A walk through the night city. A sudden downpour — and we take shelter under the awning of a summer diner. On one side — the heat of the kitchen and an appetizing aroma, on the other — the coolness of the downpour that has poured over the city. Cozy amid the storm.
A May evening in the city center.
The sky is densely overcast with a thick veil of clouds. The intensifying rain just made me lazily reach into my backpack for an umbrella, then pull it from its case and open the large black dome above me.
Headlights reflect in the wet asphalt. It’s a beautiful and mysterious moment — on the edge of day and night, on the edge of water and the fire of the nighttime city.
Came across a falling lilac bush in the city center. I’m always amazed by how adaptable plants are. Trees growing even on rooftops — or this lilac bush, on the verge of collapsing, yet still holding on and delighting us with its spring attire.
Trying to hold on to the fleeting moment of spring.
You walk down a noisy street. Everything is predictable — you know what you’ll see, you know how this evening will end. It feels safe; you’ve walked this path a thousand times before.
But then you pass an archway that leads into the darkness. What awaits you there?
Earlier this evening — a Moment That Illuminated the Garden .
It’s cloudy, as if it’s about to rain. I’m hurrying home to grab a spare battery for my camera, but suddenly I freeze: in the overcast garden, everything around is lit by a calm, beautiful young spring tree. Despite being in a rush, I stop, take out my camera, and snap a few shots. I’m eager to capture this magical moment. A moment of birth.
A few hours later — The moment I turned into the dark .
A year ago, during an evening walk, I met a man in the city — probably in his sixties.
He didn’t block my way, but his eyes held a quiet wish to speak.
I stopped, took out an earbud, and let him know I was ready to listen.
He said:
I never thought it would come to this.
Then added:
You’re not planning to drink, are you? (tomorrow, the day after — during the holidays)
I told him no.
He said:
Don’t be afraid. You hear me? Don’t be afraid of anything.
I replied:
Thank you. All the best to you!
He answered:
No — all the best to you.
An ordinary evening. An ordinary passerby. But there was something in him — something real, calm, and wise.
He didn’t impose, didn’t ask for anything, but it felt like he wanted to say something important.
Unfortunately, in the flow of life, we often fail to notice His presence — in passing strangers, in other people.
Finally, I kicked off the cycling season! The hardest part of the first ride is getting in the zone. I try to recall the route, listen to the bike after the repair , and stay focused on the road. Physically, it’s not easy either — my heart rate spikes, my breathing’s off, and my legs burn on the very first climb.
But I love these first rides for that childlike feeling of freedom.
In the end, I rode 28.2 km. For the start — great! I’m in the season now.
The bike performed well (knock on wood!). I was worried that problems would pop up after the repair, but everything went smoothly. The upgraded transmission is a joy: you can really feel how all the power from my legs goes straight into the wheels, with no slippage or play.
I had the idea to take a new route, but decided to stick to the familiar one for the first ride. In the end, it felt like a new route — I was surprised to see how much the city had changed in a year1 — where there used to be shacks, now there are (monotonous) high-rise buildings and bike lanes.
Anyway, I’m happy!
Riding on.
