The Nest

[Ezvin Marveet]

Saturday arrived gray and breathless, the kind of cold that didn’t bite so much as sink its teeth in slow. Snow gathered in the seams of the city: stacked along rooftops, clinging to window ledges, dusting the shoulders of old statues that stood watch over the frozen streets. The Moscow skyline looked like it had been dipped in powdered sugar and forgotten.

Ezvin arrived early.

Wrapped in a navy wool coat that flared a little too dramatically when he walked, a knit scarf the color of sea foam, and a pair of well-worn boots with snow-crusted toes, he stood outside the tucked-away address he'd texted Cadence the night before. He kept shifting from heel to toe to keep warm, breath ghosting out in soft white clouds, a paper bag clutched in one hand, and a thermos of something steaming in the other.

Just a small courtyard tucked between buildings, connected by a discreet iron arch with snow and a mosaic tile by the entrance that read Гнездо in chipped cobalt: The Nest.

He held a paper bag in one hand — still warm — and a thermos in the other. Inside the bag: pirozhki, filled with cabbage and mushroom, picked up from a bakery with an old Muscovite menu and the world’s grumpiest cashier. He’d timed it perfectly. The filling would still be hot.

The Nest wasn’t on any curated “Hidden Art Spots of Moscow” list. It wasn’t curated, period. It was an artist’s co-op, gallery, studio, café, and half-functional chaos engine all rolled into one. A living thing.

Inside, it sprawled. A labyrinth of rooms and stairwells, each one painted in a different color scheme by whoever had last claimed it. No two walls matched. One room was filled with floor-to-ceiling zines and old typewriters where visitors wrote confessions or left behind single lines of poetry. Another had a community canvas where strangers added swipes of paint, quotes, or tiny portraits in the margins. There were sculptors working in clay near the back. Musicians sometimes played in the stairwells just for the acoustics. A woman named Alisa ran a coffee counter out of what might have once been a supply closet. There was a sculpture garden in the back. 'Garden' being generous, considering everything was frozen and lightly dusted with snow, but Ezvin liked it anyway. The pieces weren’t for sale or marketable. They were unfinished, sometimes literally: half-chiseled torsos, twisted wire, a few broken limbs from a former installation now resting like sacred ruins in the white drift.

The Nest smelled like old books, varnish, espresso, and fresh snow melting off boots.

Ezvin could’ve taken her anywhere. Jazz bars. Wine tastings. Rooftop restaurants with carefully curated lighting. But that wasn’t what this was. Not with Cadence. She didn’t need the polish. She needed somewhere that was allowed to be unfinished. A work in progress. A future untold.

So when she arrived, he didn’t say much. Just handed her the thermos and the paper bag with a simple “Good morning. I've never been so excited for aimless wandering.” He smiled then he gestured her inside.

[Cadence]

Cadence spent the morning pacing and playing piano. Her anxiety levels weren’t insanely high, but she was feeling anxious. She could easily solve it. All she had to do was get out her wallet and search for the address he’d given her. That would tell her where they were going, but she didn’t. She felt that the not knowing would make her experience more authentic and real. It was a first time for Cadence. It was the first time that she felt going through the anxiety was worth it.

The time came for her to leave, she got in the cab and gave the driver her address. He drove and asked if music was okay. She nodded and smirked a bit as her own song came on. She saw the driver’s face in the rearview mirror. He was unaware that it was her he was driving. It had just been random, but still fun nonetheless.

Cadence looked out the window as he drove. She hardly left her place, and usually her transit time was focused on her wallet, but she was growing, and now she found she wanted to look and see the world around her. She contemplated that until she arrived. She made sure the driver was paid and got out. She looked and saw an archway between two buildings and a courtyard where Ezvin waited for her. Cadence had difficult with the Russian alphabet, so she got out her wallet and scanned the text. The Nest

She approached Ezvin, noting his long coat. Her coat was also long, and it was clean, well made and unadorned. A purple wool knitted scarf lay around her neck and she took the offered gifts from Ezvin with black leather gloved hands. She gave them a glance but Ezvin had already gestured her in. ”Good morning,” her voice lace with both anxiety and anticipation. ”What is it that you’re plotting, Marveet?”

She entered the building and was astonished. The walls were covered in zines and vintage typewriters. People were looking and one was even writing something. She noticed that man, about her age was attractive, and once again she was astonished that she had noticed it. Why was it important?

The answer came to her: She wasn’t just surviving anymore.

It was the link that made everything in the last week make sense. It was why she hadn’t picked Ezvin’s easier options. It was why this album was so important to her.  It was even why she had looked out the window on the way here. She didn’t want to hide in the dark anymore. She wanted to live, and it was this moment that Cadence was truly reborn.

She took a step tentatively forward - not in fear, but because she wasn’t sure where to go. There were many places she could explore, but she was uncertain which to take. She instead spun in a circle, taking in the room. She summoned her power as she did. Not because she had any intention to do anything with it, but because it made her senses sharper and the world clearer. She was aware her motion drew attention, but it wasn’t disruptive and the eyes of the others in the room weren’t eyes of disapproval. They were the eyes of artists. Artist’s who understood when someone was going through an epiphany.

She maneuvered the thermos to her other hand and used her teeth to pull off a glove. She wrapped the hand around the thermos, feeling the warmth of the liquid inside. She closed her eyes then and listened. Her head tilted as he heard the sounds of shoes across the floor and beyond that, singing in the stairwells. She sniffed and could smell old books, varnish m, and other smells, in particular the beverage and pastry Ezvin had given her. Finally, she opened her eye, and opened the bag, pulling out the food. She had no idea what it was, but she took a bite and savored the flavor as if tasting something for the first time.

She headed back to Ezvin, her gaze never staying in one place for long. She wasn’t even one hundred percent what she was looking at, but she knew this was important.  ”What is this place? It’s…it’s…” her voice hitched as she reverently searched for the words. ”It’s…unfinished. No - not that. It’s living and breathing. It’s…raw…unfiltered. It’s…truth. the last word was quiet, almost a whisper as if it was a secret.

[Ezvin Marveet]

Ezvin smiled. Not the broad, showy kind he sometimes flashed when he was being charming, but the smaller, truer kind. The one that started slow and stayed warm. The way she moved, the way she spun lightly through the room, the way her whole body seemed to be absorbing the place, it was everything he’d hoped for when he picked The Nest.

He slipped his gloves into his coat pocket and stepped away from the wall he’d been casually leaning against, giving her space but staying near enough that he could guide her through it when she was ready.

Cadence’s voice, when it came, carried a reverence he hadn’t expected, but instantly recognized. He’d heard that tone before, not in tourists or collectors, but in artists standing in front of something that didn’t explain itself. Something that didn’t need to.

When she whispered "truth," he let the silence hang there for a breath longer than normal, letting her own realization fill the space without stepping on it.

Finally, he tilted his head toward her, voice low and unhurried.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Exactly that.”

Ezvin gestured lightly for her to follow, not a command, just an invitation, and moved deeper into the tangled heart of the building. His boots scuffed against the battered floorboards as he led her through one of the side hallways, past a crooked doorway draped with a beaded curtain.

He recognized a few faces as they passed: artists bundled in oversized sweaters, clay still under their nails, sketchbooks tucked under arms. He exchanged nods here and there: an old man hunched over a battered typewriter gave him a wink; a young woman with blue-dyed hair and paint-streaked jeans flashed him a knowing smile. It wasn’t celebrity recognition. It was community. They knew each other the way storms know rain—part of the same atmosphere.

As he walked, he kept half an eye on Cadence, noticing the way she drank it all in: the smells, the textures, the shifting currents of creativity thick in the air.

“The Nest’s been here... longer than anyone really knows,” he said, his voice soft enough that it wove between the sounds of the building rather than cutting through them. “No grants. No formal funding. It survives because people want it to. It’s messy on purpose. It’s a place where you’re allowed to not be finished yet.”

They passed a workshop where a few artists hunched over clay wheels, their hands slick and methodical. The smell of wet earth hung heavy in the air. Another room echoed with the slow, deliberate scrape of brushes against canvas.

Ezvin stopped at an intersection where three hallways splintered off in different directions. He turned back toward her, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes.

“Alright, Mathis. You’re at the crossroads.” He gestured dramatically to each path in turn. “Down there, you can add your chaos to the community canvas. That way, there’s a pottery room if you’re feeling brave and don’t mind getting your hands dirty.” He flicked his thumb toward the third hallway. “And down there’s the zine table. Old typewriters, old paper, new thoughts.”

He took a step back, giving her the choice, the space. His grin softened into something more sincere.

“No wrong answers here. No rules. No one watching to see if you screw it up. Just... whatever’s in you, finding a way out.”

He tucked his hands in his coat pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, feeling the pulse of the place settling around them like a second heartbeat.

“And if you just wanna walk around and breathe it in?” He gave her a light shrug, his tone easy and free. “That’s art, too.”

Ezvin fell quiet, letting her choose, the hint of a smile still ghosting his face. the kind that said he was perfectly happy to follow wherever her instincts led.

[Cadence]

Cadence followed at his gesture, her eyes not staying in one place for long.  She wanted to take this place in - all of it.  It was special. Several people recognized her companion and a few recognized her as well; she did have a well known face after all, but the sign of celebrity wasn't there.  This wasn't a place where that mattered. This was a place wasn't about celebrity, fame, or money.  She sensed it; it was about community. As she followed she absorbed Ezvin's words. It survived because people wanted it to. That spoke of community as well.  And Ezvin had invited her into that.

"Are we ever really finished?" Cadence asked at his statement, spoken more as an out loud thought than as an actual statement.  There was truth to it though.

Ezvin seemed content to take the role of guide in this journey, and she was content to follow, not out of fear or anxiety, but out of trust. He had brought her here for a reason, and she felt she had understood some of that reason. He wasn't sure if the epiphany she had was what he had expected.  She hadn't spoken of what she had felt when entering this place yet.  For now, she was absorbing and coming to an understanding of what she had concluded about herself - about what she now really wanted.  Words didn't exist for that yet.

Ezvin's guidance though, had never been one where he told you the answer.  He allowed things to unfold and allowed those he guided to make choices. It was something Cadence appreciated about him; it was something she respected.  So she wasn't surprised when they arrived at a crossroads in both a literal and metaphoric sense. He stepped back, telling her four options. As he stepped back, she stepped forward, a step of faith as it were. Down one corridor, a community canvas where she could "add her chaos" the thought made her smile as she contemplated, then turning her head to the second path - a pottery room.  She was still holding the power and could detect the scent of earth down that hallway. Then she faced the third hallway.  An old place for new words - a poetic way to put a place for poetry.

Cadence then closed her eyes, focusing inward. There wasn't a wrong choice. No one would judge her for her choice.  She knew her skills and no one would even judge her poor art skills if she had gone to the canvas or the pottery room.  She might even find that those there might offer up their knowledge.  This was the vibe she got from this place.  Artists respecting artists. Truth be told, she wanted to go to all of them and experience as much as she could. 

Cadence opened her eyes, a decision made, but remained quiet for a moment before she spoke. "I think - I'd like to experience all three - if time permits. Not to just observe. Today is a day for experience - even if my skills at visual art are pretty bad and I have no experience at working clay," She gave a light smile and a soft chuckle. "But first, I have words to say - dying to get out,  and maybe by the time we get there, they will have revealed themselves to me."

Cadence gestured to the third doorway and waited for Ezvin to join her before she began to move. The power pulsed in her like a heartbeat and it wanted her to give it form, even if she was unsure of what that form was. But the way the power heightened her senses made her keep hold of it, trusting her instincts to keep it ready.  For what, she didn't know.

Cadence smiled and asked a single question before they arrived at their destination.  She understood that there wasn't a wrong choice, but curiosity begged her to ask. "Which one did you go down your first time here?" There were lots of questions she could have asked such as how he found this place or who brought him here, but her curiosity was at the crossroads and she wondered what path he had chosen.

[Ezvin Marveet]

Ezvin smiled as she asked the question—not with surprise, but with the quiet satisfaction of a teacher whose student just found the question he’d hoped they’d ask. He didn’t answer immediately. He only fell into step beside her as they turned toward the third hallway—the one lined with old typewriters, zine stacks, yellowing paper, and emotions left behind by strangers.

The hallway creaked beneath their steps, the air warmer here, thick with the scent of paper, ink, and some faint lingering trace of dust and lavender. The old radiators hissed softly from behind painted-over grates. This part of The Nest always felt more like a chapel to him. Not sacred in the traditional sense, but reverent. Soft. Honest.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat as they walked, his voice emerging low and conversational.

“Zines,” he said. “That was my first door too.”

He nodded toward the cluttered table that had no real order to it—some zines printed neatly, bound with staples; others were just folded paper, written by hand, marked up, sometimes scrawled over and rewritten in pencil like someone couldn’t make up their mind.

Ezvin stepped over to the table, running a gloved finger along the edge before crouching down beside the stacked milk crates underneath, thumbing through them with an easy, practiced motion. He was quiet for a few moments—quiet in a way that still carried presence—and then he pulled one from the bottom of a worn-out stack and held it up.

It was hand-stitched with red thread, the cover a messy charcoal sketch of a match being struck. A small title, hand-lettered in smudged pen: Temporary Fires.

He flipped through it, briefly, then gave her a glance over his shoulder.

“Didn’t think it’d still be here.” He stood, brushing dust from the knees of his coat. “Wrote this about a year ago. One of those nights where everything hit a little too hard and I didn’t want to talk to anyone who knew my name.”

He handed it to her, if she wanted it—but not insistently. Just offering.

“It’s mostly about people who set themselves on fire trying to feel something. Or make someone else feel something. You know…” He shrugged lightly, the kind of shrug that could carry a hundred unsaid things. “Passion without patience. Love with no landing gear. That sort of thing.”

He paused, then chuckled softly.

“It’s a little dramatic. But it was honest. I’ve never been great at the long game. I’m more...strike-the-match, see-how-bright-it-burns, hope-it-lights-a-room-before-it-goes-out.”

Ezvin didn’t look embarrassed saying it. He wasn’t someone who hid from his truth. There was no melancholy in his tone—just a soft kind of self-awareness. A man who’d never built a house with his heart, but had drawn beautiful maps of places he never stayed long enough to live in.

He stepped back, giving her room at the table. The click of a nearby typewriter punctuated the quiet, and somewhere deeper in the Nest, someone started humming under their breath.

Ezvin leaned against the edge of a nearby shelf and nodded toward the typewriters as he slipped out of his coat. It was tossed on the back of a chair as he rolled up his sleeves like he was about to get down to brass tacks himself.

“Take whatever space you want. Paper’s in the second drawer. Ribbon’s probably stuck, but it gives your fingers something to argue with.” A faint grin. “If the words are dying to get out, don’t let them wait too long. They get bitter when ignored.”

And with that, he quieted again, folding his arms as he leaned back, gaze flicking not to her, but to the wall of zines behind her - dozens of little paper souls, whispering from the shelves. Letting her have the moment.

[Cadence]

Cadence smiled at his answer to her question, somehow not surprised this was the door he had picked. Songwriters would be drawn to this room simply through the use of written word as visual artists would be to the canvas. They arrived in the room and Cadence's smiled widened at the clutter. In a strange way, there was still a sort of order to it - an organized mess that just fit the more creative types that would be drawn to the Nest. One of her professors had told her "the more disorganized the desk is, the more organized the mind is." There was some truth to that.

Ezvin seemed drawn towards one of the stacks and she looked at him with curiosity as he pulled out the zine with the red ribbon. Her curiosity piqued at his mention when he had written it and why. She had wondered what he had gone through that night, but she didn't ask even if her eyes asked the question. Now didn't seem the moment to ask, or maybe it was Ezvin's choice to tell her more or not. It was even possible the answer lie in the pages that he offered to her. She took it from Ezvin when he offered it with a slightly trembling hand. She looked at the cover, but didn't open it yet.

Cadence took what he said and let it simmer, coming to an understanding of what he meant. Ezvin was a free spirit - one who didn't want to settle down. It was something different from the norm, but it didn't bother Cadence. Ezvin's romantic life was his own, and as long as he was happy with it, she was happy for him, and he didn't seem apologetic about it. He was just aware of who he was and what he wanted. It was honest. Cadence found herself more curious about the man she was with.

"Well, sometimes the most dramatic words are the most important," she spoke for the first time since her question with a smirk.

Finally she was given the time to work and Ezvin gave her the space to do it. She removed her coat and placed it over his before pulling out a few sheets of paper and beginning to feed the first into a typewriter. Then she paused. Something didn't seem right. She put the paper down on the table and stood going back to her coat. She rifled through her pockets until she found what she was looking for. It was a habit of musicians to always have something to write with. In her coat pockets she almost always had a few pencils and pens. She found one and then sat back down at the table.

Cadence didn't pause before she started writing. The feeling that something was wrong was gone. She needed to write this and she didn't know why, but she was following her instinct. The first words had formed in her mind.

I took a single step and then found I couldn't stop walking
I no longer wish to just survive. I wish to thrive.
Is this what freedom feels like?

She paused in her writing and looked up in thought, eyes really not focused on anything as she spoke the question aloud. "Is this what freedom feels like?"

Cadence turned to another page and began to write, the words coming out of her like an avalanche. It was her story - the story of a frightened, traumatized girl that became a frightened, traumatized woman who was chained to her past. As that woman grew, she learned that it wasn't forgetting her trauma that unbound her; it was embracing it. The words came out in a more poetic form rather than standard prose.

Cadence wasn't aware that tears had come to her eyes until a drop fell onto her page, smearing some of the words that she had written. She was unapologetic in her tears, and didn't do anything to correct it. The words were smeared, but still legible, and the tears made the whole thing feel more real and honest. They were not the tears of sadness or fear, but the tears of release, and she let them continue as she wrote.

Cadence's words filled a few pages. She took the first page she wrote and used it as a cover. She bound it with a purple ribbon and then stood. She unapologetically wiped her eyes and walked over to Ezvin. She gave him a smile as she offered it to him with no expectations.

[Ezvin Marveet]

Ezvin took the bound pages from her hands as if she were handing him something far more fragile than paper. Not because he feared it might fall apart, but because he knew what it meant to give something of yourself to someone else without expectations.

His eyes flicked down to the ribbon first. Purple. A choice, deliberate or instinctive. It didn’t matter. Color meant something here. Everything meant something here. His thumb brushed the edge of the front page, but he didn’t open it. Not yet.
He looked up at her then, not the pop star, not the studio perfectionist, not even the girl with fire in her hands and a voice that could silence a stadium, but the woman who had just poured something raw and real out of herself and left it on the altar of the written word. She wasn’t asking for his approval or even his opinion. That’s what made it powerful. It just was.

Ezvin nodded, slow and quiet, the kind of gesture that said I see you more than anything else could have. And what he saw was pretty incredible.
“You know,” he said softly, holding the zine between his palms, “some people spend their whole lives writing around the truth. Circling it. Dressing it up. But this?” He gave the zine the faintest tap. “This kind of honesty? It’s rare. Rarest because you’re being honest with yourself.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t flirtatious or teasing, not this time. It was reverent. Grateful. Maybe even a little protective.

He turned, gesturing for her to follow him again, not to escape the moment but to carry it forward. The zine still in one hand, he led her to the far side of the room, past a mismatched shelf lined with tea candles and pocket notebooks. Taped above the shelf was a sign written in black market that said Leave it. Someone needs it.

Ezvin knelt and slid her zine gently into the shelf, right beside a thin, black-and-white piece titled Things I Regret Not Saying in Elevators. He adjusted the ribbon so it sat perfectly, like a final note in a song. Then he stood, brushing his coat lightly as he turned back to her.

“I used to be scared of things being too permanent,” he said, voice calm, reflective. “I never wanted to leave anything behind unless I could control how it was remembered. Zines broke that habit. You write it. You leave it. No context. No defense. Just… release.” He looked toward the wall of other offerings, his expression softening.

“Someone’ll find it. Maybe tonight. Maybe five months from now. Maybe they’ll cry. Maybe they’ll laugh and not understand why.”

Ezvin turned back toward her then, brow arched slightly, the ghost of a smirk returning not enough to erase the intimacy of the moment, but just enough to remind her who she was dealing with. “And hey…” He gestured loosely toward her eyes, still a little red, but sparkling with emotion. 
“Strong look. Very midwinter mystic poet. It works for you.” And he gently grazed her chin with his thumb as if it might offer comfort.

He didn’t push her to move on. Just stood there in the hush that followed, the faint clack of a typewriter echoing in the corner, the air tinged with ink and must. Eventually, he leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and let his eyes drift toward the other corridors.

“Canvas next?” he asked. “Or pottery? Or...” A playful glint in his eye. “Want to take a walk through the sculpture garden and judge the broken art with me like two bitter curators who lost their gallery in a divorce?”

Whatever he chose next, he’d follow.

[Cadence]

Ezvin took the zine from her with care, and in that moment gratitude displayed on her face. He understood that what she had given him was precious. Cadence had chosen to write the zine herself instead of typing it. She felt that in doing so, she had poured out her heart and soul onto the page. In essence, those pages contained a part of herself. The past week of recording had shown Cadence that Ezvin wasn't in the music business for the money, and when he looked at her after taking the zine from her, she knew that he saw her - the real her. Not just the celebrity. Not even just the musician. He saw her as a person. Cadence had known others who had seen that, but they were rare. What was rarer still was Cadence actually recognizing it.

"This place - it draws the honesty out of you...it's like..." he voice broke as she searched for the words. "If you listen, you can hear it speak to you." Her eyes went to the zine, placed perfectly on the shelf. "I hope that when the time is right, it helps someone."

Cadence turned to silence then, continuing to follow Ezvin's lead, but gave a grateful smile as he called her a midwinter mystic poet. His light touch on her chin was a comfort, and then he joined in on the silence. As in the studio, Ezvin knew when to push and when to hold back, and now he did, giving her the time to think before offering to continue on.

Cadence didn't answer right away. Her eyes looked down the corridor, but she turned inward, evaluating what she needed at this time. "I think the statue garden might be best. I need to clear my head a bit before I create more," she turned to him. "Being honest with oneself can be a scary thing, and what I wrote...well...it brought up some old things. It's not easy to relive that." her voice didn't tremble as she said it and held no regret for having ventured into those memories. On the contrary, she felt a little more relieved.

Cadence let Ezvin lead her to the garden and there she saw several statues, unfinished as much as everything else here seemed to be. As they entered, she looked around, getting a feeling for the place. Cadence took a deep breath and then let it out slowly before she took a step into the garden proper. Cadence didn't head straight for any statue, but allowed her feet to wander, trusting Ezvin would follow her until she found herself at a statue. It appeared to be a statue of an angel, but one of the wings was broken. Whatever had caused the break had also caused the face of the statue to have cracks in it. Cadence felt drawn to it, but uncertain of why.

Cadence waited until Ezvin was close before asking, "How do I know what it's trying to tell me," she said, her eyes remaining on the statue. ]"Or maybe I'm not ready to hear it yet?"