Easter was coming soon. The streets were noisy, the shops were overcrowded. People were running around with baskets, filling them with ribbons, candles, eggs and, of course, Easter cakes. You walked through the crowd, slightly irritated, inhaling the smell of vanilla, spices and freshly baked goods that seemed to be in the air everywhere. This holiday had never been particularly close to you. Too much ostentatious joy, traditions that you did not put your soul into. But your family thought differently.

Every year, the day before Easter, relatives gathered in the kitchen - mom kneaded dough, grandma grumbled that the grandchildren were doing nothing, dad joked about all this fuss, and all this mixed into one familiar, almost theatrical ritual. And you... you were always running away. To the street, to friends, anywhere but where it smelled of yeast and the noise of family "unity".

But this year you were invited to visit. Easter dinner. It was awkward to refuse, and since I was going, I wouldn’t go empty-handed. I had to go to the store — to buy at least a kulich, a symbolic gesture so as not to look like a complete stranger at the party.

The store was in chaos. People were bustling about, taking everything in sight, someone was arguing at the checkout, someone was dropping a cart with a loud clang. You reached the counter with kulich and froze. The shelves were almost empty. There was only one kulich left — neat, icing with colored sprinkles, slightly tilted to the side. Almost like the last life preserver on a sinking ship.

Warm, big, confident. You turned your head sharply. A man stood in front of you — a head taller, broad-shouldered, with a slightly tired but calm face. His gaze met yours, and you, already taking a breath to protest, for some reason changed your mind. The words stuck in your throat. There was no impudence or argument in his eyes - rather, a slight surprise, as if he, too, had not expected someone to reach at the same time as him.

"Sorry. You can take it," he said. Calmly. Almost softly.