The next morning, I woke before the alarm. The room was still shrouded in darkness, with not even the faintest hint of dawn creeping through the blinds. Days were growing shorter, night stretching its fingers longer, claiming more of the world. I grabbed my phone and unlocked it—half past six. Sleep no longer seemed like an option.
Reluctantly, I rose and made my way to the bathroom, letting the hot shower wash away the last clinging traces of sleep. Today, I had to return to routine, to the mundane rhythm of school, but my mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the approaching turning. I let my hands linger under the water, watching rivulets trace translucent paths down my skin. Some droplets scattered, defiant, refusing to follow the improvised channels, unwilling to merge and lose their individuality. Temporary, meaningless resistance. Eventually, even they would be swept into the drain, indistinguishable from the rest.
I dried my hair quickly, then returned to my room, selecting a fresh outfit: an emerald turtleneck and tight black jeans. It took a few moments to locate the printout of the new schedule Dasha had brought to the hospital. First period: biology. Second: literature. Today's lesson would dissect Yevgeny Zamyatin's We, a short novel often credited as the first dystopia. A pioneer, flawed but daring.
I hastily packed my school bag, slipping the marked novel inside. Over summer, I had adorned its pages with colorful sticky notes—pink for compelling quotes, orange for crucial plot points, blue for answers to the curriculum questions I could find. The rest would have to be improvised; the teacher's whims were unknowable.
A loud bang echoed from the bathroom. Kostya must have risen and begun his shower. Even with my heightened senses, my father's movements remained an enigma. Perhaps that was the subtle link we shared, our natures intertwined.
It wasn't that Kostya lacked scent. My father carried the sharp blend of treated calfskin from his ever-present leather jacket, hints of peppermint and tobacco from his cologne, a faint trace of cleaning fluid from his service pistol, and menthol toothpaste. Sometimes fleeting scents clung to him, revealing his recent activities. Yet, somehow, he moved through the house with near-perfect silence.
Lost in thought, I shifted my backpack to the hallway and dropped it onto the pouf beside his jacket before heading to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, scanning the shelves for something edible—anything less pungent than yesterday's salami. Cheese, eggs, curd with dried apricots… none inspired confidence. Only a shiny red apple at the bottom shelf seemed tempting. I wasn't hungry, but I knew I had to eat something before the school day began.
"Good morning," Kostya said, appearing behind me, peering over my shoulder. "Want some scrambled eggs?"
I grimaced at Dad, signaling that meal planning would soon be a challenge. Kostya's mouth twitched downward; he looked away, perhaps recognizing the difficulty of witnessing a child in transformation, powerless to intervene.
"All right," Dad said softly with a sigh. "I'll eat at work then. Better not to aggravate the little wolf with smells unnecessarily."
"Dad, it's fine. Eat at home, like you usually do."
Kostya looked at me, puzzled.
"But what about you?"
"I'll manage," I said. "You can't avoid the smells at school anyway. I need to get used to it. Didn't you go through the same?"
Dad shook his head as if recalling long-forgotten details. I stepped aside, letting him reach the fridge. He pulled out a block of cheese, butter wrapped in foil, and a couple of eggs from the special compartment. Setting them near the stove, he grabbed a frying pan from its hook, alongside tongs and spatulas.
"Probably did," he said, cracking eggs against the pan's edge, letting their contents drop with a sizzle. "Too many years have passed to remember. But… I understand now. Or at least, I guess I understand how hard this is for you."
"In less than five years, you'll forget it all like a bad dream," he added.
"I wouldn't want to forget," I murmured, unsure why the thought surfaced.
"Why?"
Some truths aren't spoken; they hover in the chest, intuitive, unshaped by words. I couldn't explain it to Kostya, yet he seemed to sense the sentiment, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.
"I get it," he said, flipping the eggs. The yolks glowed like the July sun. "Go pack your bag."
"Already done," I said, exhaling, and followed him to the couch.
"What time did you wake to get all this done?"
"Half past five."
Kostya frowned, shaking his head in disapproval, like some small stone lodged in his teeth.
"Maybe…" he hesitated. "…you should stay home a little longer?"
I shook my head. "It's worth trying, at least."
"There's still time before the full moon…" Dad said softly, avoiding a longer explanation.
"Yes, but not much. You know that. I know that. We both know. You said I need to get back to people, to learn control, to adjust to noise, to smell."
"True. But exhaustion… what can you learn if you're spent?"
"I'm not exhausted," I protested, though a yawn betrayed me. "I slept well. Just woke early."
"No nightmares? No sudden noises outside?"
"No. Just woke before the alarm."
Kostya gave me a doubtful look but stayed silent, finishing his breakfast, then rising to take the dishes to the sink.
"Dad, go get ready. I'll wash up."
"All right."