He had no idea that right there, in a hallway with peeling walls and squeaky linoleum, someone was already waiting for him who would change everything he knew about himself. Petrovich met him at the gate. Jacket open, keys in hand, a little flustered, as always when he felt bad about inconveniencing someone.
“That corner over there sank, the hinges are rusted through, and the bracket ripped out.” He pointed to the right side of the fence, where a metal angle had pulled away from the brickwork and leaned out. Victor looked it over in silence, crouched down, touched it with his hand.
He nodded. “Three, maybe four hours,” he said. Petrovich nodded with relief.
“I’ve got errands. I’ll unlock the tool room, there’s an extension cord in there.” Victor set up his equipment, checked the seams, and figured out what needed to be done first.
The work wasn’t hard, but it needed care. The brick was old. Too much heat and it would crack. He put on his mask, switched on the welder, and got to work.
About an hour later, when the first corner was finished, he took off the mask, wiped his face, and headed for the front steps. Petrovich had left a thermos of tea by the entrance. Victor climbed the steps, opened the heavy door, and stepped inside.
Then he stopped. The hallway smelled like cooked cereal, bleach, and something else. A children’s home. It has a smell of its own, and once you know it, you don’t mistake it.
Linoleum worn down in paths. Beige walls, chipped near the baseboards. A row of identical little jackets on hooks.
Quiet. Must have been nap time or class time. A boy was sitting on a wooden bench by the window.
Victor didn’t notice him right away. A small figure in a gray sweater, feet not touching the floor. Five years old, maybe.
He sat straight, hands on his knees, looking out into the yard where Victor had just been working. When Victor came in, the boy turned his head, and Victor froze for a split second. Children in group homes react to strange adults in different ways.
Some reach out. Some hide. This one did neither. He just looked.
Calmly, without fear, without forced curiosity. The way people look when they’ve seen a lot and learned how to wait. Victor had a weathered face, a scar under his brow, and a work jacket dusted with metal scale.
He was used to children looking away. This one didn’t. “Who are you?” the boy asked.
Not rude. Just direct. “Welder,” Victor answered. He picked up the thermos and poured tea into the cap.
“You’re welding out there?” the boy nodded toward the window. “Out there,” Victor said. The boy was quiet for a second.
“The sparks are pretty.” Victor looked at him. Kids usually said “fire” or “it’s burning.”
Not “the sparks are pretty.” “What’s your name?” Victor asked. “Artyom. Why aren’t you in class?”
“They won’t let me. Said I’m tired. I have to sit.”
Victor finished his tea and screwed the cap back on the thermos. Normally that would have been the end of it. A nod, and he’d go back outside. But something made him set the thermos on the windowsill and sit down on the bench beside the boy.
Not too close, about a foot and a half away. The way you sit next to someone without crowding them. They were quiet for a minute.
“You get tired a lot?” Victor asked. “Yeah,” the boy said. No self-pity, just a fact. “My heart.”
He didn’t explain more. Victor didn’t ask. Outside, sparrows were fighting over a crust of bread in the yard.
Artyom watched them with the same steady attention. “Are you mean?” he asked suddenly. Victor raised an eyebrow.
“Why mean?” “Your face looks mean. Is that from the scar?”
Artyom studied him carefully and seemed satisfied with the answer. “Where’d you get the scar?” “Long time ago.”
“Did it hurt?” “Not then. Later, yes.”
The boy nodded like someone who understood how that worked. They sat there almost another hour. They didn’t say much.
Artyom asked short questions, Victor gave short answers. About welding, about why sparks fly in different directions, why hot metal isn’t always red. The boy listened seriously and didn’t interrupt.
Then a caregiver came, young and tired-looking, and told Artyom it was time for snack. He slid off the bench, took a step, then turned back. “Will you come again?” he asked.
Victor meant to say, “I don’t know.” That would have been the honest answer. “I will,” he said.
He didn’t know why. He just said it. That evening he finished the fence, packed up his tools, said goodbye to Petrovich, and went home. He ate supper, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
In the next room Nina Stepanovna was watching television. The newscaster’s voice came through faintly. The cat, Tractor, scratched at the door. Victor opened it, and the cat came in, turned around a few times, and settled at his feet.
Victor stared at the ceiling and thought about Artyom. Or rather, he didn’t exactly think. He just couldn’t stop. That fearless look, the pretty sparks, the heart…
