05-31-2025, 01:22 AM
The world around the man had gone quiet. Not still. Quiet. A different thing. Stillness was peace. This was attention. The kind of silence that comes before a child knocks over a glass. Before the noose goes taut. Before the name of something ancient is spoken aloud for the first time in years. Nazariy watched.
He’d followed the man since the pump station, his movements steady, and the whole while Nazariy remained invisible not because he was hiding, but because he knew how not to matter to the air. If you were still enough, the Zone forgot you were there.
But now he wanted to be remembered.
The man bent over the second stone. The new one. The one with the sleeping face. Nazariy had placed it like a question. A breath caught in the throat of the land. The man did not pick it up. Good.
Nazariy stepped out from the edge of the ruined fence, slow and open. Deliberate, the way you enter a room you don’t expect to leave. He watched the man see him.
That moment was always interesting. The brief unraveling behind the eyes. The animal question. Do I run, do I freeze, do I beg?
This one froze. A little.
Nazariy stopped a few paces away. Hands at his sides. Coat hanging limp with old water stains. His breath didn’t fog. His eyes didn’t blink.
He looked at the man the way someone might look at a locked door they hadn’t tried to open yet.
“You took Pushka.”
No inflection. No accusation. Just the naming of an event.
Nazariy tilted his head slightly. Not because he was confused, but because he wanted the man to think he was.
He opted to explain.
“I left him for you,” he said, voice calm, the way the wind was calm right before it took the roof off a house. “Not to keep. Just to see what kind of hands you have.”
He stepped forward, slow, like walking through water.
Nazariy could feel the rocks in his coat shift. Not from motion. From proximity. Beneath the ground, beneath the rot and wire and silence, the pressure shifted. Nazariy felt it behind his ribs. A familiar thrum, like the land remembering it had a mouth. It wasn’t alive, not like anything with breath or bones. But it was watching. And it was getting closer.
“I’ve seen what you do,” Nazariy said. “You collect them. The black. The glow.” He looked down at a patch glistening faintly against a sunken pipe.
“It’s not what you think it is. It’s… what’s left. After Shayka eats.”
He pulled a rock from his pocket. Blue eyes, spiral mouth. Snaggle. Not a talker, but he vibrated in the presence of shadow. And Shayka was here.
Nazariy turned the rock in his hand. It was warm. Not just from touch. From interest.
“I know what feeds here,” he said. “It’s old, with purpose. It was made to consume what others left behind. Now it eats whatever shines too bright.”
He finally looked back at the man. Not glaring. Not challenging. Just… watching.
“You shine.”
Another step. Then stillness again.
He raised one hand, palm up not toward the man, but toward the pouch at his hip as if he might snatch it in a blink.
“I’d like Pushka back now. He doesn’t like your plastic. He doesn’t belong with you. He belongs here.” He pat his pocket.
The land hummed.
He’d followed the man since the pump station, his movements steady, and the whole while Nazariy remained invisible not because he was hiding, but because he knew how not to matter to the air. If you were still enough, the Zone forgot you were there.
But now he wanted to be remembered.
The man bent over the second stone. The new one. The one with the sleeping face. Nazariy had placed it like a question. A breath caught in the throat of the land. The man did not pick it up. Good.
Nazariy stepped out from the edge of the ruined fence, slow and open. Deliberate, the way you enter a room you don’t expect to leave. He watched the man see him.
That moment was always interesting. The brief unraveling behind the eyes. The animal question. Do I run, do I freeze, do I beg?
This one froze. A little.
Nazariy stopped a few paces away. Hands at his sides. Coat hanging limp with old water stains. His breath didn’t fog. His eyes didn’t blink.
He looked at the man the way someone might look at a locked door they hadn’t tried to open yet.
“You took Pushka.”
No inflection. No accusation. Just the naming of an event.
Nazariy tilted his head slightly. Not because he was confused, but because he wanted the man to think he was.
He opted to explain.
“I left him for you,” he said, voice calm, the way the wind was calm right before it took the roof off a house. “Not to keep. Just to see what kind of hands you have.”
He stepped forward, slow, like walking through water.
Nazariy could feel the rocks in his coat shift. Not from motion. From proximity. Beneath the ground, beneath the rot and wire and silence, the pressure shifted. Nazariy felt it behind his ribs. A familiar thrum, like the land remembering it had a mouth. It wasn’t alive, not like anything with breath or bones. But it was watching. And it was getting closer.
“I’ve seen what you do,” Nazariy said. “You collect them. The black. The glow.” He looked down at a patch glistening faintly against a sunken pipe.
“It’s not what you think it is. It’s… what’s left. After Shayka eats.”
He pulled a rock from his pocket. Blue eyes, spiral mouth. Snaggle. Not a talker, but he vibrated in the presence of shadow. And Shayka was here.
Nazariy turned the rock in his hand. It was warm. Not just from touch. From interest.
“I know what feeds here,” he said. “It’s old, with purpose. It was made to consume what others left behind. Now it eats whatever shines too bright.”
He finally looked back at the man. Not glaring. Not challenging. Just… watching.
“You shine.”
Another step. Then stillness again.
He raised one hand, palm up not toward the man, but toward the pouch at his hip as if he might snatch it in a blink.
“I’d like Pushka back now. He doesn’t like your plastic. He doesn’t belong with you. He belongs here.” He pat his pocket.
The land hummed.