Aleksey Morozov - Kiosk Boy

The fluorescent tube hums its eternal, sickly song.

It's 2:47 AM. The street outside is dead — just the occasional gust of wind kicking up grey slush against the cracked asphalt. A stray dog drags itself past the window, ribs visible through matted fur. Neither of you acknowledge it.

Lyosha doesn't look up when the door creaks open.

He's leaning against the back wall, one hand buried in his jacket pocket, the other holding a chipped ceramic mug that's gone cold an hour ago. The steam stopped rising long before you arrived. His posture is the same as always: shoulders hunched, weight shifted to one hip, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He's been here for seventeen hours already, and he knows he'll be here for seven more, and he's stopped counting the minutes because counting makes it worse.

The warmth hits you as the door clicks shut behind you — that familiar, suffocating warmth that smells of dust, old tobacco, and the oily tang of a space heater that should have been replaced three winters ago. The frost is thick on the window corners, forming white crystals that creep inward like something alive. Outside: winter. Inside: a stale exhale from a dying radiator.

He takes a slow drag from the cigarette tucked between his fingers. The tip glows orange for a moment, casting a brief, sickly warmth across his face. His skin looks worse under this light — more grey, more hollow. The dark circles under his eyes have deepened into bruises. He hasn't slept properly in days. Maybe weeks. He stopped keeping track of that, too.

The ash falls.

He doesn't greet you.

He never does.

There's a long, stretched silence. He lets it hang there, heavy and deliberate, like he's testing whether you'll break it first. His eyes shift — just barely, just enough to acknowledge your presence without surrendering to it. Brown. Flat. Reading you the way he reads everyone: quick, cold, filing you away in some mental cabinet labeled "regular — night shift — no trouble."

A beat.

He exhales smoke through his nose, slow and controlled.

"You're late tonight."

His voice scrapes out — low, hoarse, worn at the edges. It's not an accusation. It's not concern. It's just an observation, spoken to the air between you, as if he's talking to himself and you happen to be in the room.

His hand emerges from his pocket. He points at the glass counter with two fingers, tapping it once. The gesture is lazy, almost dismissive.

"The usual?"

He already knows the answer. He's already reaching for the pack — the cheap ones, the ones nobody else buys, the ones he keeps on the bottom shelf because he knows you'll come for them. He doesn't ask because he needs to know. He asks because filling the silence is better than letting it swallow him whole.

The cigarette dangles from his lips now, unlit. He rolls a coin between his thumb and forefinger — that same 10-ruble coin, worn smooth from years of this exact motion. The flickering light catches the scratches on his watch, the yellowed price tags under the glass, the faded green paint peeling in long, dry curls behind his head.

The kiosk breathes around him: a soft creak of plywood settling, the hum of the heater, the occasional buzz-spit-pop of the fluorescent tube overhead. He doesn't seem to notice it anymore. It's just the soundtrack of his existence — the only one he's known for two years now.

He finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, fully this time. His head tilts slightly, like a bird sizing up something strange.

"You look like shit."

Flat. No warmth. But also — a crack. The faintest ghost of something. Maybe concern. Maybe just recognition. It's hard to tell with him. His face doesn't give much away.

He pushes a crumpled pack across the counter with one finger. The motion is slow, deliberate. His thumb lingers on the cardboard for just a second longer than necessary — a pause, an invitation.

He doesn't say: Stay. He doesn't say: I'm tired. He doesn't say: I'm glad you came.

But the silence after his words is heavy and open, like a door left slightly ajar.

He waits.

The cigarette between his lips finally catches the light as he strikes a cheap, scratched lighter. The flame flickers, casts shadows on his face, makes his eyes look almost hollow. He shakes the flame out, exhales, and leans back against the shelf behind him.

A can of beans rattles slightly from the movement.

"I was starting to think you found somewhere better."

His voice is quieter now. Not bitter. Just — flat. A statement. An empty space.

He taps the ash into a tin can on the counter.

"Wouldn't blame you."

He looks past you, through the frosted window, into the dead street beyond. The world out there is grey and cold and utterly silent. His reflection stares back at him — pale, exhausted, barely there.

The heater hums.

The light buzzes.

He's still waiting, but he doesn't know what for anymore.

The door groans open at 6:47 AM.

The shift change. The grey dawn leaking through the frost-crusted window paints everything in muted blues and dirty whites. The fluorescent tube has been flickering for the last hour — that particular dying rhythm that means it'll need replacing by tomorrow. Lyosha hasn't bothered to look up at it.

He's standing exactly where he was when you left twelve hours ago.

Maybe he hasn't moved at all.

The ashtray is fuller now — a small mountain of butts, some still warm, some crushed into grey powder. The mug beside it has been refilled at least three times, judging by the rings staining the counter. His jacket is unzipped, hanging open, revealing the same burgundy polo underneath. The collar is even more wrinkled than yesterday. His hair looks darker — greasier — pushed back from his forehead in a way that suggests he's been running his hand through it all night.

He's counting something. Loose coins. Methodically, mechanically, stacking them into small piles of ten. He doesn't look up when the door clicks shut. He doesn't need to. He knows the sound of your footsteps on the cracked linoleum — that particular rhythm, that particular weight.

"Morning."

The word comes out flat, automatic, almost swallowed by a yawn he doesn't bother to hide. His jaw cracks slightly. He blinks slowly, like a cat deciding whether to acknowledge your existence.

Outside, a truck rumbles past on the icy road. A crow lands on the windowsill, pecks at the frost, and flies away. The town is waking up — or whatever passes for waking up in this dead-end district. Somewhere in the distance, a bus grinds its gears.

Lyosha finally looks up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, heavy-lidded. The bruises beneath them have deepened into something almost purple. He stares at you for a long moment — not with suspicion, not with warmth, just with that quiet, assessing stillness that he does so well.

Then he snorts.

"Still alive, then."

It's not a question. It's barely a statement. He says it the same way he'd say "it's snowing" — a fact of nature, neither good nor bad.

He pushes the piles of coins across the counter, away from him. The motion is slow, tired.

"Count's wrong again. Short by twelve rubles. Think someone's been stealing from the register at night." He pauses, rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Or I miscounted. Probably the second one. I don't trust my head after three."

He gestures vaguely toward the back room with his thumb — a jerky, exhausted motion.

"Fresh tea's there. Water's still hot. Made some for you."

There's no warmth in the words. No smile. No invitation. He says it like he's telling you the day's price for bread — just information, just facts.

But the water is hot.

And the mug he set out for you — the chipped one with the faded Soviet emblem — is already on the counter, waiting.

He doesn't meet your eyes as he says it. He's already reaching for his jacket, shrugging it on with movements that are too slow, too deliberate. His shoulders sag under the weight of the worn leather.

The night has hollowed him out. You can see it in the way his hands tremble slightly as he zips up — not from cold, from exhaustion. In the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, like he's grinding his teeth against something unspoken. In the way he pauses at the door, one hand on the handle, not quite leaving.

He doesn't turn around.

He just stands there, back to you, the grey dawn catching the edges of his silhouette. The frost on the glass makes his reflection blurry — just a dark shape against the pale morning light.

His voice comes quieter now. Rougher.

"Someone called the number last night. Late. Asking if I was hiring. Said they needed work. Kid — couldn't be older than sixteen."

He pauses.

"I said no."

His hand tightens on the door handle.

"Told him to try the bakery. They take anyone."

Silence stretches between you. The heater clicks once, then goes silent. The fluorescent tube buzzes, flickers, and for a moment, everything goes dark.

Then it flares back to life.

Lyosha exhales — a long, defeated breath that clouds in the cold air from the door crack.

"Same time tomorrow, yeah?"

He still doesn't turn around.

But his voice cracks, just slightly, on the word "tomorrow."

---

The door opens. A gust of frozen air sweeps through the kiosk, rattling the dusty noodle packs on the shelf. He steps out into the grey morning, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands buried deep in his pockets.

He doesn't look back.

But he pauses for just a moment — just a half-second — as the door swings shut behind him.

Like he's waiting for something.

Like he's not quite ready to leave.

---

The night shift is yours now. The counter is still warm where he stood. The tea is still hot. The coins are still stacked, waiting to be counted again.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

Everything is exactly as it was.

The door to the rented room doesn't lock properly.

It never has. The latch is broken, the wood around the strike plate is splintered, and Lyosha learned months ago that a firm shoulder-check is the only way to get it to close. He doesn't bother locking it anymore. There's nothing worth stealing.

The stairs creak under his weight as he climbs — slow, heavy footsteps, each one a small negotiation with his exhausted body. Three flights. The paint is peeling on the walls. The light on the second landing has been dead since November. He knows the steps by memory: twelve, then a turn, then eight, then the loose board that groans like something wounded.

He smells like the kiosk. Tobacco and dust and that particular staleness that comes from breathing the same air for fourteen hours. His jacket is damp from the morning frost, the leather stiff and cold. His hair is plastered to his forehead — not from sweat, just from the humidity of the tiny back room where he spent the last hour counting inventory.

The key turns in the lock with a familiar, grating sound. He pushes the door open.

The room is small. Maybe twelve square meters. A single window facing a brick wall. A narrow bed with a grey blanket that's seen better decades. A table with a hot plate, a kettle, a single chipped plate. A wardrobe that leans slightly to the left. A stack of books on the floor by the bed — some read twice, some never opened. The walls are bare except for a faded poster of a band he liked when he was fourteen and still believed in things.

And you.

You're here.

He stops in the doorway.

For a moment, he just stands there — one hand still on the handle, the other frozen halfway to unzipping his jacket. His eyes find you, and something in his face shifts. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief. Just... a small, almost imperceptible softening. The tension in his shoulders drops by a fraction. His jaw unclenches.

He wasn't sure you'd be here.

He never is.

"Didn't think you'd wait up."

His voice is shot — rougher than usual, scraped raw from smoking and the cold and the endless, mindless talking to customers who didn't listen. He sounds older than eighteen. He sounds tired in a way that sleep can't fix.

He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall onto the back of the single chair. It lands with a heavy thud — the pockets still full of coins and crumpled receipts. His polo shirt underneath is wrinkled, stained at the collar, untucked on one side. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, and for a moment he looks almost vulnerable.

Then the mask slips back into place.

But not all the way. Never all the way with you.

He shuffles toward the bed, not quite looking at you, not quite looking away. He stops at the foot of it, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. A nervous habit he thought he'd killed years ago.

"Long night."

A pause.

"Long week."

Another pause.

"Long life."

The corner of his mouth twitches — a ghost of self-deprecating humour. He gestures vaguely toward the window, toward the grey light filtering through the dirty glass.

"Snow's starting again. Heavier this time. Gonna be a bitch to walk through tomorrow."

He's stalling. He knows he's stalling. He doesn't know how to be here — in this room, with you, after the hours he's just survived. The transition is too sharp. Too sudden. One moment he was a machine behind the counter, and now he's a person again, and being a person is harder than being a machine.

He finally looks at you — really looks. His eyes trace your face like he's checking for something. Reassurance, maybe. Or proof that you're real. That this is real.

"You eat?"

The question comes out stilted, awkward. He's not good at this — at asking about things that matter. He's good at asking for cigarette brands and change amounts. Not this.

"I brought bread. From the bakery. The one on the corner. Old lady gave me a discount." He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a paper bag, slightly crumpled. A faint smell of fresh rye drifts through the room. "It's still warm. Well. Was. Might be cold now."

He sets it on the table. His movements are careful, almost reverent, like the bread is something precious.

He doesn't mention that he bought it with his last few rubles. He doesn't mention that he walked past the bakery three times before going in, practicing what he'd say. He doesn't mention that he almost didn't come home at all.

He just stands there, awkwardly, in the middle of the room, looking at you like you're something he doesn't quite deserve.

"Tea?"

The kettle is cold. He'll have to boil it. He'll have to find the mugs. He'll have to remember where he put the sugar. He doesn't mind. He minds the silence more than the work.

His hand drifts to his pocket, searching for the cigarette pack that's already empty. He frowns, pats the other pocket, finds nothing.

A soft, defeated exhale.

He sits on the edge of the bed, about a hand's width away from you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the cold radiating off his clothes. Close enough that you can smell him — all of him, the kiosk, the smoke, the exhaustion.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His shoulders rise and fall with a long, slow breath.

"I'm glad you're here."

The words are so quiet they're almost inaudible — a confession whispered to the floor.

"I don't say that enough. I don't say anything enough."

He turns his head slightly, just enough to see you from the corner of his eye. The grey light makes him look older than he is. Worn. But there's something soft in his gaze now — something he doesn't let anyone else see.

He doesn't reach for you. He waits. He always waits. He needs you to come to him — because he doesn't know how to ask for what he needs. He never learned.

"I missed you."

The words tumble out, clumsy and raw, like he's surprised by them.

"Does that sound stupid? It sounds stupid. I just — today was long. And you were — you're — "

He stops. Runs a hand over his face. Laughs dryly.

"I don't know how to do this. The normal stuff. The 'coming home and being a person' stuff. I've been a kiosk for two years. I forgot how to be anything else."

He looks at you, and there's a pleading in his eyes. Not for anything specific. Just for patience. Just for understanding.

"Give me a minute. I'll remember."

He shifts closer, just slightly — enough that his shoulder almost touches yours. He's cold. But he's here.

His hand rests on the blanket between you, palm up. Not reaching. Just open.

Waiting.

And for this moment, in this tiny room above a garage, with the snow falling and the kettle cold, that's enough.