1973, Petrozavodsk
Grisha, in general, had a very good life. At least, until he started thinking about it. Life was full of interesting things, quiet and predictable. Even in kindergarten he had noticed, about himself, an unusually acute attentiveness, something which only helped him enjoy various wonderful things all the more. He would run to kindergarten every morning so he could get there first and beat everyone else – for some reason, it was very important to be first. Yet, along the way, he still managed to delight in the first ice in the puddles, and did not just shatter the ice in the thin, whitish spots, he also became aware of the ice’s wonderful flexibility and the disquieting moan over the deep, dark spots that chilled his soul and sounded like a warning – already the morning w
