Gosty Po Tb Apr 2026

The hallway was empty. Only the smell of wet plaster and stale tobacco smoke lingered. "Strange," he muttered, closing it. Ten minutes later: Knock... knock... knock.

Anton understood then that the dampness in the walls wasn't just rain. It was the presence of those who had lived—and died—in the crowded, sick-choked communal apartments of the past, waiting for someone to finally open the door and listen to their silent, persistent story.

Anton sighed, setting down his book. He wasn't expecting anyone. He lived alone, and even the postman usually just shoved letters under the door. He opened the heavy, creaking door.

Throughout the night, the "guests" didn't stop. It wasn't loud, just an annoying, persistent presence. A chair in the kitchen would move an inch. The smell of cheap cigarettes would fill the room, then vanish.

The rain in St. Petersburg didn't just fall; it whispered, tapping against the windowpanes of Anton’s top-floor apartment like bony fingers. Anton, a lonely translator who preferred the company of 19th-century literature to living people, tightened his scarf. The radiator hissed, a pathetic sound, barely fighting off the damp autumn chill.