Wind in your hair

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There was a little boy—one who couldn't even speak yet. He just babbled like a child, and the occasional nonsense syllable slipped out, nothing more. He could only walk. He learned to crawl, on both legs and on his knees, and then he would rise to stand upright. In time, he stopped falling and began to take steps. And he walked, eagerly and for long periods, delighted with this new ability.

He walked straight ahead, aimlessly, fearlessly. Without a care. He looked around with curious eyes. He didn't know the world; he'd been here barely a year, and he knew nothing about it. But he was eager to explore it, stubbornly pushing forward. He didn't look back, didn't stop. He didn't bump into anything, didn't trip over anything. He walked and walked—unhindered and unsupervised. He passed streets, passed people—and no one, nothing stopped him. No one grabbed his hand and led him home. No one bumped into him, pushed him, or kicked him. No telegraph pole stopped him. His tiny shoe didn't get caught in a hole in the sidewalk, or snagged on a protruding slab. No car hit the boy. The lights turned green whenever he approached a crosswalk. So he walked and walked—without stopping, without a break. In this way, he crossed the entire city and continued along the highway. He strode tirelessly through meadows, pastures, forests, valleys, plains.

His persistent march led him to a vast, gray wasteland where nothing lived and nothing grew. He ventured far, deep into these desolate regions—and finally stopped. He sat down. Below him was only the flat, ashen desert, above him only the starry sky. Around him—infinity. On him—no bruises, no bumps. And no yokes. He smiled at the stars, watching over him from afar.

And there he remained, in that wasteland, where only the earth could nourish him, and only the wind could raise him.

***

The girl loved coming to the park. Even now, in the frosty autumn, she was here every day. Wrapped in a gray coat, a warm shawl wrapped around her slender neck, she sat on a park bench, the wind ruffling her curly red hair; it tried to snatch her gray beret. She caught it just in time and adjusted it.

The thin gloves didn't warm her small hands sufficiently. The frost chilled her smooth face; her skin was almost white. But the girl didn't mind. The chill that bent the branches didn't dull the color or shine of her red hair, and the late autumn and rain didn't wash away her freckles. She suited this place just as she was—pale, but with a hint of color, and red like this autumn. And she liked it. She liked this hard but comfortable park bench. The rustle of red, orange, and yellow leaves, so beautifully aging and dying. The whistle of the wind and its frosty touch on her exposed skin. The splash of the river flowing through the park, calm and still. The conversation of ducks floating down that same stream, and the banter of crows in the branches. Their beautiful, lustrous feathers. And the quiet squirrels, red like herself, slinking silently among the bare branches. She came here, to a bench right by the river, with dry bread to throw to the birds.

She preferred to spend her free time here, in the park, where there were no walls and the ceiling was a cloudy, gray, autumn sky. She had her own apartment in the old town—but a small one. She lived there alone—in a tiny cubicle with one room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. And though it was good that she had a roof over her head, she felt suffocated in this small space, squeezed in, crammed between walls lined with dark wallpaper in vanilla and dark green vertical stripes, beneath a low ceiling. The sun was a rare guest in these thresholds—the windows faced north, so its light only entered in the early mornings, and for the rest of the day, it circled the old tenement house on the other three sides. In her small, dark room, Adrianna felt uneasy, ill. She fled there early in the morning, as soon as she had breakfast, and returned late at night, when sleep overtook her.

***

Although it was already November, the weather was exceptionally pleasant that day. The trees in the park were bald, and the emaciated grass lay flat on the ground, but the sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, as on the most beautiful summer day. There was a pleasant coolness—light, not oppressive. Adrianna, as usual, strolled through the park that afternoon—like every other. She trotted along the sandy path, taking small steps, her gaze fixed on the ground. She didn't flinch at the colder gusts of the November wind. Her mind was elsewhere.

A whistle—close and distinct—tore her from her reverie. She stopped and looked around, disoriented. It was a whistle—but not the kind she knew, the kind she often heard from primitive types, unfamiliar with the more courteous methods of seducing women. No one was whistling a dog, either—at least she didn't notice anyone. So she moved on, still looking around.

She almost ran into him. She spotted a young man standing in the middle of the alley just in time—though she could have sworn he hadn't been there a second ago—and stopped, right in front of him. She looked up and saw the strangest man she'd ever seen. He was almost a head taller than her. He studied her for a moment, bringing his face close to hers. That face of his... It was absolutely white, and at the same time, slightly gleaming. Light blue eyes stared at her with curiosity. Above them, blue eyebrows rose in slight surprise. Adrianna had just enough time to notice that the boy was bald. He had a smooth, white head.

But before she could get a good look at him—and she liked him immediately, she had to admit—he simply... disappeared. One moment he was standing right in front of her, staring at her, and the next, he was simply gone. The girl felt only a sudden gust of wind to her right, heard that whistle—and then the man disappeared from view. She blinked rapidly. For a moment, it seemed to her that the wind had blown him away.

She snorted, laughing at herself for such absurd thoughts. She walked slowly away.

The

thought of him haunted her. Her memories kept returning to that afternoon when, walking through the park, she had met that strange man. She clearly and precisely remembered his white face—its slim, sharp features. His blue eyes. And his blue eyebrows. He was there. He had definitely been standing there when she almost bumped into him. But a moment later, he was gone. Disappeared. Evaporated. Inexplicably, illogically, and without a trace. Adrianna began to think that maybe she had just imagined it. Maybe she had just dreamed about that strange boy? Yes, yes—she began to nod, muttering to herself. Because, after all, normal people don't see avant-garde apparitions in secluded places. And she hadn't gone mad. She was a normal, simple girl, with no inclination to alcohol, drugs, or confabulation. An ordinary townswoman who liked to walk alone in the park. Not crazy.

And yet she knew that, however irrational these distinct memories seemed to her—however irrational this man himself was—she had definitely seen him. Because eyes can be deceived, ears can be easily fooled—but there's still that one unnamed sense that will betray the truth, even if the eyes tell one thing, the ears hear another, or both give no sign. Somehow, even in darkness and utter silence, a person senses another person. And she felt his presence. That's why she stopped. Only then—standing—did she see him.

"Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus..."

He was there again. As if she had managed to summon him with her thoughts alone. He appeared suddenly, out of the blue, just like the first time, right in front of her. Seeing him, she recoiled. She stared at him with wide, fearful eyes and muttered the name of the Lord. She fixed her gaze on him and remained there, mesmerized. He drew her like a magnet—she began to walk toward him hesitantly, taking small steps. As if she wanted to get closer, yet at the same time didn't want to. She slowly reached out her hand toward his white, lean face—but not as if she wanted to stroke it, but merely to touch it with her fingertips. As if she didn't know what to expect—whether she would burn or freeze her hand. Already, almost, she was touching his skin with her trembling hand.

Then he was gone. He vanished into thin air.

She blinked involuntarily. She lowered her hand—reluctantly, slowly, clearly disappointed. Irritated. Because now she knew for sure she hadn't just imagined this strangeness. He existed, and he had revealed himself to her for the second time. But just as she reached for proof, for tangible proof of his existence, he vanished. As if he wanted to deny her. To mock her, to ridicule her, to mock her. To disprove something she believed in—something she knew.

Adrianna snorted and walked away. Lips pursed, brow furrowed, brows drawn down over her eyes, she walked with a quick, confident stride. She snorted through her nose. "What an impudent character!" she thought. He surprised her in lonely places, almost bumping into her, and then he just vanished. He would confuse her, confuse her, enchant her—and he was gone. She was going crazy because of him—and he was enjoying it to the fullest.

She stopped. She turned slowly. He was standing behind her, a few meters away. She sensed it.

For a moment, without a word, without blinking, without the slightest movement, she simply stared at him. But he began to pull her closer again. Stiff-legged, she began to walk toward him, her eyes widening, beginning to fear him—and her own steps, heading toward him. But curiosity overcame fear, and she slowly, though now without apprehension, approached the man. She remembered, however, how quickly he vanished when she tried, very slowly, to just graze his skin. So, when she was only two steps away, she violently lunged at him, reaching out to catch him. To grab him and not let go.

He vanished again. He slipped away from her clenching hands. She staggered, struggling to regain her balance. She adjusted her beret and smoothed her coat. She clenched her leather-gloved hands into fists. She almost had him—and failed. She pursed her lips in a grimace of determination and let out an angry growl, the sound of which was comforting in her soft, melodic voice.

She took a deep breath and snorted. She walked briskly forward.

He was already standing, waiting for her, a little further along the park path.

As soon as she saw him, she ran toward him, oblivious to everything, unconcerned with the risk of tripping over him in her high heels. She raced toward him, as if she wanted to run him over, not catch him. As she approached, she closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut and ran past where he stood.

She stopped only a few steps away. She slowed and finally braked. She had expected this to happen; that he would disappear. She closed her eyes only to find out as late as possible.

She glanced around again to be sure. There was absolutely no one around.

She hurried away, her gaze fixed on the ground. He could jump right in front of her if he wanted—she had no intention of stopping, looking at him, or catching him.

She

walked through the park with purposeful steps, her head held high. The wind ruffled her red curls; today she wasn't wearing a beret. Despite the unbearable cold, she wrapped a delicate, light purple scarf around her neck instead of a scarf. She exuded a warm, fruity aura. She took her finest perfume from the vanity and drizzled it generously. She lined her lips with a glossy lipstick. She lined her eyelids with a light shade of eyeshadow, and applied a bold coat of mascara to her lashes. She walked proudly, looking straight ahead. Expecting. Because she knew he would appear—in exactly the same place as yesterday and the day before. And this time, she intended to catch him. Only differently.

When she saw him, still from a distance, in the middle of the park alley, she didn't stop. She wasn't terrified, nor did she prepare to jump. No; she was walking straight toward him. When they were a few steps apart, she looked him boldly in the eye. She raised her eyebrows slightly, narrowed her eyes. A mysterious smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

She didn't stop right in front of him. She closed her eyes for a moment and passed where he had been standing a moment ago. She didn't bump into him. She knew perfectly well that he would pass easily. She didn't even look back to see where he was. She walked forward, humming softly in her beautiful, melodic voice.

When she heard a soft swish right behind her, she didn't turn around abruptly. She knew perfectly well it was him. She smiled wider to herself. She had him. She didn't look back. She didn't check if he was there. She knew he was. She had him. He could fly, flutter, evaporate, dissolve, vanish, appear and disappear, but he wouldn't leave her side. She held him in her grasp, like a balloon on a string. He played in the wind, bounced and frolicked—but he belonged to her. She made him hers and led him

home.

In the dark stairwell, she fumbled in her pocket for her apartment keys. She found them and opened the massive green door. She didn't go in immediately; she flung one door wide and waited, smiling. When she heard that familiar swish, and the cool autumn wind enveloped her in the airtight hallway, she entered the apartment behind it and closed the door behind her. The lock clicked heavily.

Adrianna smiled to herself. She took off her coat and boots. She left her veil wrapped loosely around her neck. She smoothed her hair. Entering the room, seeing him there, she wasn't surprised, but she was very surprised. Because he was there, just as she'd expected. His entire appearance, however, astonished her. That absolutely white face, bald skull, and blue eyebrows, to which she should have become accustomed by now. Moreover, he wasn't wearing anything, yet he didn't seem naked. His forearms were exposed, his feet bare—but where true nudity began, he faded away. A mist obscured him, or rather, a constant movement of air. As if he'd been dressed in a typhoon.

He was watching her. But it wasn't the playful gaze that drove her mad. He was looking at her the way she wanted. And when she approached, he didn't disappear. When she slowly reached out to touch him, he didn't dissolve. He let her press her fingertips to his skin, then her whole hand. He nestled against that small hand, warming her with its warmth. Because he was so cold himself. Adrianna's eyes widened for a moment, feeling the coldness of his face for the first time—but she didn't withdraw her hand; she didn't want to frighten him. Yet beneath her fingers, she felt something more than just skin. Constant movement. As if the wind were flowing ceaselessly along his sharp features. It surprised her, but it didn't frighten her. She took his face in both hands and gently stroked it with her fingers. She felt the rush, the whirlwinds. She felt the attachment. She brought her face close to his, their noses almost touching. Looking deeply into his pale blue eyes, she began to hum softly, in her sweet voice, an old song.

He listened to the purr with a blissful expression. He leaned in and brought his face close to her lips, feeling her breath on his skin. So she continued, softly, directly into his ear. He listened intently to the melody, closing his eyes. He reveled in Adrianna, her touch, her voice, her scent. He inhaled her warm, fruity scent. He took such a deep, long breath, rustling like the wind, that she was almost frightened. Then he looked at her and kissed her passionately. He pressed his lips to hers, and all the air he had gathered in his powerful inhalation rushed into her lungs. She pulled away from him for a moment, completely stunned—but then she caught him, wrapped herself around him, and kissed him back. He threaded his fingers through her curly red hair. They clung to each other, and that's how they stayed—all evening, all night

.

When she woke, she was delighted to find him right beside her—in a small, dark apartment, in a room with striped wallpaper. He was asleep, his breath rustling like the wind. She smiled at him. She stroked his cool face. He stirred in his sleep, snuggling into her hand, brushing it with his cold, wind-blown cheek.

He didn't flee when she disappeared for a while. She went shopping, returned with a shopping bag stuffed with baguettes, butter, and wine—and he was waiting for her in the room. He smiled blissfully at the sight of her.

They ate breakfast together. She made sandwiches, then poured wine for him and herself. They sat across from each other at a table in the cramped room, focusing more on each other than on their food. She nibbled on bread and occasionally took a sip from her glass. He didn't eat at all. He reveled in the intoxicating, sweet yet sharp aroma of wine; he curiously examined the shape and texture of the ordinary baguette. He didn't take a single bite, didn't even take a sip, though they sat there for an hour, maybe longer.

He stayed for good. He didn't leave, didn't run away after breakfast. They ate lunch and dinner together. They slept together and woke up together. He was still with her, in that small, dark apartment, a week later. Two weeks later, he was still living with her. And he no longer played games, disappeared or appeared suddenly. He didn't flit around the apartment or vanish into thin air. He simply was—fascinating, incredible in every way. Cool yet warm. Tender and gentle. He sent shivers through her—shivers of cold and shivers of passion. She lost herself in his windy kisses with delight. He threaded his fingers through her red curls until his hands were trapped.

***

His coughing woke her. Spasmodic coughs racked his body. He couldn't stop them; he just covered his mouth with his hand to keep from coughing on her. Adrianna, alarmed, put her hand to his forehead. He was flushed, his cheeks flushed. He looked at her with painfully glazed eyes.

She jumped out of bed and struggled for a moment, unsure which way to go, what to do first. She brought him a blanket and wrapped it tightly around him. She brought him tea with lemon and honey. But he wouldn't drink it. He was intoxicated by its scent—but refused even a sip. He turned away when she asked him to drink. Finally, she put down the cup and simply sat beside him, stroking his feverish face and bald, white head. He was withering before her eyes. He went from white to bluish. His cheeks sank. His eyes lost their blue luster—they became watery, gray. Dark bags appeared under them. His breathing became dry, rasping—like walking through autumn grass. The wind didn't dance on his skin. When Adrianna took his hand to stroke it, she felt neither cold nor a rush of air. He withdrew it, as if her touch hurt him.

She moved away, saddened but understanding. She stood up and, pacing the room, wondered what more she could do for him. He refused medication, refused care. He became irritable. All this made her own nerves begin to give in. The apartment where she had spent so many wonderful days with him, so many intoxicating nights, began to suffocate her again, to smother her. It was hot and stuffy. The cramped interior, unaired for months—because she had never paid attention to it, preferring to spend her time elsewhere, doing other things—was filled with stale air. "

Poor thing, how are you supposed to recover in this stuffy climate?" she said to him, shaking her head at her own negligence. She quickly opened the window to air out the stuffy room.

Icy air enveloped her. She heard a familiar whistle.

The wind wasn't blowing from outside, it wasn't blowing in through the window. He slapped her on the back, and her red curls danced in front of her face, blown by the breeze.

She glanced back at the bed where the sick man lay.

He wasn't there.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Slowly, in disbelief, she turned to the window. There—outside, over the city—she saw him.

The son of the wind gave her a smile—a sincere and joyful one. And he vanished.