The train slowed down. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. A middle-aged lady wearing a double-breasted coat told him his stop was near. He sat up from his bunk and readied his 500L backpack, messenger bag, thermal jacket, bonnet, and gloves. The man who stayed below his bunk was awake and fixed his bed already. He sat by the window as he drank coffee.
He remembered the changing scenery during his entire train ride from Moscow as he took a peek out the window. The little Siberian towns and big cities between the bleak steppes covered in snow occupied his mind. Every time the train made a stop, he stepped down the train with the other passengers, even if it wasn’t his destination yet. He would watch people trickle out into the cold, pull their phones out to call someone, presumably a relative, friend or a partner, or book a taxi to take them home or wherever. He would try to look for a familiar face among those who got off the train. He would think maybe he met this person in Saint Petersburg or Moscow, even if it was unlikely. He liked this futile exercise. It took his mind off the long, lonely hours when the only voices he could hear were Russian. Sometimes he would play songs by the Eraserheads on the loop just to hear words he could understand.
One time he saw a student drag his luggage and run after the train as it was about to leave the station. The conductor wouldn’t let him in because it was too late for boarding, even if the doors were still open and the train hadn’t reached full speed. He wondered about the boy’s destination—was he on his way home or was he about to leave? He remembered the boy’s green eyes and dejected look as the train sped away.
He thought about home; his father, mother, friends and colleagues he left behind. He became nostalgic despite making a firm decision to leave more than a year ago. He made new friends from different countries, but still he thought about his former life. What would he tell his old self? The man who volunteered for extra projects just to get a promotion and a raise. The man who loved and lost. He tried to reconcile his past self with the new one he was still shaping.
He wanted to have a cup of hot coffee just to wake him up and warm his body before he walked out into the Siberian cold. He rummaged through his messenger bag to look for a packet he thought he had put away, but he couldn’t find it. He put his shoes on and walked along the aisle. He saw some familiar faces, people he had a chance to talk to, played cards and shared some food with.
He couldn’t quite remember their names, but he remembered some of the stories they told him. There was this old man with a scar on his left cheek, tired eyes, and a graying goatee. He said he used to be a soldier and saw the collapse of the USSR. He did some things he would rather forget. Then there was the beautiful woman with blue eyes, black hair down to her shoulders and pale complexion. She said she was on her way to see her father. It had been years since she was home. She went to Moscow when she was 21. Google Translate made it easier to communicate when silence followed every word or sentence. We met as strangers, became friends for a moment, and then left as strangers again. Maybe it was easier to tell the truth to a stranger, there was no connection to a past or future, just the here and now, and whoever wanted to listen.
The train grounded to a halt. The conductor signaled to him that this was Krasnoyarsk Station. He took his bags and saw the woman and the old man on his way out. He smiled at both of them as he walked out the door. He put on his thermal jacket, bonnet, and gloves before alighting.
On some days, the sky is blue and the sun is out, but the temperature is either just above zero or already below it. On many days, it’s gloomy, overcast sky with rain or snow or both. The leaves of autumn have withered and winter is just around the corner.
His thermal jacket wasn’t enough, so, he made sure his thermal pants were clean before he left Moscow for temperatures like this. It kept most of the cold air out, but he still felt its icy touch seep into his skin. His gloves kept his hands warm, but he still used hand lotion every now and then to keep them from drying. He applied lip balm often to prevent his lips from chapping. As he walked out of the train station, an old trip to Sagada crossed his mind. His shorts and a windbreaker kept him warm. It was foolish to compare Siberia to the Cordilleras, but there he was covered from head to toe with two layers of clothes.
He hasn’t gotten used to the Russian weather. But today he was lucky, at least he could see the sun peer out of the clouds. He hailed the closest cab he could find. He showed the driver the Russian translated address of his accommodation. He was more cautious because of an incident with a taxi driver who charged him RUB1200 or roughly P800 for a ten-minute ride, when he was in Saint Petersburg.
The taxi he chose drove through a non-descript part of the city, but he could immediately tell that Krasnoyarsk doesn’t have the charm of Saint Petersburg or Moscow. This sprawling city has mass-produced, neatly cut and arranged, box-like buildings that lined the streets with cafes, shops or groceries in between. The kind of place you live in or simply pass through. Its ordinariness didn’t distract him from the thoughts he wanted to avoid.
The driver stopped and pointed to the direction of his accommodation. He made this out as a signal for him to alight and move on. He paid the fare, which was not more than RUB200.
His room was small, around 25 sq. m., and had plain white walls, but it was a welcome change to have his own room after staying in hostel dorms the last couple of weeks. Instead of two or three bunk beds with shirts, underwear or towels that hung on the bed rails, and two or three 100L backpacks on the floor, he had his own bed with a brown blanket. An abstract painting hung over the head board. A small, wooden desk and chair were on the opposite side of the bed. The window was left ajar to let cool air in and just below it was a small heater.
The room enclosed his thoughts. It reminded him of his own room when he was a college student in Quezon City. Its plainness led him to fill it with details from his past; his Michael Jordan poster pasted on the wall, his bookshelf with finance and political science books, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, The Left Hand of Darkness, Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, Pico Iyer’s Falling Off the Map, and Catcher in the Rye. He shut the window and peered out. The infamous Krasnoyarsk smog obscured the cityscape and the mountains in the distance. The air pollution worsened over the years. The coal plants and factories (relics of the Soviet epoch) spewed smoke that can blacken the sky on bad days. He glanced at the apartment building next door. He saw a middle-aged man who wore glasses stick his head out then closed the window and drew the curtain. He caught a glimpse of a red-haired young woman who stared out the window with her chin on her hand. He wondered about the secrets behind those windows that glared at him. Are there fathers who lived double lives? Are there 30-somethings still unsure about their future? He drew conclusions and generalizations with only the few details he had in his mind.
He checked his messages and saw that his mother messaged him a couple of times and tried to video call the last two days, while he was on the train en route to Krasnoyarsk. He didn’t leave on the best of terms, but he stayed in touch with his family over the last year or so. They couldn’t understand why he quit his job as a project manager to take on odd jobs such as a receptionist and bartender, taught English online, and wrote content for websites. He only took short-term or project-based work. He didn’t want to commit to a long-term job while he traveled. They thought he would return to their province after he finished studying political science in the university. His father groomed him to take his place, he wanted to keep their family prominent in local politics.
However, he had other plans. He quit his job after years of climbing the corporate ladder, fit as many clothes as possible into a 500L backpack, sold or gave away everything else that didn’t fit into it, and said goodbye to his friends and family. He bought and sold or donated clothes, jackets, shoes, flip-flops, and whatever items he might find useful or no longer useful in his next destination. He checked climates, time zones, and weather, and adjusted accordingly.
He wanted to have as light a baggage as possible. No office attire, dress shoes, buttoned- down shirts, neck ties, tearful goodbyes, and farewell dinners. Now his journey has led him here in the middle of Siberia with no intention of ending it soon.
The time difference was only an hour. He wanted to call his mother, but decided not to because too many things were on his mind. He left his backpack and messenger bag by the bed and went out for a walk. His father liked to go on walks, drives or hikes whenever he had something in mind or when he had something to say. This was a habit he inherited from him.
When he was in high school, his father would take a walk with him in parks, beaches or cities to ask about his studies and the course he might want to take in the university. He would often avoid eye contact. He would look up and put his hands in his pockets or start a new conversation about the weather or the latest basketball game or movie they just saw.
He had no destination in mind, he just went where his feet took him. He used to do this when he was a student and now as a stranger in a faraway land. Sometimes he did this to take his mind off things and sometimes he liked to think on his feet.
He meandered around the city, minding the patches of ice and potholes on the uneven pavement. He weaved in and out of shops that sold babushka dolls, trinkets, wooden figurines, and hand paintings of Santa Claus and the birth of Christ. He went in and out of cafés, whiffed the smell of freshly baked bread. He decided to order two shots of black coffee in a café he passed by; its caffeine gave him a jolt of energy and melted the ice that formed in his throat.
He followed a crowd of people into TSUM, a local shopping center. He bombarded himself with images of the bustle of people who busied themselves with clothes to buy, shoes to wear, food to eat, and furniture and fixtures for their homes. He moved in and out of places to escape the cold outside; to feel the warmth of people, their shared movement and stillness generated heat.
He took mental notes of the faces he saw and remembered. He gave them names, he felt he gained power over them with this small act. He named a six-foot tall man with brown eyes Alexei Ivanovic; a woman with long, black hair, green eyes and full lips Ekaterina Iobova; and a gray-bearded, balding man that wore glasses Pyotr Sidorov. He gave them backgrond stories. Alexei was a single father who worked two shifts to support his three children; Ekaterina was a ballerina who used to perform at the Bolshoi Theatre; and Pyotr waited until he had enough savings to retire and take care of his sick wife. These exercises in futility took his mind off the call he received and the one he had to make.
He liked the anonymity that a new city gave. He could become whoever he wanted to be. He had no skeletons in the closet or a future to live up to, just the present. He was neither a good person nor a bad one. He was a blank canvas, an empty page. He could tell people about his hometown, his father, his family or himself without them asking for details. He could have a child he knew nothing about. He could be the jilted lover left behind. He could be a best friend; the one who jumped off an airplane and left a bar with an unpaid bill. He was an empty vessel a fellow traveler could unleash passions on, whisper secrets to, and share a drink with.
As he wandered around Krasnoyarsk, he saw buildings with lugubrious eyes, foggy windows, and drawn curtains. Locals minded their own business as they walked to their homes, to cafés, restaurants or bars to share the warmth with friends and family or have a rendezvous with a stranger. He rarely saw a smiling face as passersby had their jackets zipped up to their chin and a scarf covered half their face. A street named after Karl Marx and a statue of Joseph Stalin were in the same city with Burger King, KFC, Nike, and other vestiges of capitalism. He imagined the fear that struck Russians who lived during the communist regime whenever they thought of a Siberian gulag.
He could not help comparing this city with Saint Petersburg during his aimless wanderings. When he looked up, he saw intricate carvings of angels, men or women on the walls of buildings or roofs. Locals would stand on the balconies of their apartments or stare out their windows to see the spires and domes of the palaces and churches of their city. He sometimes indulged in this activity. He looked for the highest viewpoint possible or stood as far back to see the St. Isaac’s Cathedral, Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood, Mariinsky Palace, and the Winter Palace in their entirety. From a distance, they were beautiful, but on closer inspection one saw the paint chips on the walls and carvings, soot on the angel’s faces, overpriced souvenirs, and the opportunists, pickpockets and others looking for prey. Inside these palaces and churches, he saw the excessive dedication to beauty and extravagance that led to revolutions. The cycle of dictators, kings and queens, and revolutionaries are enshrined in museums, names of streets, palaces, mausoleums, churches, and souvenirs (he saw a mug with a winking Putin printed on it). He bought a postcard with Vladimir Putin on horseback. Putin wore a black leather jacket and a dark brown cowboy hat with two Siberian huskies behind him. He planned to send this to a friend for laughs with a note saying—life’s one big joke or one great adventure.
He speculated about the lies people believed, the truths that woke them up, the lives that had no choice but to move on, and the people who continued to fight for memories that others would rather forget.
His father’s shadow loomed over him. He hired tutors for math, science, and English to make sure his grades were always high and up to his standards. He would sometimes sit on a sofa while reading a book (his favorite was Shakespeare, he often read The Tempest) and observe his son and tutor review. He provided the right balance of praise and reprimands after each trimester as he looked over his son’s grades. There would be new sneakers, toys, clothes, and extra allowance that awaited him if he aced his subjects. He gave him a driver that stuck to a schedule home-school-home or wherever until he was old enough to drive. He would ask who his friends were and what their families were like. His father often went to the guidance councilor’s office whenever he got into trouble. He would leave with a smile on his face and his arm around his son. Although his father never had to bribe or use connections, he had a list of his teacher’s names and ready envelopes. Just so he had options.
When he was a teenager, his father would take him on the campaign trail along with his mother. They would be the perfect image of a family to his constituents. His father would increase his allowance when he distributed pamphlets in eateries, shops, basketball courts, wet markets, and other places in their neighborhood. He would go with some close friends or cousins while a plainclothes bodyguard and driver observed from a safe distance. He would sometimes bring merienda to his father’s meeting room, pan de sal or egg pie with Coke, coffee, tea or just water. He would meet his father’s inner circle at a young age. He would have names for them Auntie Mole, Uncle Wig, Mr. Big Nose, and Mrs. Pasalubong.
As he got older, he felt the overbearing shadow of his father. He wanted to remove the boulder-like weight off his shoulders. He wanted to leave for a big city, where he could approximate anonymity. He could be his own man elsewhere. He wanted to earn his last name or give it a new meaning.
It was past noon and he realized he hadn’t eaten yet. He looked for a place to eat. He looked for a Burger King, but couldn’t find one. He went up to Mac Doner instead on the first floor of a dingy-looking building. It was warm inside, he could remove his jacket and gloves.
One of his go-to food while in Russia was shawarma. It was affordable at roughly RUB150 and one order could feed two. The small restaurant had white painted walls, an L-shaped table attached to the wall and a few chairs. The menu board was in Russian, but the only thing he wanted to eat was a warm shawarma with its oily goodness and meat. There was only one other customer who ate his food and minded his own business. Two Eurasian-looking men with high cheek bones, black hair, and slanted eyes—one had a beard, the other clean-shaven— managed the small kitchen and the cashier.
He didn’t have to say a word as he approached the counter. He pointed at the shawarma and the Coke inside the refrigerator. The clean-shaven man cut the meat into thin slices. He pointed at the sauces and he nodded his head.
He sat and waited for his order. He thought about one of his dinners with his parents. Meals were an important part of their family. Their family talked about anything—the latest movie releases, celebrity gossip, current events, previous vacations, basketball games, how their day went, anything. His father would sit at the head of the table with his mother on the right. His father would often swallow a mouthful of food, glance at him and grin. This gesture was a signal that he was about to ask a question. His father would use his campaign trail voice, its firm and strong boom echoed in his son’s ears, whenever he wanted to make a point. His father switched to a mellow, low baritone when he joked, talked about the weather or recalled a memorable vacation.
It was late in the afternoon. A wave of gray clouds drifted towards the city at a glacial pace. People trickled into the streets homebound, en route to a café or nowhere in particular. He made it to the embankment of the Yenisei River. Small chunks of ice jutted out of the water or streamed by. He saw a few people emerge out of the river in bikinis or trunks.
He remembered a trip to a beach in Laiya, Batangas. When he was 12 years old. He was barefoot and wore board shorts. The warm sand slid between his toes. It was easy to jump into the water and submerge in it. He floated on his back with his eyes closed. He often glanced at the shore so that he won’t drift too far away.
He couldn’t imagine swimming in this freezing cold. One of the swimmers invited him to take a dip. He was curious how cold the water was. He approached the riverbank, removed the glove that covered his right hand and dipped it into the water. He felt its frigid fingers run through his hand. After a few seconds, he took his hand out of the water. It was reddish and pale. He dried his hand and put the glove back on. He thought that was enough immersion for him.
He went to the nearest empty bench with views of the river. The trees in the embankment park were bare. Their branches withered or covered in frost. He could hear the faint sounds of cars which drove by in the distance. He needed to rest after all that walking. The sun was about to set. The temperature dropped. He caught a glimpse of the fog that rose from the river. Snot involuntarily dripped from his nose. A few passersby stopped for a moment to take pictures of the sky turning orange then fade into a hint of red.
As he watched the sunset, an old conversation with his father came to mind during one of their long drives. His father became more direct with his desire for his son to run for public office. He did this in a dramatic fashion. He drove by his favorite spot in their neighborhood where his accomplishments were in full display. He told him he didn’t have to run for mayor immediately. He could build his reputation and cut his teeth as an Sangguniang Kabataan Chairperson then as councilor in their district, before moving up to a higher position. The people in their province knew their family name. He didn’t have to start from scratch. He would continue the legacy his father proudly established—low-cost housing, health centers, a cooperative, wet markets and a basketball court. Despite his reluctance to become a politician, he was proud of his father’s achievements and contributions to the community.
His father was an astute and savvy politician. His own parents took turns as mayor and vice-mayor of their province, as long as they were eligible to hold the office. They groomed and prepared him to take their place. When it was almost his turn, his parents died in a car crash. He was already a councilor then. He saw the writings on the wall and how tenuous his position was now that he was orphaned. He knew there were others eager to pounce on the opportunity at their feet. He saw right through their crocodile tears and condolences. He was most afraid of his parents’ inner circle. They were the most dangerous. He knew enough about their dealings in the dark and their dirty politics. He sensed when to tell the truth and to withhold it, and when to tell just enough of it to get what he wanted. He sent anonymous exposés to their family’s friends in the media. He pitted one faction against another and approached whoever he needed to befriend. He made new friends and new enemies. His plans didn’t always work, but he managed to remain influential. They were loved in their province. He believed in his family’s legacy and wanted to do more at all costs.
He walked to the nearest station and waited for the bus to arrive. He got on the bus with the other commuters. He sometimes found himself the only Asian foreigner in buses, trains or restaurants, especially in smaller cities and towns. When he walked into a restaurant and approached the counter, the cashier or waiter pulled out an English menu they had not given to anyone since the summer. He used Google Translate to “talk” to the receptionist or asked them questions in guesthouses where they didn’t speak English. He paid the fare and pointed at his phone to tell the conductor where he wanted to get off. He only knew a few Russian words like yes, no, thank you, discount, too expensive, and you’re beautiful, some of which were useful, depending on the situation.
He got off in the neighborhood of his hotel. He saw a mobile coffee shop a few meters from the stop. The owner retrofitted the trunk of his hatchback with a coffee making machine to serve customers a nice, hot brew. He ordered a cup of black coffee to warm his body. He caught a glimpse of the dark-haired woman he met on the train. He saw her enter a café nearby called “Traveler’s Coffee.” He walked by it and glanced through the window. He caught a glimpse of her as she sat in a corner near the counter. She had her long black hair untied, a scarf draped over her shoulders, her jacket on the seat beside her, and her blue eyes on the menu.
She reminded him of his ex-girlfriend Hiraya, the warmth she radiated. Hiraya was more mestiza than Caucasian, instead of blue, her eyes were brown and almond-shaped.
He wondered how she was now. Does she still wear the dresses and earrings he gave her? She used to wear his white shirts when she slept over. A few months before they broke up, he went to her condo unit. He made sure she wasn’t there. He sometimes put red roses on the vase by her bookshelf or re-stock her refrigerator with some frozen meat and fish and drinks.
He couldn’t sleep. He lay awake in bed and stared at the ceiling just as he did then when he found and read the misplaced documents and letters his father left in his room. He looked for answers and tried to connect the dots, but it left him more confused than enlightened. He wanted to ask his father directly for an answer, but how could a man on the verge of losing his memories give an all-encompassing and problem-solving answer? He even forgot who he was. He was angry, sad, happy, and he called out names of people he had never met. He wondered if his mother knew about the documents, letters and his father’s past or present misgivings.
In the back of his mind he knew, he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. The late night phone calls and meetings at home. The unread anonymous letters with no addresses he stumbled upon. The times when they were whisked away to their rest house in Batangas for days and for no reason. He got everything he wanted—tutors, toys, shoes, a good education, cars, vacations abroad, everything. He landed a few projects at work after he met someone from their province. They knew his last name. Even now, he tried to work to sustain himself, but he knew he had a safety net that was one call away.
That’s why he left, as far away as possible, to as many places he could reach and disappear in. He wanted to bury these thoughts with an unmarked grave. He didn’t tell anybody about his plans until the day before his flight to Bangkok. It caught his mother by surprise, she asked him when he would return. He told her next week each time they talked, but he was unsure. He had no return date in mind. He moved around from city to city by bus, train, boat, and airplane. He could be a new person with each stop, with a new set of friends and experiences. He turned the heater up and shut the window. It got colder and colder throughout the night.
He left the city. He wanted to forget. He believed he was still on a journey with no end in sight. However, he was led to a place familiar to him. He made loose connections about his past with details that had nothing to do with them. He wanted to delay the call to his mother. He wanted to postpone the decision he had to make.
He had to switch buses a few times to reach Stolby Nature Reserve. The urban jungle turned into a few clusters of shacks and small houses on the outskirts of the city. The conductor told him to alight at the next stop, then he followed the passengers going to the entrance of the park.
The sky wasn’t clear, but it showed hints of blue. It was still cold, but the walking kept his body warm. As he followed the trail, people passed him by. Withered trees lined the path. As he went farther in the park, the brown landscape turned white as snow and covered the walkway, stairs, platforms, and rocks.
His father used to tell him about his camping and hiking days when he was younger. He saved enough money to buy his own gear and tent. He would spend a night or two in one of the mountains in Batangas. He would go on weekend trips to Baguio to get away from work. His father took him on short hikes when he was a teenager.
He passed by a group of friends horsing around, they threw snowballs at each other and used a bottle of water as a sled. He made it to the rock formation that resembled a beak. Tree stumps, moss-covered rocks, and wilted trees surrounded it. It was late in the afternoon, the sky was overcast and snow gently fell. He saw a sign that pointed to different trails.
He remembered his father standing under a tree after one of their hikes. A firm and strong figure standing in the noon day sun. He looked at the same man before he left, he was weak, unable to speak properly, forgot everything, and always needed assistance. He learned more about him when he found his misplaced documents and letters in his old room.
A myriad of thoughts ran through his mind. If he returned home now, would his father know who he was? What would he tell him about himself?
His father pushed people out. He bribed someone. He had a man killed. What parts would he tell him, which ones would he withhold? What was the point of telling a man the truth if he would eventually remember nothing, anyway?
He wanted to look at his father in the eyes. Eyes like his, brown. He wanted to ask him why? Deep down, he might’ve settle for clichés, I-did-what’s-best-for-you-our-family, we-made-the-lives-of-our-people-better, and ask no more. But what if he did it for himself? To have his name live on?
If he returned, would he take care of his father? He was unsure if he was up to the task. His might dig up old quarrels and lash out sporadically. His father might think he was someone else. He might call him by an unfamiliar name. He might confess and then take back what he said. Was he ready to hear all these?
Would he redeem their family and set things right? Would he go on a crusade and expose their secrets? He neither had the courage or the capacity for such self-deception.
He looked at the darkening sky and heard the whistling of the wind. The fog and the pollution obscured the horizon.
He left and followed the trail back.
It was dark when he waited for the bus to arrive. The faint, yellowish light of the lamppost hung over the few commuters. He waited for 30 minutes before one arrived. He saved the bus stops he had to make on his phone and even showed it to the conductor. He kept going around in circles and missed his stops. He asked for directions in nearby guest houses and shops, got on and off a few buses that went in different directions. The city felt like a maze, an endless loop of unfamiliar buildings and shadows. He took the bus back to the park and retraced his steps.
He remembered the time he had to pick up his father. He was in a park they often went to. He wore jeans and a tucked-in blue shirt. He stood under a mango tree. He walked up to him and waved. It took his father a while to recognize him. He only waved when he got close enough to see his face. His gray beard and bark-like features contrasted with his tired eyes. He told him he wasn’t lost and that he knew where he was going. He had nothing to worry about. He had followed this trail since before he was born. His father was no longer the young man in his mind when he was a boy. He felt sorry for what he had become, but he knew he loved him.
After a few bus rides, he saw “Traveler’s Coffee” and he knew he was near his hotel. He told the conductor he’d alight at the next stop.
He remembered his mother’s phone calls before he left for Krasnoyarsk. He had a little too much vodka when she called. He just got back to his room after a night out in Moscow. He saw her messages and missed calls on Messenger. He washed his face and tried to sober up. He thought she was just making a routine call, like she always did during his trip. She told him his father was rushed to the hospital. He had a seizure, his Alzheimer’s disease worsened.
He had mixed feelings about the news. He tried to reconcile his father’s past self and his present one in his mind. He remembered everything he was and everything he did. He was unsure if he felt love, pity, anger, hate or everything in between. He didn’t remember the rest of the conversation, but he had more questions than answers. He needed to move. He went to the Russian Railways website and booked a ticket to Krasnoyarsk.
He was alone in his room. He turned his phone on and called his mother. She was at the hospital. She looked tired, her eye bags drooped and a small coffee stain appeared on the neckline of her shirt. He could see his father in the background, motionless in bed. He beat around the bush with small talk. He mentioned his day out in the park. He asked his mother how his father was. She told him he was out of danger for the day, but he would most likely be bedridden for the rest of his life. Her voice cracked and she was on the verge of tears.
He zoned out on the white background of their hospital room. He thought about what to say, but he remained silent. It was as if time froze. He didn’t realize he left the window open. Tiny icicles formed on his sweat-stained, long-sleeved flannel shirt. Snot involuntary dripped from his nose. He put his phone on the bed and closed the window. The windows of the apartment building next door lit one by one. He turned the heater on and lay on his bed. His mother turned the video call off. She must have seen him put the phone down and walk away.
He called her again as he watched fog inch up the window.
