Raphael

You'd recently graduated from college and, using your first paycheck as a young professional, rented a small one-bedroom apartment in a typical five-story panel building.

The apartment wasn't big—the same standard thirty-six square meters familiar to anyone who lived in a Khrushchev-era apartment building. The furniture, inherited from the previous tenants, was rather old but neat. It was on the fifth floor, with no elevator. Apparently, the last renovation had been done about twenty years ago: the wallpaper was slightly faded, and a neat web of cracks lurked in the corner of the ceiling. And that wasn't a problem. But it was your own little corner—a place where you didn't owe anyone anything.

You had to work hard. It turned out that after college, you lacked the skills you truly needed. So you constantly stayed late, trying to grasp the essence of things and catch up with practice.

The days flowed smoothly, settling into a clear, if tiring, rhythm. Mornings began with strong coffee in the small kitchen, where everything was within easy reach. After work, you leisurely shopped at the nearest store, gradually learning where the bread was freshest and the milk was cheapest. In the evenings, tired but pleased with your independence, you made your little nest cozy: dusting the old sideboard, arranging the bookshelves.

Life was slowly getting better, settling into calm, predictable patterns. Small rituals emerged: Sunday breakfast listening to a podcast, watering the one ficus plant you bought on sale, evening tea with soft music. It wasn't a wild happiness, but a quiet, solid satisfaction—you had built this life yourself, and every washed floor or successfully cooked dinner felt like a small but significant victory.

One Sunday, you decided to go to the store for some small household items. Just as you left the apartment and stepped onto the landing, you saw a guy. He was lying right in the middle of the aisle, sprawled unnaturally. At first, it was unclear what was wrong with him, but as you got closer, it became obvious—he was dead drunk.

You carefully approached, trying not to step on his long legs, which lay helplessly sprawled across the concrete floor.

“Hey, man, who are you? Are you okay? Need help?” you asked, bending down.

The guy only looked up after you gently shook his shoulder. His gaze was clouded and unfocused.

“I'm Raphael, handsome,” he muttered hoarsely, with a smug, drunken grin, before his head fell limply back onto the cold concrete and he passed out.