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Evening descended slowly, thickly, and warmly, as if someone was covering the field with heavy, dark-blue fabric, leaving only golden slits from the bonfires. The air smelled of smoke, herbs, and river dampness. Somewhere far away, birds were still singing, but their voices were already getting lost in the music, laughter, and human chatter.
The Ivan Kupala festival always seemed to Max something too loud. Too chaotic. Too... sincere.
People here laughed without shame, sang even if they couldn’t carry a tune, touched each other easily and carelessly. Girls sat right on the grass, weaving daisies, cornflowers, and long stems of field herbs into wreaths. Guys carried wood to the bonfire, argued about who would jump higher over the flames, and had already managed to drink a fair amount of homemade liqueur.
Max stood a little apart. As always.
He leaned his shoulder against an old wooden fence, holding a plastic cup of something that was supposed to be medovukha but tasted more like sweet alcohol. He barely drank it – only took a sip occasionally, more for show.
“You look like you were brought here under escort.”
Max didn’t even turn his head.
“I was brought here under escort.”
Lando laughed beside him, elbowing him in the side. “Come on. It’s beautiful.”
Max cast a brief glance at the crowd.
Beautiful. Maybe.
The fire did look impressive: high tongues of flame leaping into the sky, illuminating people’s faces with warm gold. Sparks flew upwards, mingling with the first stars. Musicians somewhere by the trees were playing something fast and rhythmic on a violin and a tambourine, and the ground seemed to tremble slightly from the stomping of dancers.
But Max still felt like a stranger.
He only came because his friends literally dragged him out of the house.
‘You’re not going to sit in front of the computer all evening, are you?’
‘Once a year you can be a normal person.’
‘It’s tradition.’
The last argument was especially annoying.
As if the word ‘tradition’ automatically made any weird thing normal.
Jump over a fire? Send wreaths down the river? Look for a fern flower in the forest? Seriously?
Max snorted under his breath and took another sip.
A group of girls in white shirts and long skirts walked past. They laughed so loudly that one almost tripped over her own hem. Each carried a wreath – different, but all neatly woven.
One of the girls stopped by him.
“Why so gloomy?”
“I’m not gloomy.”
“What are you then?”
“Normal.”
She raised her eyebrows skeptically. “That’s your ‘normal’ look, like you’re about to kill someone?”
Lando roared with laughter somewhere behind him.
Max rolled his eyes. “Go on, get out of here.”
“See?” the girl smiled. “Definitely gloomy.”
She spun her wreath on her finger and ran back to her friends.
Max followed her with his eyes for only a second before turning back to the field. The noise was starting to tire him out. The crowd, too.
He didn’t like celebrations like this precisely because of this: people became too emotional. As if the heat, music, and alcohol switched off something important in them – the sense of distance, caution, common sense.
Especially today. Especially on this night.
“Oh, look, the best part is coming.” Lando grabbed his sleeve and pulled him closer to the fire.
“I don’t want to-”
“Too late.”
The crowd had already gathered in a circle around the bonfire. Someone shouted something cheerful, people applauded, and the first pair ran towards the flames.
The girl jumped over the fire easily, holding the guy’s hand. He caught his toe on the edge of a burnt log and almost fell, causing a wave of laughter.
“God, they’re so dramatic,” Max muttered.
“You just don’t understand romance.”
“And I don’t plan to.”
Lando just snorted.
The next few minutes passed in noise, applause, and smoke. One by one, people jumped over the fire; some deliberately acted foolishly to make others laugh. The music became faster.
Max watched without much interest. Until suddenly he felt it. A stare. A strange, sticky feeling of someone else’s attention between his shoulder blades.
He spun around sharply. Beyond the crowd, the forest was dark.
Tall trees stood motionless, almost black against the evening sky. Further beyond them, the river gleamed silver – quiet, smooth, too calm compared to the noisy celebration.
No one. Max frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Lando followed his gaze. “Ah. Creepy, right?”
“Just dark.”
“Locals say that on this night, evil spirits walk there.”
“Of course.”
“I’m serious.”
Max looked at him with such an expression that Lando laughed.
“Alright, don’t look at me like that. But they really love their tall tales here.”
And as if to confirm his words, an old voice spoke up nearby: “Because not all tall tales are lies.”
Max glanced over.
An elderly man in an old linen shirt sat at the very edge of a bench. He was smoking a pipe and looking at the fire as if he had seen nights like this hundreds of times before.
Max was almost certain he hadn’t noticed him there earlier.
“Here we go,” Lando muttered quietly.
The old man seemed not to hear. “Kupala night is a bad time to wander alone.”
“Especially for young ones,” added the woman next to him, crossing herself.
Max barely suppressed a smile. “And who’s going to steal us? Mermaids?”
The old man slowly turned his head towards him. His eyes, in the firelight, seemed strangely light. “If you’re lucky – mermaids.”
For a second, the air seemed to grow cooler.
Lando laughed nervously. “Well, that’s it, now he’s definitely not going to the river.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The old man looked at Max for a few more seconds, then turned his gaze back to the fire. “The worst is when the evil spirit notices you before you notice it.”
Max snorted. “Is that how you scare all the tourists?”
“Are you scared yet?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
Lando whispered quietly: “Okay, this is getting a bit creepy.”
“It’s just an old man who loves drama.” But even as he said it, Max looked again towards the river. Dark water gleamed faintly between the trees. Calm. Motionless.
And strangely, that was what annoyed him most.
The celebration continued.
Someone started singing. Others joined in – not very harmoniously, but loudly and from the heart. The girls with wreaths ran closer to the water, laughing and shoving each other with their shoulders.
“Oh, now there’ll be fortune-telling,” said Lando. “Let’s go watch.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s fun.”
“Are you fifteen?”
“You’re terribly boring.”
Max didn’t reply.
He watched as the girls lined up along the bank, carefully lowering their wreaths onto the water. Some immediately washed back to shore. Others drifted slowly with the current, carrying little candle flames.
A commotion arose around them.
“Oooh, look, yours sank!”
“That’s a bad sign!”
“Oh, shut up!”
Max couldn’t help but chuckle.
People were really ready to find meaning in any nonsense.
The wind brought the smell of river water. Cold. Fresh. And strangely distinct amidst the smoke and grass.
Max felt that same stare again. Stronger this time.
He jerked his head up.
The forest. Darkness between the trees. And something light by the water’s edge. Like a figure. Tall. Motionless.
Max squinted.
The figure stood for only a second. Then it vanished. As if it had never been there.
“What do you keep looking at over there?” Lando asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve looked over there three times already.”
“Because I think someone is standing there.”
Lando immediately looked towards the river. “Where?”
“Nowhere, anymore.”
They were silent for a few seconds.
Then Lando smiled that smile which always meant trouble. “Oh, god. Are you actually getting sucked into mystical stuff now?”
“Don’t start.”
“No, seriously. That’s exactly how it starts in horror movies.”
“If a demon crawls out of the water, I’m sending it to you.”
“Harsh.” Max snorted and finally finished his medovukha.
The music changed to something slower. People started dancing closer together, and the field gradually filled with golden patches of light, movement, and laughter.
But the darker the sky became, the more Max felt a strange tension under his skin. As if something was wrong. Not even dangerous. Just... weird.
He didn’t like this feeling. Didn’t like it when he couldn’t explain something logically. So when another burst of laughter grated on his nerves, Max exhaled and said: “I’m going for a walk.”
“Alone?” Lando asked immediately.
“God, don’t start about the evil spirits.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you thought it.”
“Maybe.”
Max had already turned around when he heard the old man’s voice again from behind: “Don’t go to the water alone, boy.”
He glanced back over his shoulder.
The old man was looking right at him. Seriously. Without a smile. “Especially not tonight.”
Max was silent for a few seconds. Then he gave a short nod – more out of politeness – and walked away from the fire.
Away from the music. Away from the people. And closer to the dark river that waited quietly amidst the summer night.
***
The further Max walked from the fire, the quieter the world became.
First, the voices disappeared. Then the laughter. Then the music turned into only a dull rhythm somewhere far behind him, as if the celebration itself had remained in another place, not here, not in this dark June night.
The path to the river was narrow and barely visible among the tall grass. The ground under his feet still held the day’s heat, but the air by the water had already become cooler.
Max shoved his hands in his pockets and slowly exhaled. This was better. Much better. Without the crowd. Without the endless jokes. Without other people’s touches and loud music right next to his ear.
Just the night.
Somewhere in the grass, crickets chirped. The water lapped quietly against the shore, lazily and evenly. The wind stirred the tree branches above the river, and the leaves whispered so softly that the sound almost got lost in the darkness.
Max went down closer to the bank. There was no one here now.
The main crowd had stayed a little further upstream, where the girls were sending off wreaths and shouting nonsense to each other across the water. This place was empty – a quiet stretch of bank nestled between willows.
Just what he needed.
Max sat down on an old wooden footbridge that extended slightly into the water and rested his elbows on his knees.
The dark river flowed slowly before him. Stars reflected in it. And fire. Somewhere far away among the trees, golden reflections of the bonfire flickered, but here they seemed weak and distant. Like another world.
Max ran a hand over his face. Fatigue was finally starting to set in. Not even physical fatigue. More like the kind that accumulates from people. From the noise. From the constant need to be around someone.
He dropped his gaze downwards. By the very edge of the water, flowers lay in the grass. Leftovers from the wrecks of wreaths. Daisies, cornflowers, long green stems that someone had discarded as extra. One unfinished wreath lay a bit further, half scattered.
Max automatically nudged a sprig of mint with his foot. A fresh scent immediately hit the air.
He chuckled. All of this was a little absurd. All these rituals. Fortune-telling. A ‘magical’ night. Evil spirits in the forest. As if people were just looking for a reason to believe in something strange.
Max leaned down and picked up a long stem from the grass. Twirled it between his fingers. Then another. And another. Just to keep his hands busy.
He didn’t even notice the moment he started weaving them together.
At first, it was unconscious. Automatic. His fingers just worked on their own while his head finally grew quieter. Stem by stem. Flower by flower.
Max looked at his hands with mild bewilderment
“...Seriously?” he muttered under his breath.
He could have stopped. Should have. This was ridiculous. But for some reason, he didn’t stop. On the contrary – he leaned down even lower, gathering new flowers from the grass. A daisy. Another one. A cornflower. Thin wormwood leaves.
His fingers moved surprisingly confidently, even though he had never woven a wreath before. At least, he didn’t remember doing so.
Strange. Max frowned.
Maybe he had seen it in childhood. Maybe it just wasn’t difficult. Maybe.
The water lapped quietly against the wooden planks. He froze for a second and raised his head.
Nothing. Just the river. Dark. Smooth. Too calm.
Max exhaled and returned to the wreath. For some reason, it was calming. As if keeping his hands busy stopped his thoughts from racing.
The flower stems were cool and slightly damp. Some broke under his fingers, others bent easily, intertwining with each other.
Somewhere far away, voices drifted over again. Someone laughed. Someone shouted a song off-key.
Max almost smiled. And at that moment, he felt it again.
A stare. Someone else’s presence. But this time, much closer.
He spun around sharply.
Willows. Darkness. Shadows between the trees.
Max slowly straightened up.
“Lando, if that’s you-”
Silence. Only crickets. The wind gently swayed the long branches over the water.
Max squinted. Did something really move between the trees, or did he imagine it? A tall figure. Pale. Motionless.
His heart suddenly beat harder.
“Very funny,” he said, louder.
No one answered. The figure was gone too.
Max quietly exhaled through his nose.
Great. Super. Now he was getting himself worked up over an old man’s silly tales.
He sat back down on the footbridge, but now he listened more carefully to the night. The river sounded a little louder. Or maybe he just imagined that too.
Max lowered his gaze to the wreath in his hands. It turned out... not bad. Quite even. Tightly woven. Even pretty, to be honest.
He grimaced at his own thought.
“God.”
If any of his friends found out about this, he was done for.
Max twirled the wreath in his hands. There was still a little space in the center, and he automatically wove a blue cornflower there.
Then he froze. Why was he even doing this?
Really. Not for fortune-telling. Not because he believed in all that nonsense. And definitely not because of some romantic foolishness. He didn’t even know who he would theoretically be sending this wreath for.
Max snorted quietly.
Absurd. And yet... He didn’t throw it into the grass. Didn’t tear it apart. Didn’t go back. On the contrary – he looked at the woven flowers as if they held something strangely important. As if... This was what needed to be done.
The thought came from nowhere and immediately seemed ridiculous.
Max frowned deeper. ‘This was what needed to be done’? Needed by whom? For what?
He ran his thumb over the stems. The wind grew colder. Somewhere behind him, a branch snapped.
Max jerked his head up. This time he was sure. Someone was there. Between the trees.
He couldn’t see a face. Only a silhouette. Tall. Slender. Too still for a human.
Max slowly stood up. “Hey!”
Silence. The figure didn’t move.
Something very close to instinctive anxiety tightened unpleasantly in his chest. Not even fear. Something deeper. Older. As if his body understood before his mind did: something was wrong.
Max took a step forward. And the figure vanished. Just... Vanished. As if the darkness between the trees had swallowed it.
Max froze. A chill ran down his spine.
“Okay,” he said quietly to himself. “Either I’ve had too much to drink, or Lando has really decided to drive me crazy.”
But his voice didn’t sound very confident.
The river behind him lapped quietly. Once. Again. As if something stirred under the water.
Max slowly turned around. The dark surface remained smooth. Only faint ripples spread out near the footbridge.
The wind brought the smell of the river. Damp. Cold. And strangely sweet.
Max didn’t understand why he clenched the wreath tighter. As if it had suddenly become important. As if letting it go now would be wrong.
Somewhere far behind him, people laughed again, and the sound for a second brought back a sense of normalcy.
The celebration continued. People were nearby. Nothing strange was happening. Just darkness. Just a river. Just silly old legends. And yet, Max couldn’t shake the feeling that he was no longer alone here.
Max stood motionless for a few more seconds, staring into the dark water.
Nothing. The river looked ordinary again – quiet, black, sleepy. Only a faint current lazily dragged silvery moonlight reflections across the surface.
And yet, something had changed. He felt it on his skin. As if the air itself had become thicker.
Max slowly exhaled and sat back down on the edge of the footbridge. The wood creaked quietly under his weight. The wreath lay on his lap – woven a bit crookedly, too tight in places, but still strangely beautiful in the moonlight.
White daisies. Blue cornflowers. Dark green leaves. The damp stems cooled his fingers.
Max twirled the wreath in his hands. A completely pointless thing. And yet, he still couldn’t make himself simply throw it back into the grass.
The wind passed over the water, but now it was significantly colder. Goosebumps immediately ran down his bare arms.
Max frowned. Just a minute ago, the night had been warm. June-like. Even stuffy. Now the coolness from the river felt almost like spring.
Somewhere far away, music played – fast, lively, with loud laughter over the melody – but the sound suddenly became strange. As if muffled by water. As if the celebration had moved even further away.
Max raised his head. The bonfire still flickered between the trees. People were still there. He saw movement. Heard fragments of voices. But it all sounded as if an invisible wall had suddenly appeared between him and the celebration.
The silence around the river became too deep. The crickets fell silent. Even the leaves stopped rustling.
Max slowly ran his tongue over his teeth. Okay. This was genuinely strange now.
He looked at the water again. Smooth. Motionless. So much so that the moonlight lay on it like an even silver sheet. Not a single ripple. Not a single circle. As if it wasn’t a river, but a dark mirror.
Max instinctively clenched the wreath tighter.
And at that moment, a thought arose in his mind: release it into the water. It came unexpectedly. Calmly. Almost gently.
Max immediately grimaced. “Yeah, right, seriously.”
He was starting to give in to the atmosphere. Great. A little more and he’d be going off to look for a fern flower in the forest.
But his fingers still slowly slid over the stems, adjusting one of the daisies.
Release it into the water.
Max exhaled through his nose. Alright then. And what would happen? Nothing. The wreath would float away. Or the current would wash it back to shore. End of the great mystery.
Max leaned forward and lowered the wreath onto the water. Cold immediately touched his fingers. The river was icy. Unnaturally icy for a balmy summer evening.
The wreath swayed gently on the surface. And stopped.
Max blinked. The current should have carried it. At least a little. But the wreath stayed where it was. Just floating on the dark water a few meters from the footbridge. Motionless.
Max frowned. “Come on.”
As if in response, the water around the wreath shuddered. Barely noticeably. Thin ripples spread across the surface. One. Two. Three.
Max slowly straightened up. The wind ceased completely. The world around froze. And then the river began to move. Not the current. Not waves. Something else.
The dark water under the wreath slowly began to swirl, as if someone had moved a hand in the depths. The silver surface shuddered, scattering the moon’s reflection.
Max didn’t step back. But something tightened unpleasantly in his chest.
This no longer seemed like a coincidence. The water was moving too... purposefully. The circles grew wider. Deeper. The darkness under the surface seemed to come alive.
Max involuntarily held his breath.
Something was under the water. He couldn’t see what. Only felt it. Movement. Slow. Careful. As if someone was rising from the depths.
The river lapped quietly. Once. Again.
And then a hand appeared above the surface. Pale. Thin. Human-like. Fingers slowly glided over the water, leaving silver trails.
Max froze.
For a second, his brain calmly offered the most logical explanation: Someone decided to play a joke. Some local idiot. Probably been sitting in the water this whole time.
But the thought crumbled almost immediately. Because the hand moved too smoothly. Too... beautifully. Without a single splash. Without strain. As if the water itself was holding it.
Behind the hand, a shoulder slowly emerged from the darkness. Wet hair. A dark figure. Water streamed down in long silver threads.
Max didn’t move. Not because he was scared. More because he couldn’t understand what exactly he was seeing.
The figure rose higher and higher. Slowly. As if the river wouldn’t release it all at once. First the chest. Then the neck. A pale face.
And eyes. Light. Unnaturally light in the darkness.
For a moment, Max thought they reflected the moonlight, like water.
The man – or boy, it was hard to tell in the darkness – stopped waist-deep in the river.
And only then did Max notice the wreath. His wreath. The same one. White daisies and blue cornflowers now lay on wet, light hair.
Everything inside went strangely cold.
The figure slowly raised its head. Looked straight at him. And smiled. Calmly. Barely noticeably. As if this were a completely normal situation.
Max broke the silence first: “...Seriously?”
His voice sounded a bit hoarse.
The stranger tilted his head to the side. The water around him remained almost motionless.
That was what was wrong. Anyone else would be shivering from the cold. Moving. Creating waves. But this one just stood there. As if the river was a part of him.
Wet hair clung to his neck and temples. Droplets of water slowly slid down his pale skin, but he didn’t even flinch at the night cold.
And beautiful. That was also wrong. Not humanly beautiful. As if someone had deliberately gathered everything people usually find attractive and made one person out of it.
Max felt an almost instinctive distrust towards this.
The stranger spoke first. His voice was quiet. Calm. And strangely soft. “Usually, it’s girls who make these.”
Max blinked. For a second, the absurdity of the situation outweighed everything else. “Usually, people don’t crawl out of rivers in the middle of the night.”
The smile widened slightly. “Fair point.”
Max crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you been sitting in there all this time?”
“Perhaps.”
“For what? To scare people?”
“Did it scare you?”
And here was something strange. He didn’t sound mocking. More... interested. As if he genuinely wanted to know the answer.
Max frowned. “I’m more annoyed that you stole my wreath.”
The stranger slowly touched the flowers on his head. “Yours?”
“I wove it.”
“Then yes. I suppose it’s yours.”
This was starting to sound like a very strange dream.
Max stepped closer to the edge of the footbridge. “Alright. Who are you?”
The stranger didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Max so intently that it was almost physically pressing. As if he was studying him. Memorizing him. “Do you always ask questions like you’re interrogating people?”
“Do you always answer like a psychopath from folklore?”
Something like amusement flickered in those light eyes. “I like that you haven’t run away yet.”
“Because you’re just some weird guy from the river.”
“Just?”
Max opened his mouth. And suddenly realized he didn’t know what to say next. Because no. Not just. Everything about this boy was... wrong. Not even scary. Just... unnatural.
The way he stood in the water. The way he barely blinked. The way he looked. As if he knew something Max didn’t.
The river stirred quietly around him. Finally. Belatedly. As if the water didn’t react to his movements.
Max felt a chill run along his spine.
The stranger slowly rose a bit higher up the bank. Now the water only reached his thighs.
Wet, dark fabric clung to his body. His hair shone almost silver in the moonlight.
And not a single sign that he was cold. Not a single one.
“The locals said,” he began slowly, “that you shouldn’t go to the river alone tonight.”
Max snorted. “And what, they meant you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Very humble.”
The stranger laughed softly. And that sound was also strange. Too quiet for the night silence. As if the water absorbed it.
Max couldn’t stop staring. It was annoying. There was nothing overtly threatening about him. On the contrary. He looked calm. Relaxed. Almost gentle. And that’s why everything felt even more wrong.
Like a predator that doesn’t even bother to hide that it’s stronger than you.
“What’s your name?” Max asked.
The stranger was silent for a few seconds. Then he answered: “George.”
The name sounded surprisingly normal. Human. Almost ruining the whole weirdness of the moment.
“Max.”
“I know.”
Silence. Brief. But long enough for something inside to tense up.
Max slowly narrowed his eyes. “How do you know?”
George only tilted his head. The wreath of daisies shifted slightly on his wet hair. “You’re loud.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You don’t come here for the first time.”
Max frowned deeper. Possibly. Yes. But... “I don’t remember you.”
“But I remember you.”
The answer came too calmly. As if there was nothing strange about it.
The river murmured quietly between them.
Somewhere far away, music suddenly drifted over again, but now it sounded unnaturally distant. As if the celebration was kilometers away.
Max slowly crossed his arms tighter over his chest. “Alright. Let’s say I believe you’re not just some local crazy. What were you doing in the river?”
George smiled. Barely noticeably. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
The gaze of his light eyes slowly dropped to the wreath on his head. Then rose back to Max. “For you.”
And for the first time all evening, Max felt something very close to real anxiety.
The anxiety didn’t last long. Not because George’s words stopped sounding strange. On the contrary. The problem was that after them, the night didn’t become scarier – it became... quieter. As if the river itself was waiting for Max to answer.
He stood on the edge of the footbridge, arms crossed over his chest, looking at the boy in the water with the expression of someone who desperately wanted to remain a skeptic, but the situation was actively getting in the way.
“That sounds like the beginning of a bad horror movie,” he finally said.
George tilted his head slightly. “And in those movies, do you usually survive?”
“Usually I don’t get into them.”
“And now?”
Max opened his mouth. And didn’t answer. Because that was precisely the problem. He should have left.
Any normal person would have gone back to the bonfire by now. Or at least called someone. Lando. That damn old local guy. Anyone.
Instead, Max stood here and continued talking to a stranger who had literally crawled out of the river wearing his wreath.
And the worst part – it no longer seemed as absurd as it had a few minutes ago.
“You’re strange,” Max said.
“People say that often.”
“You say that as if you’re not a person yourself.”
For a second, something flickered in George’s eyes. Something dark. Not evil, even. Old? Then he smiled again. “And how, in your opinion, do people talk?”
“Less creepily.”
“I think you’re exaggerating a bit.”
“You’re standing in ice-cold water in the middle of the night and you look like you’re comfortable there.”
“I am comfortable.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “That’s not normal.”
“For whom?”
And there it was again. Those answers. As if George constantly stood somewhere to the side of ordinary human things. Didn’t argue with them. Didn’t deny them. Just... didn’t belong to them.
Max felt a chill run down his spine. Not from fear. Rather from realization. He still didn’t know what exactly was in front of him. And somehow, that no longer seemed like the main question.
George slowly walked closer to the shore. The water parted around him almost silently. Only thin ripples glided towards the wooden supports of the footbridge.
Now there was less than a meter between them.
Only then did Max realize how tall he was. And how... beautiful up close. It was annoying.
Light hair, still wet from the river, fell over his forehead and neck. Small drops of water remained on his pale cheeks. Dark eyelashes cast shadows under his eyes.
And those eyes.
God. Max couldn’t tell their color.
Grey? Blue? Silvery? They changed depending on the light. Like the surface of the water.
“You’re very tense right now,” George said quietly.
“And you’re very naked for someone who wants to seem normal.”
George’s gaze dropped down to the wet shirt clinging to his body. Then rose back to Max. “Does that bother you?”
“It annoys me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re acting like this is all perfectly normal.”
“Isn’t it?”
Max laughed shortly. “No. It’s not normal. People don’t come out of rivers at night.”
“How do you know?”
“Because-” He stopped.
George looked straight at him. Calmly. Patiently. As if he really was waiting for an answer.
Max suddenly realized he could barely remember the last time the other blinked. The thought came suddenly and immediately became obsessive. He barely blinks.
Max frowned deeper. No, he does blink. Probably. Just rarely. Very rarely. And that made him feel slightly uneasy.
George tilted his head. “What are you thinking about?”
“That I should have stayed by the bonfire.”
“But you’re here.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Then why haven’t you left yet?”
Max wanted to answer immediately. He really did. But for some reason, he couldn’t. Because he didn’t know. Not entirely.
His feet seemed glued to the footbridge. As if the river, the night, and this strange boy were slowly pulling him deeper into something Max didn’t understand yet. And the worst part – part of him didn’t want to break free.
George took another half-step closer. Now the water barely touched his knees.
“You wove a beautiful wreath,” he said.
Max snorted. “Don’t start.”
“It’s true.”
“I didn’t even plan on weaving it.”
“But you did.”
“Just to keep my hands busy.”
“Hm.”
That short, quiet ‘hm’ sounded as if George didn’t believe him. And that immediately caused irritation.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, go on. Say it.”
George smiled at the corner of his lips. “People rarely do things ‘just because’ on this night.”
“Oh god, don’t start about magic.”
“You don’t believe in magic?”
“Should I?”
“You’re standing in the middle of the night talking to a boy who came out of the river.”
“And so far I think you’re just very strange.”
“So far?”
Max grimaced. “Are you deliberately twisting everything?”
“I like how angry you get.”
“I don’t like that you like it.”
“You’re lying.”
Max jerked his gaze up to him. And froze. Because George was now standing very close. Too close. Max hadn’t even noticed when he approached. Only a few centimeters remained between them.
Cold radiated from the river. From George, too. But at the same time, he smelled of herbs, water, and something sweet, summery, almost floral. Not perfume. Something natural.
Max slowly exhaled. “You’re invading personal space.”
“And you’re not stepping back.”
Damn. It was true. Max could have taken a step back. Easily. The footbridge behind him was empty. No one was holding him. And yet, he stayed standing.
George looked at him so intently that it was almost physically felt. Not the way people look at each other. Differently. As if he could see a little more than he should.
“Do you always come here for Kupala Night?” George asked quietly.
“Sometimes.”
“But you don’t like this celebration.”
“I don’t like crowds.”
“No.” George said this too confidently.
Max frowned. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“Not because of that.”
“And you, supposedly, know better?”
“Perhaps.”
“That’s annoying.”
“I noticed.” A smile flickered in his eyes again.
Max suddenly realized he hadn’t heard the music for a long time. It was somewhere far away. Almost unrealistically far. As if it existed beyond the boundary of this river.
Only the water, the night, and George remained here.
“Your friends are looking for you,” George suddenly said.
Max blinked. “What?”
“That noisy guy. Lando? He’s already realized you’re gone.”
“How do you-”
And then Max froze. Because George couldn’t know that. He hadn’t heard the conversations by the fire. He couldn’t have. The distance was too great.
But George only shrugged lazily. “People always get nervous when someone goes to the water alone.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Do you always do that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a terrible habit.”
“I like it.”
Max exhaled quietly through his nose. He should be angrier. But instead, he suddenly realized that he had been standing here for several minutes, just talking to him. Normally. Almost calmly. As if this wasn’t madness. As if George didn’t look like he belonged to this river more than to the land.
“So what are you?” Max asked more quietly.
George was silent. The wind stirred the wet strands of his hair. “People have many names.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You like direct answers?”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t.”
Max rolled his eyes. “God.”
And then George laughed. Genuinely this time. Quietly. Gently.
And from that sound, something tightened strangely somewhere under his ribs. Max hated it almost immediately.
“Don’t look so pleased.”
“What?”
“Like I’m entertaining you.”
“But it’s true.”
“You’re incredibly annoying.”
“And you’re still here.”
Damn it. Again.
Max turned away towards the river, as if the water had suddenly become extremely interesting. The dark surface barely moved. The moon reflected in it like silver. And the wreath. That damned wreath was still floating nearby, although the current should have carried it away long ago.
Max frowned. “Why isn’t it moving?”
“Because I’m holding it.”
The answer sounded so mundane that Max’s brain refused to process it immediately. He slowly turned his head. “You what?”
George raised his hand slightly. The water around the wreath shuddered.
And Max felt everything inside freeze for a second.
The ripples spread slowly across the river. The wreath itself swayed. But didn’t float away. As if an invisible hand was indeed holding it in place.
Max stared for a few seconds. Then he said quietly: “No.”
“No?”
“No, you are not going to do that creepy ‘watch me control water’ thing right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s too much.”
George smiled slightly. “Do you believe me now?”
“I think I’m hallucinating.”
“That’s a bit insulting.”
“For you or for my psyche?”
“For me.”
Max laughed shortly. Nervously. And suddenly realized that there was almost no fear left.
That was the worst part. He should have been more afraid. Something not quite human was literally standing in front of him. And yet, curiosity was gradually overtaking the anxiety.
George took another step closer. Now only a narrow strip of water by the footbridge separated them.
“May I?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
But George was already reaching out his hand. Slowly. As if giving him a chance to refuse.
Max looked at the long, pale fingers for a few seconds. And then – for reasons he didn’t understand himself – allowed it.
George touched his wrist.
And Max sharply inhaled.
Cold. Not just cool from the river. Genuinely cold. Like water from the depths.
George’s fingers slid easily along the inside of his wrist, where his pulse beat rapidly. His gaze immediately dropped there.
“Your heart is beating very fast,” he said quietly.
“Is yours beating at all?”
George’s eyes rose back to his face. That strange amusement appeared in them again. “Want to check?”
For a second, Max forgot how to breathe. Damn. That was unfair. He abruptly pulled his hand away. “You flirt like a demon.”
“And how do you know how demons flirt?”
“Intuition.”
George laughed softly again.
And Max suddenly realized he was completely lost. Because now he wasn’t just not leaving. He wasn’t even thinking about leaving anymore.
As if the river had slowly pulled him in along with this strange night, cold hands, and the gaze of light eyes that made him feel both uneasy and... too warm somewhere under his ribs.
Max didn’t know how long they had been standing by the river. The night seemed to have lost its shape. Minutes no longer felt normal – they stretched, mingled with the sound of the water, George’s quiet voice, and the strange feeling that everything else was left far behind.
Maybe ten minutes had passed. Maybe an hour. Max wasn’t sure. And that in itself should have been alarming.
But every time a thought arose in his head: ‘I need to go,’ it somehow immediately became unimportant.
George stood beside him, leaning his shoulder against an old wooden post of the footbridge, looking at him with that same strange, calm attentiveness. As if he wasn’t in a hurry. As if he had all the time in the world.
“You’re too quiet,” George said.
“That’s coming from someone who’s been listening to a mysterious river creature for twenty minutes.”
“River creature?”
“Well, what else should I call you?”
“George works fine for me.”
“Suspiciously human name for someone who controls water.”
“People like to name everything that scares them.”
Max snorted. “Oh, now you’re a philosopher too.”
“No. Just older than you.”
It sounded light. Almost like a joke. But something tightened unpleasantly in Max’s chest.
He slowly turned his head. “How much older?”
George smiled. And again didn’t answer.
“You’re incredibly annoying.”
“And yet you keep talking to me.”
“That’s starting to sound like a threat.”
“Maybe it is.”
They were silent for a few seconds. The river murmured quietly below.
Max looked at the dark water, at the silver reflections of the moon, at the wreath still floating nearby, as if tied to one spot by an invisible thread.
And then he suddenly realized something strange. The music. He couldn’t hear it anymore. At all.
Max frowned.
Just a few minutes ago, at least fragments of songs, laughter, voices reached them.
Now – nothing. Only water. And the crickets had fallen silent too. Such a deep silence surrounded them that it began to press on his ears.
Max slowly looked around. And froze. The bank with the celebration was no longer visible. Not in the sense of ‘far away’. Not in the sense of ‘the trees are blocking it’. It was just... gone. Only darkness. Solid. Thick. As if the forest behind them had become larger. Deeper.
Max straightened up sharply. “...What the hell.”
George didn’t move. “Something wrong?”
“Where’s the bonfire?”
Silence. Only the river.
Max took a step back along the footbridge and looked over his shoulder again. Nothing. Not a single fire. Not a single voice. Even the path was no longer visible. Only trees. Dark silhouettes that stood too close.
His heart beat harder.
“George.”
George slowly lifted his eyes to him. “Hm?”
“Where’s the celebration?”
For a second, something strange flickered in his gaze. Almost regret. “Far away.”
“No.” Max shook his head sharply.
“No, we couldn’t have walked that far.”
“And we didn’t.”
And now it became truly scary. Not because of the words themselves. Because of how calmly he said them. As if all of this was normal. As if the night could really just... close in around them.
Max felt adrenaline run cold through his arms. “Okay. This isn’t funny anymore.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Then what is this?”
George was silent for a few seconds. The wind barely stirred the wet hair near his face. “The boundary is thinner on this night.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I know.”
Max inhaled sharply. Finally, fear began to break through everything else – through the curiosity, the flirtation, the strange attraction to this boy. Because in front of him now stood something that spoke about the world as if it saw it completely differently. Not like a human.
And Max suddenly remembered the old man’s words very clearly: ‘The worst is when the evil spirit notices you before you notice it.’
A cold shiver ran down his skin.
George looked at him intently. As if noticing every change in his expression.
“Now you’re scared.” It wasn’t a question.
Max frowned. “Shouldn’t I be?”
George slowly stepped closer. Too quietly. Max didn’t even hear his footsteps. “I don’t know.”
“Very reassuring answer.”
“I’m not trying to reassure you.”
Damn. That sounded bad. Max instinctively stepped back half a step. And the water under the footbridge immediately stirred. Sharply. The dark surface shuddered, as if the river had woken up.
Max froze.
George did too.
For a moment, a strange tension hung between them. As if something in the air had been stretched too tight.
“Max,” George said quietly.
His voice changed. Barely noticeably. Became deeper. Lower. As if two sounds layered on top of each other.
Max’s mouth went instantly dry. “What are you?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
And then George smiled. But not like before. Not gently. Not playfully. And that smile sent a chill down his spine. Because suddenly, something else was visible in it. Not human. Old. Hungry.
The river around them shuddered more strongly. The water began to rise. Slowly. As if breathing. Dark waves crawled onto the wooden planks of the footbridge, touching Max’s shoes with icy tongues.
He stepped back sharply. “George-”
“What if I don’t want to let you go?” His voice sounded wrong. Like an echo. As if the river was speaking along with him.
In the darkness, his eyes flashed silver. Not a reflection of the moon. Light. Real.
Everything inside Max clenched instantly. There. There it was. What the tales spoke of. Not the beautiful boy from the river. Not the strange flirtation in the night. The evil spirit. Something that could pull you into the water, and no one would ever even find your body.
Max inhaled sharply. And finally, his body remembered the basic instinct: run.
He took another step back. The planks of the footbridge creaked loudly.
The water rose higher. Dark waves were almost touching his ankles now, though the river had been much lower a second ago.
George didn’t move. Just watched. And that made it even scarier. Because there was no anger in his gaze. Only curiosity. As if he was truly considering: what would happen if he didn’t let go?
Max felt his heart pounding in his throat. “This isn’t funny,” he said hoarsely.
George tilted his head. The silver light in his eyes grew brighter. “I know.”
The water splashed sharply against the footbridge.
Max flinched.
And at that second, George blinked. Once. Slowly. As if waking up. The light in his eyes extinguished.
The river instantly calmed. The water sank back down.
The silence cracked. Somewhere far away, laughter was heard again. Music. Crickets.
Max looked around sharply. The bonfire flickered again between the trees. As if it had never disappeared.
His breathing was ragged. His whole body was tense to the point of pain.
And George stood before him just as calmly as before. Only now there was something new in his gaze. Guilt. Barely noticeable.
“I scared you,” he said quietly. Not a question. A fact.
Max looked at him for a few seconds. Then laughed nervously. Shortly. Almost soundlessly. “‘Scared’? You, fuck… glowed.”
George lowered his gaze. And suddenly – for the first time – he didn’t look mysterious or dangerous. But strangely... young. Almost confused. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You literally said you might not let me go.”
“I might.”
And there it was again. That creepy, calm, honest confession.
Max ran a hand over his face. Adrenaline still rushed in his blood.
“God.”
He should have left. Immediately. Just turn around and go back to the people. To the light. To the normal world, where boys don’t control rivers and don’t look as if they remember times before human cities existed.
But...
Max slowly raised his eyes.
George still stood before him. Wet hair. The wreath of daisies. Pale skin in the moonlight. And a strange expression on his face – as if he was genuinely afraid Max would leave now.
The fear was still there. Real. Sharp. But next to it, there was something else now. Understanding?
Finally, Max saw the true boundary of this night. What hid beneath the smiles, flirtation, and beautiful eyes. Power. Inhuman. Dangerous. And the fact that George had been restraining himself this whole time.
That thought was somehow the scariest.
Max slowly exhaled. “You could have drowned me, couldn’t you?”
Silence. George didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at him. Then said quietly: “Yes.” Honest. Without pomp. Without threats. Just the truth.
A cold shiver ran down Max’s skin again. “But you won’t?”
And here, George suddenly smiled. Very gently. Almost sadly. “I don’t want to.”
And that, for some reason, sounded more dangerous than anything else. After that, something changed between them. Not abruptly. Without loud words or movements. Just the night suddenly became quieter. Truer.
Max could no longer pretend that the person in front of him was just a strange local boy. And George no longer hid that he saw much more in Max than just a random guest of the celebration.
The river murmured quietly between them.
Music drifted from afar again – now normally, humanly, without that eerie muffledness. Somewhere behind the trees, people laughed, a bonfire crackled, someone sang a song badly.
The world had returned to its place. Almost.
Max stood motionless, still feeling the cold in his bones after the water had risen to his feet.
George was also silent. Just looked. And now that gaze was different. Calmer. As if after that brief flash of something wild and old, he had deliberately made himself... closer to human.
But Max had already seen the truth. And wouldn’t forget it.
The wind stirred the willow branches quietly. Max’s gaze automatically slid over the water. The wreath still floated among the silver moonlight reflections – a little further from the footbridge, swaying gently on the ripples.
And then he looked up at George. And froze sharply. Because the daisies and cornflowers were back on his wet hair. The same wreath. Max was absolutely certain of it.
Something lapped quietly in the water. When he looked back, the river was already empty.
George’s wet hair clung to his neck. The wreath of daisies and cornflowers now lay on his head – slightly askew, already half undone from the water.
Strangely, that was what looked most eerie. Not the glowing eyes. Not the water. But how normal this wreath looked on him. As if it was his. As if the river had truly accepted the gift.
Max ran a hand over the back of his neck and exhaled quietly. “Well... now at least I understand why locals don’t recommend coming here alone.”
George smiled slightly. “They remember a lot.”
“And you’re part of the scary stories for tourists?”
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds very arrogant.”
“Is it wrong?”
Max opened his mouth. And again found no answer. Damn it. That was the problem. Anyone else, after seeing all this, would have run away by now. Max stood and continued talking. As if fear, instead of pushing him away, had made everything even more real.
George slowly stepped back into the water. The river immediately stirred around his legs, the dark surface easily parting into ripples.
Max involuntarily followed the movement.
“Are you leaving?” he asked before he could think.
George’s eyes rose to him again. Something strangely warm flickered in them. “Do you want me to stay?”
Max snorted quietly. “Don’t twist it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You literally scared me a minute ago.”
“And still, you didn’t leave.”
Damn. Max turned away to the river. He hated it when George was right.
The water now seemed completely different. Not just a river. Something alive. Deep. Dark. As if under the smooth surface, something old and attentive truly hid.
Max suddenly realized very clearly how alone he was here. One footbridge. One river. One creature that could pull him underwater – and no one would even hear him scream. And yet... He felt no hatred. Only a strange, almost painful curiosity.
“Are you always like this?” he asked quietly.
“Like what?”
“As if you know something others don’t.”
George smiled at the corner of his lips. “Maybe I just watch for longer.”
“That sounds creepy again.”
“You like it.”
“I don’t-” Max stopped. Because somewhere in the distance, voices suddenly rang out. Loud. Familiar.
“Max!” Lando. Somewhere very far behind the trees. “Seriously, if you drowned, I’ll kill you!”
Max involuntarily snorted. The tension inside eased slightly. A normal voice. Normal human nonsense. Somewhere out there, the ordinary world still existed.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Through the trees, the light of the bonfire was now clearly visible. Warm, golden, alive. The music sounded louder, someone laughed, someone called others to the fire.
Max blinked. As if he had just surfaced from deep water. Reality slowly fell into place.
“Max!”
“I’m here!” he automatically called back.
“Where the hell are you?!”
“By the river!”
“Of course, where else!”
Max rolled his eyes and smiled slightly. Then turned back to George. And froze. He stood further away now. Deeper in the water.
Max hadn’t even noticed when he stepped back.
The dark river now reached almost to his waist. Moonlight glided over the water’s surface, blurring the figure’s outline. As if the night itself was beginning to take him back. The wreath of daisies was still visible among his light hair. A white flash in the darkness.
Max took a step forward. Not knowing why. “George?”
He raised his eyes to Max. And smiled. Calmly. Almost tenderly. But now, in that smile, there was again something inhuman – not scary, but simply... alien. As if the river was looking at him with human eyes.
“Your friends are worried,” George said quietly.
“Yeah.”
“You should go back.”
And this was the most important thing. Not a trap. Not coercion. Not the water pulling him down. George was letting him go.
Max suddenly understood this absolutely clearly. All this time, he could have: not shown the way back, hidden the shore again, wrapped the night around them.
Could have. But didn’t.
The river lapped quietly around him. The wind stirred the willow branches.
Max stood motionless for a few more seconds. And strangely, that was when leaving became the hardest.
“And that’s it?” he asked quietly.
George’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you want something else?”
Max didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know. Or knew too well.
Somewhere behind him, Lando’s voice sounded again: “If those mermaids are eating you, at least scream louder!”
Max laughed shortly. And when he looked at George again, he was already standing even deeper. The water had almost engulfed the dark figure. Only his face and pale hands remained visible among the silver reflections. As if the river was slowly taking him back.
“Do you really...” Max faltered. “Do you really live here?”
“Where else would I be?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You like them too much.”
Max snorted. “And you hate them.”
“No. I just don’t see the point in them.”
For a few seconds, they looked at each other in silence.
The night around became soft again. Summery. But now Max knew that beneath this softness, something else hid. Something old, dark, and patient.
George slowly raised his hand. His fingertips slid over the water’s surface. And the wreath, which he had taken off and left floating nearby, suddenly drifted slowly towards him.
Max held his breath.
George easily caught it. The flowers were already a bit unraveled, the wet stems glistening in the moonlight. George looked at the wreath for a few seconds. Then again – at Max.
“Will you come next year too?” His voice sounded quiet. Almost gentle. But those words sent another chill down Max’s skin. Because this wasn’t a simple question. There was something deeper in it. Older. As if the night itself was remembering promises.
Max slowly exhaled. “What if I don’t?”
George smiled. Very lightly. “Then the river will still remember you.”
And before Max could answer, the water around him shuddered. Gently. Without threat. Just a ripple of silver circles.
Light hair flashed for another second. The white wreath. Light eyes. And then the river closed over him. Quietly. Without a single splash. As if no one had ever been there. Only dark water. And the smell of wet herbs in the night air.
“Max!” Lando’s voice was very close now.
Max spun around sharply.
The light of the bonfire blinded his eyes with warm gold after the river’s darkness. Familiar figures were already visible behind the trees, laughter, movement. The ordinary world. Normal. Human.
Max looked slowly back at the water. Silence. Only the river. But somewhere deep under his ribs, a strange feeling remained, as if part of this night would now stay with him forever.
***
Morning came too brightly.
Max woke up to the sun shining directly into his eyes through the thin curtains, and for the first few seconds, he just lay still, trying to understand why his head was so noisy.
Then came thirst. Dryness in his mouth. Tiredness in his muscles. And a heavy, strange feeling, as if he hadn’t slept enough, even though he had slept half the day.
Max groaned softly and turned onto his back. Ceiling. Familiar room. A half-unpacked travel bag by the wall. A black hoodie thrown over a chair.
Everything was normal. Ordinary.
He ran a palm over his face and closed his eyes for another second. Last night slowly began to piece together in his memory in fragments. The bonfire. Music. Lando dragging him to watch the stupid Kupala rituals. The river. Cold water. And...
Max snapped his eyes open.
No. No, seriously.
He exhaled heavily and sat up in bed. His head immediately responded with a dull ache.
“Great,” he muttered.
Yes. Okay. They had been drinking. It was late. He fell asleep somewhere by the river, his brain mixed old tales with fatigue and alcohol – and voila, a very realistic strange dream.
It made sense. Much more sense than...
Max abruptly cut off the thought. Because he wasn’t going to consider the ‘not a dream’ option. Absolutely not.
He got out of bed and only then noticed he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. There were grass stains on his jeans and dampness on the edges of the fabric, as if he really had sat by the water for a long time.
Max frowned. Okay. That could be explained too. A river is a river. He could have just gotten his clothes wet. Nothing mystical.
He stretched, feeling a strange tiredness in his shoulders, and walked to the window.
The sun was already high. Someone was mowing grass in the yard, a dog was barking somewhere, and the smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. A normal morning. A normal world.
Max even felt relief. And that’s why he didn’t notice the wreath at first.
It lay on the windowsill. Exactly in the middle. Fresh. Wet. Woven from white daisies and blue cornflowers. Max froze. The air in his lungs became heavy.
No. No, no, no.
He slowly walked closer. The flowers weren’t just similar. It was the same wreath. One daisy broken on the side. The wormwood stem woven in crookedly. And the little blue cornflower slightly higher than the others – the same one he had automatically adjusted with his fingers on the footbridge.
A cold shiver ran down his skin.
Max stared silently for a few seconds. Then carefully touched the flowers. Damp. As if they had just been pulled from the river.
He jerked his hand back. His heart began to beat faster.
“No,” he said quietly to himself. “No, this isn’t funny anymore.”
Maybe someone was playing a joke. Lando. Definitely Lando. He probably saw Max messing around with the wreath yesterday and decided to mess with him. It had to be that way. Had to. But...
Max looked at the wet flowers and understood: no one could have known exactly what that wreath looked like. He had woven it himself. Alone. By the river.
His fingers slowly clenched the edge of the windowsill. And only then did he notice another thing. Between the green stems, something glinted. Thin. Silvery.
Max leaned closer. Not thread. Not wire. Something like a long, transparent filament – almost like a hair, but too light. Silver shimmered in the sunlight as if water flowed inside it.
Max froze.
In his memory, an image flashed instantly: wet, light hair, light eyes, and the river moving around him as if alive.
He straightened up sharply.
“No.” The word came out too quietly. As if even the room didn’t want to hear it. Footsteps sounded outside the door.
“Oh, you’re alive!” Lando entered the room without knocking, a mug of coffee in his hand.
“I was starting to think the mermaids really got you.”
Max turned so sharply that Lando stopped dead. “Whoa. Why are you so jumpy?”
“Did you do this?”
“Do what?”
Max silently pointed at the windowsill.
Lando followed his gaze. And frowned. “Oh. Your wreath?”
“Don’t pretend.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Did you put it here?”
“No.”
Lando walked closer to the window. His expression slowly changed – from ordinary curiosity to something more wary. “I didn’t even know you took it.”
Max was silent.
“Seriously,” Lando said more quietly. “I thought you just went to get some air and fell asleep in the grass somewhere.”
“How did I get to the room?”
“You came yourself.”
Max frowned. “Myself?”
“Yeah. Around three in the morning, I guess. Wet, angry, and quiet. Same as always, basically.”
This wasn’t helping. At all.
Lando looked at the wreath again. “Pretty, by the way.”
“Shut up.”
“No, really. Kind of romantic.”
Max rolled his eyes and turned away.
“I’m serious, I didn’t bring it here.”
“I know.” The answer came out faster than Max could think.
Lando slowly raised his eyebrows. “...Okay. That sounded very strange just now.”
Max ran a hand over his face. God. He already sounded like the hero of a bad mystical story. “Never mind.”
“Max.”
“Lando.”
“What happened yesterday?”
Silence. Sunlight fell on the wet flowers. And the smell. Only now did Max realize he could still smell it. River water. Cold herbs. A summer night after rain. The smell was faint, but distinct. As if a piece of the river had been brought right into his room.
Max slowly sat down on the edge of the bed.
Before his eyes flashed again: silver eyes in the darkness, water rising onto the footbridge, and a voice: ‘What if I don’t want to let you go?’
Goosebumps ran down his skin.
“You look right now either like you’ve fallen in love or seen a ghost,” said Lando.
Max laughed shortly. Nervously. “What if it’s both?”
“Then that’s the worst-case scenario.”
They were silent for a moment.
Then Lando nodded carefully towards the wreath. “Well... at least it’s a pretty ghost?”
Max closed his eyes for a second. And, damn it, George immediately appeared before his inner gaze. Wet, light hair. Calm smile. Overly light eyes. And the way he looked – intently, patiently, as if he had already known Max for a long time. Something tightened strangely in his chest.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Lando looked at him for a few more seconds, then sighed. “Alright. But if you really got cursed on Kupala Night, I’m not living with you.”
“Thanks for the support.”
“Always welcome.” He put the mug on the table and left the room, muttering something about ‘creepy dramatic idiots’.
The door closed. Max was alone. The silence immediately became thicker. He slowly got up and walked back to the windowsill. The wreath lay motionless. Too real for a dream. Max carefully picked it up. Cold. Damp.
And when he turned it over, something tinkled softly between the stems. A tiny silver drop fell onto his palm. Not water. Something thicker. Viscous. Almost like mercury.
Max froze.
The drop trembled on his skin, reflecting the light. And then slowly melted away, as if it had never existed.
The room became very quiet.
Max looked at his own palm for a few more seconds. Then slowly clenched his fingers.
This had not been a dream. The thought came calmly. Without panic. Just a fact. And that made it much scarier.
Leaves stirred outside the window.
Max jerked his head up.
Wind. Just wind. But his heart still beat harder. He didn’t know why he walked closer to the window. The yard was empty. Sunny. An old apple tree. Grass. No one.
And yet, for a second, Max thought he saw something light flash between the trees. Wet. Motionless. He blinked – and the vision disappeared.
“God,” he exhaled quietly.
His hand still clenched the wreath. The flowers smelled of the river. That same night river – cold, dark, and alive.
Max slowly sat back down on the bed, not letting go of the wreath.
‘Will you come next year too?’ George’s voice sounded again in his memory, too clearly.
And the worst part was that Max already knew the answer. Even if he didn’t want to admit it.
That evening, he didn’t throw away the wreath. Nor the next day. And after three days, the flowers were still fresh. And they smelled of the river as strongly as they had that night.