。Ilya口袋裡的手機突然震動了一下，但他沒有理會，只是看著落地窗的玻璃上凝結一層白霧，彷彿一整片毛玻璃，街頭的行人在淡藍色的背景裡像模糊的色塊緩緩移動。

咖啡櫃檯傳來店員呼喊Svetlana的名字。

Ilya聞聲抬起頭，看見她接過兩個沉甸甸的馬克杯後，朝他走來。然而，Ilya的目光卻突然定格，越過她的肩膀，落在櫃檯旁的單人座裡。那個身影低著頭看手機，黑色的髮梢從棒球帽邊緣露出，桌上放著一本攤開的書與一只杯子。雖然與店內的其他顧客大同小異，但在壓低的帽沿下，熟悉的側臉輪廓卻讓Ilya的心跳不經意地漏掉一拍。

就在此時，他的手機再次震動，Ilya立刻從口袋裡拿了出來。

Ilya had never imagined that one day he would feel such a deep attachment to this Canadian land he once dismissed as mediocre and boring. In the past, he had always preferred the grand and historic artistic atmosphere of Moscow, never bothering to compare the two cities. Winter in Moscow was cold and lifeless. A blue-gray sky hung over the red-brick classical buildings, and people walked across snow-covered squares, each hunched inside their coat like an isolated island. The dry air sucked the voice right out of people's throats, and everyone there only cared about their own troubles.

Ilya walked quickly down the streets of Montreal. Strangers wrapped in thick scarves brushed past him, casually tossing out a "Bonjour." Before he even realized it, broken French slipped from his mouth, returning the stranger's greeting.

His body seemed more honest than his brain. Even after being locked away in Russia for six months, the daily habits of Montreal had already carved themselves into his muscle memory.

The blinding Canadian sunlight spilled over the thick snow on the pavement, almost causing snow blindness. A damp wind blew from the St. Lawrence River, sticking moisture to his cheeks. Montreal's wet, biting cold was even more freezing than dry Moscow; yet, the people here never held back a warm greeting.

Ilya pulled open the glass door of a coffee shop, then stepped aside, waving a woman behind him to go first. The woman pushing a stroller walked through the door and thanked him in warm French. Ilya smiled from the bottom of his heart and replied with a borrowed "De rien."

"Akh, you're finally starting to learn French," Svetlana said playfully as she walked past him.

Ilya shrugged and followed her inside. "I want a passport from this country, so it is just a small compromise." Svetlana raised an eyebrow and smiled, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

The warm indoor air hit him, mixed with the bitter scent of coffee and the sweet aroma of pastries. Low murmurs of conversation blended with the whirring of the coffee grinder, and from behind the counter, the steam wand hissed every now and then.

Ilya took off his coat and beanie, shaking off the un-melted snow. He slid into a window booth and took the coat Svetlana handed him, while she turned to head toward the counter to order. Ilya's phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. He just watched the condensation forming a thick layer of white mist on the window, turning it into frosted glass. Outside, pedestrians moved like blurry patches of color against a pale blue background.

The barista at the counter called out Svetlana's name.

Ilya looked up at the sound, watching her take two heavy mugs and walk toward him. Suddenly, his gaze froze. Past her shoulder, his eyes landed on a single seat near the counter. The figure sat with his head down, looking at a phone, dark hair peeking out from the edge of a baseball cap. An open book and a mug rested on the table. Though he looked much like any other customer in the shop, the familiar profile beneath the low brim made Ilya's heart skip a beat.

Right then, his phone buzzed again, and Ilya pulled it out of his pocket immediately.

＊

<h1 class="contact">Shane💐Ласточка</h1>