A Man from the Future
1856
Евгений Платонов

© Евгений Платонов, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-7138-0

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Title Page

A Man from the Future

A Novel

Author: Evgeniy Platonov

Language: English

Genre: Science Fiction / Philosophical
Fiction

Year: 2025

Dedication

To all those who ever dreamed of changing their life,

who felt trapped by circumstances,

and wondered if another path was possible.

To the dreamers who became pragmatists,

and to the pragmatists who never forgot their dreams.

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

This novel explores a question that has haunted me for years: What if we could travel back in time? But not just to witness history, but to live it. To understand how people in the past really thought, felt, and suffered.

The protagonist, Dmitry Komarov, is a man trapped between two worlds – the modern world that offers comfort but no meaning, and the past that offers struggle but purpose. His journey is a meditation on what we truly value in life.

This is both a story of time travel and a love letter to history itself. It’s an examination of whether changing the past can change us, and whether escaping our circumstances is possible, or if we carry ourselves with us wherever we go.

I invite you into Dmitry’s world. I hope his struggles will resonate with you, and that his journey might spark reflection on your own.

Warm regards,

Evgeniy Platonov

About the Author

Evgeniy is a marketer, philosopher, and author based in Moscow, Russia. When not exploring the corridors of commerce, he spends time with books, music, and the written word.

A passionate believer in the power of stories to transform how we understand ourselves and the world, Evgeniy writes at the intersection of philosophy, history, and speculative fiction.

“A Man from the Future” is his first novel – a project born from years of contemplation about time, choice, and the meaning of a life well-lived.

When not writing, you can find [Your Name]:

– Reading historical texts and philosophical works

– Listening to classical music

– Exploring the lesser-known corners of Russian history

– Marketing books and ideas to readers who might need them

For more information, visit: Telegram: t.me/evg_plat_books_en

Table of Contents

Part I. Life Before the Crossing

– Chapter 0. One Month Before

– I. September 17, 2025

– II. Lunch. Finally

– III. Night Thoughts

– IV. Midweek

– V. Childhood Memories

– VI. University Years

– VII. The Death of a Dream

– VIII. First Job

– IX. An Encounter with the Past

– X. A Last Hope

– XI. The Collapse of Hope

– XII. Friday

Part II. The Crossing

– Chapter 1. The Transition

– I. The Museum

– II. The Locked Room

– III. The Glasses

– IV. The Vision

– V. The Fall

– VI. The First Minutes

– VII. First Steps in the Nineteenth Century

– VIII. First Meeting

– IX. Loss of Consciousness

– X. Comprehension

– XI. A Plan for Survival

– XII. The First Night

Part III. Life in the Nineteenth Century

– Chapter 2. The First Weeks

– Chapter 3. Hunger and Transformation

– Chapter 4. Finding Your Place

– Chapter 5. The Circle Expands

– Chapter 6. Knowledge and Power

– Chapter 7. A Man from Another World

– Chapter 8. The Meeting

– Chapter 9. Consequences

– Chapter 10. The Fire

– Chapter 11. Choices

– Chapter 12. Redemption

– Chapter 13. Two Times

– Chapter 14. The Return

– Chapter 15. The Ending

Copyright Information

© 2025 Evgeniy Platonov. All rights reserved.

Published by Self-Published

First Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN: [To be assigned]

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank:

– My family for their patience during the long hours spent writing and rewriting this novel

– My readers and friends who offered feedback, encouragement, and critical insights

– The authors and philosophers whose works informed this story: Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and countless others

– The city of St. Petersburg, which inspired much of this work’s setting and atmosphere

– Everyone who has ever felt that their life was someone else’s story – this book is for you

A Man from the Future

A Novel

Part 1. Life Before the Crossing

Chapter 0. One Month Before

September 17, 2025, Monday, 09:47

Dmitry Komarov sat at his desk in an open-plan office on the twenty-third floor of a business center, staring at his monitor without seeing a thing. The screen glowed with the white light of an Excel spreadsheet, rows of numbers blurring before his eyes. He was supposed to have the quarterly report finished by ten, but his hands wouldn’t obey. His fingers had frozen above the keyboard.

His right hand reached mechanically for the phone lying next to the mouse. To check notifications. Even though he’d checked a minute ago. Even though there was nothing important there, and couldn’t be.

Behind him, the office hummed – a hundred people locked in one enormous hall. The clatter of keyboards, the rustle of papers, muffled phone conversations, someone’s nervous coughing. The coffee machine hissed and gurgled in the corner. The air conditioning ran at full blast, pushing dry, dead air around the room. Something synthetic hung in the air – air freshener, plastic, burnt-out electronics.

By lunchtime, his neck had stiffened – he’d spent all day looking at the monitor from the same angle. Text neck, the doctors call it. The office worker’s disease. The disease of the twenty-first century.

Dmitry raised his eyes and looked out the window. His right hand reached mechanically for the phone lying next to the mouse. To check notifications. Even though he’d checked a minute ago. Even though there was nothing important there, and couldn’t be. St. Petersburg sprawled below – gray, endless, indifferent. Glass and concrete skyscrapers, billboards, roads choked with cars. November. Wet snow that melts before it can land. A sky the color of dirty cotton. Not a single bright spot, not a single living detail. Everything the same as always. Everything the same as yesterday. Everything the same as it would be tomorrow.

He was twenty-five years old – an age when, according to everyone around him, life was just beginning. “Young, promising, everything ahead of you,” his parents, friends, and colleagues all said. But Dmitry didn’t feel that way. He felt like life had already passed. Or, more precisely, that he was living not his own life, but someone else’s, following someone else’s script.

A mid-level manager at an IT company. Salary of a hundred and eighty thousand rubles a month – not bad for twenty-five, everyone said. Forty of that went to rent for a studio apartment on the outskirts, twenty to car payments, another thirty to food and utilities. The rest went to “living,” if you could call it that. Once a year – a vacation in Turkey or Egypt, all-inclusive, two weeks on the beach where he tried to forget about the office but couldn’t. He’d come back tanned, rested – and within three days feel the same exhaustion, the same apathy, the same emptiness.

What am I doing here? he thought, not for the first time that week, that month, those last three years. What’s the point of any of this?

Once, back in school, he’d dreamed of becoming a historian. He read thick books – about Ancient Rome, the Middle Ages, Rus, revolutions. He imagined himself as an archaeologist excavating ancient cities, finding artifacts, reconstructing the past. Or a scholar writing a dissertation on how people lived a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years ago. He loved understanding why the world was the way it was. Why people kept making the same mistakes. Why history repeated itself like a worn-out record.

Getting into the university’s history department felt like a breath of fresh air for Dmitry. Finally, he was among people who found the same things fascinating! Professor Boris Nikolaevich Krylov – gray-haired, stern, with piercing eyes – taught the course on medieval history. His lectures weren’t just recitations of facts; they were true one-man theater.

“History,” Professor Krylov would say, “is not a collection of dates and names. It is living people, living destinies.”

In his third year, Dmitry met Katya – a tall, slender girl with black braids and dark eyes, studying art history. They met in the library, where both of them stayed late preparing for seminars.

“You’re always reading about wars and politics,” she said one day, glancing at his notes. “But there’s another history too – a history of beauty, creativity, the human spirit.”

“But aren’t they the same thing?” Dmitry asked, surprised. “Can you really understand an era without knowing what music people listened to, what paintings they created, what they believed in?”

That was how their relationship began – first as friends, then something more. They went to museums together, to exhibitions, to the theater. Katya opened up a world he hadn’t even known existed – a world of subtle emotions, poetry, philosophical reflection.

Katya, Dmitry thought with pain. The only girl I ever truly loved. And the one I lost through my own foolishness.

They dated for two years. Dmitry was happier than he’d ever been. They dreamed about the future: getting married after graduation, working together, traveling, writing books.

“We were made for each other,” he’d tell Katya. “We share the same interests, the same dreams. After university, we’ll get married, work together, do research, teach.”

“Don’t rush, Dima,” she would smile. “We’re still young, there’s so much interesting stuff ahead.”

But in his fourth year, something changed. Katya grew colder, they met less often, and they ran out of things to talk about. Dmitry tried to understand what was happening, but she answered evasively: “Nothing special, just busy, exams are coming up.”

One day he saw her in a café with another guy – tall, confident, in an expensive blazer. Dmitry walked over.

“Katya, I need to talk to you.”

“Dima, don’t,” she avoided his gaze. “We’ve already talked about everything. You understand…”

“No, I don’t understand,” he replied. “Explain it to me, please.”

“We’re just too different, Dima. You’re still dreaming about the Middle Ages, about some old books, about the past. But I want to live in the here and now. I want a career, money, a normal life.”

“What about love? What about dreams?”

“Dreams are for children. Adults think about money. I’m sorry.”

And then an acquaintance suggested:

“Dima, drop this history stuff. Come work at my company. IT. We’ll train you, show you the ropes. Starting salary fifty, eighty after six months. Think about it.”

And Dmitry went. Because he had to pay rent. Because his parents were tired of repeating: “When are you going to start making real money? Dead people’s traditions! You’d be better off learning programming or English. At least that pays.”

Money, money, money… Dmitry thought. For my parents, nothing existed except money. Dad worked as an engineer at a factory, Mom as an accountant at an office. Honest, hardworking people, but so gray, so faceless. They lived their whole lives without understanding anything about it, without feeling anything.

He barely noticed five years passing. How he turned into a systems administrator, then a manager. How he gave in. How he stopped arguing with reality.

But along with the salary, the apartment, and the car came something else – a feeling that he had betrayed himself. That once there had been a dream, a purpose, a belief that life was more than just money and career. And now he had become just like everyone else. Wake up at seven, commute to the office, sit eight hours in front of a monitor, come home, eat dinner in front of the TV, go to bed. And so on every day. Until retirement. Until death.

Maybe this is what growing up is, he thought. Maybe this is how everyone lives. Maybe dreams are for children, and adults have to be practical.

But for some reason, this thought made him afraid. Physically afraid, as if his throat were tightening, he couldn’t get enough air, the walls were closing in.

“Dima, you coming to the stand-up?” a colleague called out, walking past with a cardboard coffee cup in hand.

Dmitry flinched, snapped back to reality.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he answered automatically, without turning around.

The colleague walked on. Dmitry stayed seated. He glanced at the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen: 09:52. Meeting at 10:00. He had to go. Grab the printed report, his notebook, a pen. Sit in the conference room, listen to the boss talk about plans for the quarter, about KPIs, about development strategy. Nod. Pretend it all mattered.

The phone on the desk vibrated. A message from the boss:

“Stand-up postponed to 10:30. Prepare a presentation on the project.”

Dmitry exhaled. Another half hour. He opened PowerPoint and began dragging slides around. Added a graph, a chart, a bulleted list. Everything polished, professional, meaningless.

Why? he thought again. Why does anyone need this?

November 17, 2025, Monday, 14:10

2. Lunch. Finally

Dmitry left the office, took the elevator down, pushed open the heavy glass door, and stepped outside. Moscow greeted him with cold wind, wet snow, and the roar of traffic. He zipped his jacket up to his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started walking – where, he didn’t know. He just walked.

Usually he ate in the office cafeteria – quick, cheap, convenient. Soup, a main course, compote, three hundred rubles. But today he couldn’t. Today he needed to get away from here, far from the office, from his colleagues, from the endless conversations about projects, deadlines, reports.

He walked along Tverskaya, past shop windows, past cafés, past pedestrians buried in their smartphones. Everyone was rushing somewhere. Everyone was busy. Everyone knew what they were living for.

And him?

Dmitry stopped at a traffic light and looked at the people around him. A woman in her thirties in a business suit, phone pressed to her ear, talking fast, agitated. A guy in a hoodie with headphones, nodding to the beat of the music. An elderly man with a cane, slowly crossing the street, not looking around. All different, but all the same. All living in the same system, by the same rules. Work – home – work – home. Day after day. Year after year.

Is this really how I’m going to live my whole life? he thought, and the thought made him sick.

He remembered himself at seventeen. Bright eyes, dreams, faith that the world could be changed. He’d wanted to become a historian, to write books, to tell people about the past, to teach them to understand the present. He’d wanted to be useful, important, needed. Not for money, but for meaning.

And now? A manager. Reports in Excel. Presentations in PowerPoint. Meetings where everyone talked a lot but decided little. A salary that went to rent, food, loan payments. And at the end of the month – nothing left.

I sold my dream for a hundred and eighty thousand a month, he thought, and the thought was bitter as wormwood.

He kept walking, not noticing where. Past a square, past a monument, past theaters. The snow fell thicker, clinging to his hair, melting on his face. It was cold, but Dmitry didn’t feel it. He was somewhere far away, in his thoughts, in his past that would never return.

What if I’d finished my degree? he thought. What if I’d stayed in the history department? Finished my studies, defended my thesis, completed graduate school? I’d have lived hand to mouth, but I’d have been doing what I loved. I’d have lectured to students, written articles, gone on archaeological digs. Would I have been happy?

But immediately another voice in his head answered: No. You’d have been broke. You’d have lived in a dormitory, survived on instant noodles, couldn’t have afforded anything. No car, no apartment, no vacations. No girlfriend – what girl would want to date a poor lecturer?

And it was true. Bitter, but true.

So there was no choice? he asked himself. Did I do the right thing?

Then why did it hurt so much? Why the emptiness inside?

3. Night Thoughts

At night he couldn’t sleep. He lay with his eyes open and thought. Thought about how life was passing, and he hadn’t done anything. Twenty-five years – a quarter of a century! – and what did he have? No family, no home of his own, no job he loved, not even real friends.

Friends, he thought bitterly. Who are my friends? Maxim from the office, who I say hello to every day but never talk to about anything personal? The guys from the reenactors’ forum, who I last saw a year ago? Classmates who’ve all scattered, started families, and who I only talk to through social media?

He got out of bed and walked to the window. Outside it was dark and empty. Only the streetlamps glowed with dim yellow light, and somewhere in the distance advertising signs blinked.

St. Petersburg, he thought. City of great writers, poets, artists. The city that Pushkin and Dostoevsky celebrated. And for me it’s just a place where I’m stuck. Gray, cold, indifferent.

He remembered reading Crime and Punishment in university. Raskolnikov had also lived in St. Petersburg, had also suffered, had also been unable to find his place. But Raskolnikov at least had an idea, even if it was insane. And Dmitry – what? He didn’t even have an idea. Just emptiness.

Raskolnikov wanted to test whether he was “a trembling creature or whether he had the right,” Dmitry reflected. But I don’t even ask myself such questions. I just exist. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep. And so on every day. I’m not even a trembling creature anymore – I’m nobody at all.

Suddenly a terrifying thought came to him: What if I die tomorrow? What will be left of me? Who will remember me? My colleagues will say: “Oh, Dima died? Too bad, he was good at fixing computers.” My parents will cry and feel guilty that they didn’t keep in touch. Friends who’ll genuinely grieve – none. No wife, no children. No mark on history. I’ll just disappear – and that’s it.

The thought was so frightening that Dmitry felt a panic attack beginning. His heart beat faster, his breathing became ragged, his hands trembled.

Calm down, calm down, he tried to get a grip on himself. These are just night thoughts. It’ll be easier in the morning. It’s always easier in the morning.

But he knew it wouldn’t be easier in the morning. In the morning it would be the same thing – hatred for the sound of the alarm, not wanting to get up, dread at the thought of work. And so on until the end of his life.

No, he suddenly thought with unexpected clarity. No, I can’t live like this. I have to change something. I have to! But what? What can I change? Quit? And live on what? Find another job? But it’s the same everywhere. Move to another city? But does geography really change anything?

He went back to bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts swirled in his head, refusing to let him sleep.

Finally, toward morning, he fell into a restless sleep, full of strange dreams about medieval castles, knightly tournaments, and some incomprehensible events.

4. Midweek

Wednesday started even worse. Dmitry overslept – the alarm had turned itself off, or he’d hit the button in his sleep and drifted off again. He woke up in a panic at eight in the morning, realizing he was late.

The first thing Dmitry did when he opened his eyes was reach for the phone on the nightstand. He hadn’t gotten up yet, hadn’t washed his face, but he was already scrolling through the news feed. A terrorist attack somewhere in the Middle East. A political scandal. A highway accident. Sticky anxiety crept into his chest before he’d even gotten out of bed.

He washed hurriedly, got dressed, ran out of the house without breakfast. The metro was even more crowded than usual. He squeezed into the packed car, feeling someone’s elbow digging into his ribs and someone’s bag pressing against his leg.

The car was jammed. Dmitry pressed his back against the door and took out his phone. Opened social network. The feed – endless, garish, someone else’s. Maxim in Dubai, against the backdrop of a skyscraper. Sveta showing off the keys to her new apartment. Andrei with his wife at a restaurant, candles, wine, smiles.

Dmitry knew it was an illusion – people only posted their best moments. But knowing didn’t help. Every time he scrolled through the feed, he felt it: his life was gray, boring, wrong. And theirs – bright, full, real.

Something clenched inside him.

God, how much longer? he thought, suffocating in the stuffiness. How much longer do I have to live in this hell? Metro, office, metro, home. And no light at the end.

He burst into the office at nine-twenty, breathless and disheveled. The supervisor, Igor Vladimirovich, was sitting in the conference room and looked pointedly at his watch.

“Dmitry, you’re late.”

“Sorry, Igor Vladimirovich, there was traffic,” Dmitry lied.

“Traffic,” the supervisor repeated skeptically. “I see. Try not to be late again. We have an important meeting at ten today.”

An important meeting, Dmitry thought sarcastically. Where ten people will spend an hour and a half discussing what color buttons to choose for a new interface for a program that nobody’s going to use anyway.

The meeting really was excruciating. An hour and a half of useless talk, during which Dmitry struggled not to fall asleep. They talked about the new project, about deadlines, about budgets, about tasks. All of it was uninteresting, boring, and pointless.

Why am I here? he thought, pretending to listen attentively. Why do I need any of this? I never wanted to work in IT. I wanted to study history, to teach, to write articles, maybe books. And instead I’m sitting in a meeting about button colors.

After the meeting, he was called to see the director – a young guy, about thirty, who’d built his career thanks to his father’s connections and considered himself a brilliant manager.

“Dmitry,” the director began, “I wanted to talk to you about your work.”

Oh no, Dmitry thought. Here comes the talk about efficiency, about KPIs, about how I’m not motivated enough.

“You see, we have some concerns about your productivity,” the director continued, leafing through some papers. “You’ve been less active lately, less proactive. Colleagues are complaining that you don’t always respond quickly to their requests.”

Colleagues are complaining? Dmitry fumed internally. I spend all day doing nothing but solving their problems! I don’t have a single minute to work on my own tasks!

“I’m doing my best, Igor Vladimirovich,” he replied politely out loud. “But I have a lot of tasks, and I can’t always keep up.”

“I understand, I understand,” the director nodded. “But we need more output. You know, we’re thinking of introducing a performance bonus system. Those who work better get more. Those who work worse – correspondingly, less.”

So they want to cut my salary, Dmitry realized. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

“Fine, I’ll try to work more efficiently,” he said, feeling something boiling inside.

“Excellent!” the director said happily. “I believe in you, Dmitry. You’re a good specialist, you just need a little more motivation.”

Walking out of the office, Dmitry felt he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t keep playing this game, pretending he found any of this interesting, that he was motivated, that he was ready to work “more efficiently.”

I’m quitting, he suddenly decided. Right now I’m writing my resignation and leaving. To hell with this job, to hell with this director, to hell with all of it.

But then he remembered the rented apartment, remembered he had to pay for housing, for food, for internet, for his phone. And he realized he couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to live on.

I’m trapped, he realized with horror. In a real trap. I can’t leave because I need money. I can’t stay because I’m losing my mind. What do I do? What do I do?!

5. Childhood Memories

Dmitry spent Friday evening at home, lying on the couch and mindlessly flipping through TV channels. But his thoughts were far away – in the past, in a childhood that now seemed somehow unreal, as if from someone else’s life.

When did everything change? he thought. When did I become like this? I was a child once, I dreamed about things, I was happy about things. When did it end?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember himself as a little boy. There he was, seven-year-old Mitya, sitting in an armchair at his grandfather Sergei Ivanovich’s place, listening to stories about the war, about the siege, about how people died of hunger but never surrendered.

“Could you have died for the Motherland, Grandpa?” little Dmitry would ask.

“I could have, grandson,” Grandpa would answer, stroking his head. “Because there are things more precious than life. Honor, conscience, love for your people.”

Honor, conscience, love for your people, the adult Dmitry thought bitterly. And what do I have? I update antivirus software and get paid for it. Where’s the honor in that? Where’s the conscience? Where’s the love for something greater than my own belly?

Grandpa died when Dmitry was twelve. In his final years the old man had been ill, but until his very death he kept a clear mind and a love of books. He had an enormous library – shelves from floor to ceiling, filled with historical works, memoirs, fiction.

“Mitya,” Grandpa would say, “books are the only thing that remains of a person after death. Not money, not things – but thoughts, ideas, feelings that he managed to pass on to others.”

And what will remain of me? Dmitry thought painfully. I haven’t written any books, haven’t passed on any ideas. I haven’t even had children who might remember something about me.

After Grandpa’s death, his parents sold the apartment and the library. “Nobody needs these old books,” his mother said. “Better to get money, spend it on your education.” That was when twelve-year-old Dmitry felt real pain for the first time in his life – not physical, but spiritual. He understood that his closest person was gone, and everything that remained of him was being sold off.

Maybe that’s when it started? he reflected. When I understood that everything in this world is temporary, that people die, and their legacy gets sold for money?

At thirteen, Dmitry discovered historical films. First it was Soviet classics – Alexander Nevsky, Ivan the Terrible, War and Peace. Then American ones – Braveheart, Gladiator, Kingdom of Heaven.

He watched and envied the heroes of the past. They lived in an era when you could perform great deeds, fight for justice, die for an idea. And what had fallen to him? An age of consumption, where the main goal was to make money and buy something new.

That’s when the dream was born, he remembered. To travel to another time, another era. To become a knight or a warrior, to defend the weak, to fight injustice. Childish dreams, naive, stupid.

In high school he took up historical reenactment. At first he just went to festivals to watch, then tried his hand as a squire, and by graduation he had his own armor and sword.

“Mitya, enough playing war!” his father would say. “You’re an adult now, you’ll be going to the army soon, and you’re still playing at knights.”

“It’s not a game, Dad,” Dmitry tried to explain. “It’s studying history, culture, traditions.”

“What traditions?” his father would snap. “Dead people’s traditions! You’d be better off learning programming or English. At least that pays.”

Money, money, money, Dmitry thought. For my parents, nothing existed except money. Dad worked as an engineer at a factory, Mom as an accountant at an office. Honest, hardworking people, but so gray, so faceless. They lived their whole lives without understanding anything about it, without feeling anything.

6. University Years

Getting into the university’s history department felt like a breath of fresh air for Dmitry. Finally, he was among people who found the same things fascinating! Professor Boris Nikolaevich Krylov – gray-haired, stern, with piercing eyes – taught the course on medieval history. His lectures weren’t just recitations of facts; they were true one-man theater. He could tell the story of the Crusades or the fall of Constantinople in a way that sent shivers down students’ spines.

“History,” Professor Krylov would say, “is not a collection of dates and names. It is living people who loved, suffered, made mistakes, performed great deeds. And if you don’t feel this, if you can’t imagine yourself in their place – you’re not historians, just rote learners.”

How right he was! Dmitry thought. I really could imagine myself in the place of a medieval knight or a Byzantine emperor. I felt their joys and pains, their fears and hopes. And now? Now I don’t even feel my own emotions.

In his second year he met Katya Shipilova – a delicate girl with huge dark eyes who was studying art history. They met in the library, where both of them stayed late preparing for seminars.

Katya, Dmitry thought with pain. The only girl I ever truly loved. And the one I lost through my own foolishness.

They dated for two years – sophomore and junior year. Dmitry was happier than he’d ever been. He felt he had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood him without words.

Anton Veselsky, Dmitry remembered his rival’s name. Son of wealthy parents, future businessman. Confident, successful, with prospects. And what was I? A failed historian dreaming about the dead past.

He walked over to their table. Katya went pale, and Anton stood and extended his hand:

“You must be Dima? Katya told me about you.”

“Told you?” Dmitry repeated, feeling everything burning inside. “And what did she tell you?”

“That you two were friends,” Anton replied calmly. “And that you’re really into history.”

Friends, Dmitry repeated to himself. Two years of a relationship turned into “friendship.” Two years of love erased from memory like an unwanted recording.

“Katya, I need to talk to you,” he said quietly.

“Dima, don’t,” she avoided his gaze. “We’ve already talked about everything. You understand…”

“No, I don’t understand,” he replied. “Explain it to me, please.”

They went outside, and there, under the cold St. Petersburg sky, Katya said the words he would remember for the rest of his life:

“Dima, you’re a good person, but you live in the past. Dead knights are more interesting to you than living people. You dream about heroic deeds and don’t see what’s happening right next to you. And I don’t want to live in a museum.”

In a museum, he repeated now, lying on the couch. She said I live in a museum. And she was right. Even then, in my fourth year, I was a living exhibit. And now I’m just a sphinx.

7. The Death of a Dream

After breaking up with Katya, Dmitry threw himself into his studies. He wrote term papers, prepared for exams, participated in academic conferences. It seemed like the pain was subsiding, like life was going on.

In his fifth year he began work on his thesis: “Chivalric Culture in the Era of the Crusades.” His advisor was Professor Krylov, who highly valued Dmitry’s abilities.

“You have talent, young man,” he would say. “You know how to not just study facts, but feel an era. That’s a rare quality. After you defend your thesis, I’ll recommend you for graduate school.”

Graduate school, Dmitry dreamed back then. Then a doctoral dissertation, teaching, academic work. There it is, my destiny, my calling.

He defended his thesis with honors. The committee praised his work, Professor Krylov was pleased, his parents finally felt proud of their son.

“So, historian,” his father said after the defense, “now you’ll teach at the university?”

“First graduate school, Dad,” Dmitry explained. “And then, if everything works out, I’ll become a lecturer.”

“And how much does it pay?” his mother asked practically.

“Not much for now,” Dmitry admitted. “But it’s a calling, Mom. It’s what makes life worth living.”

A calling, he smirked bitterly in the present. How naive I was.

He was indeed accepted into graduate school. The first year went well – he studied primary sources, wrote articles, presented at conferences. Professor Krylov supported him, gave valuable advice, introduced him to colleagues from other cities.

But in the second year of graduate school, something happened that turned his whole life upside down. Professor Krylov suddenly died of a heart attack – right in the middle of a lecture, collapsed at the blackboard and never got up. For Dmitry it wasn’t just the loss of an academic advisor – it was like losing a father, a mentor, the only person who believed in him.

“What do I do now?” he asked the department chair. “Who will be my advisor?”

“We’ll see,” the chair answered vaguely. “We’ll find someone.”

They found a new advisor – a young associate professor named Petrov, who specialized in twentieth-century Russian history and understood little about the Middle Ages. The very first meeting showed they wouldn’t be able to work together.

“Your topic is too narrow,” Petrov declared. “Chivalric culture isn’t relevant. You’d better switch to something more contemporary. I can offer you a topic on the history of nineteenth-century industry.”

“But I’ve spent three years studying the Middle Ages!” Dmitry objected. “I already have research, sources, a dissertation plan!”

“The sources will stay in the archives,” Petrov replied coldly. “But you need to think about your career. Nobody’s interested in the Middle Ages. But industry – that’s an in-demand topic.”

*An in-demand topic,* Dmitry remembered with disgust. *Everything has to be in-demand, relevant, useful. But beauty, poetry, the human spirit – those aren’t relevant.*

He tried to find another advisor, but everywhere he was turned down. The Middle Ages really was of no interest to anyone – everyone was working on either contemporary topics or “relevant” historical periods.

After six months of struggle, Dmitry realized that graduate school was over for him. He wrote a letter of withdrawal and left the university.

*That’s when something broke inside me,* he thought. *The dream I’d lived with since childhood had collapsed. And I couldn’t find anything to replace it.*

***

8. First Job

After university, a dark period began. Dmitry tried to find work in his field, but everywhere they demanded experience he didn’t have. He didn’t want to work as a history teacher in a school – the salary was pathetic and there were no prospects.

“Maybe you could get a job at a museum?” his mother suggested. “You do know history.”

He did try to get a job at a museum. He went through several interviews, but everywhere they said the same thing: “There are no openings, but we’ll keep you in mind.”

*Keep me in mind, sure,* he thought sarcastically. *The same people who worked in museums twenty years ago are still there. They don’t hire new ones.*

Money was running out, his parents started hinting that it was time their son started supporting himself. And so Dmitry took a desperate step – he enrolled in a retraining course in computer technology.

*If you can’t do what you love,* he reasoned back then, *you have to do what pays.*

The course lasted six months. He studied operating systems, networks, programming. It went pretty well – he had a technical mind, and he had enough persistence for anything.

After finishing the course, he was hired as a systems administrator at a small IT company. The salary was decent for those times – three times what teachers or museum workers made.

“You see,” his mother rejoiced, “how good it is that you retrained! Now you have stable work, good money.”

*Stable work,* he repeated. *Good money. But what is a good life? That question didn’t interest Mom.*

The first months of work went fine. The novelty, the need to dig into details, to learn new technologies – all of it distracted from sad thoughts. Dmitry even began to think that maybe he would find himself in this new profession.

But soon the routine swallowed him. Every day the same tasks: set up a computer, fix a printer, update a program, solve an internet problem. Nothing creative, nothing interesting – just technology and more technology.

*I’ve become support staff,* he realized. *Just an appendage to machines. People bring me their technical problems, I solve them, I get paid for it. That’s my whole life.*

Sometimes he tried to remember what he’d dreamed about in university. Historical research, teaching, an academic career – all of it now seemed like a fairy tale from childhood.

*Maybe it’s for the best?* he tried to convince himself. *Maybe I was just overestimating my abilities? Maybe I wouldn’t have become a good historian anyway?*

But these attempts at self-deception didn’t help. Deep inside, he knew he had betrayed himself, his dream, his calling. And there was no escaping that knowledge.

***

9. An Encounter with the Past

Three years ago, already working as a systems administrator, Dmitry happened to run into a former classmate on the street – Sergei Mikhailov, who had stayed in academia and earned his PhD in history.

“Dima!” Sergei said happily. “It’s been ages! How are you? Where are you working?”

“At an IT company,” Dmitry answered vaguely. “And you, still doing research?”

“Yeah, defended my dissertation, now I’m an associate professor,” Sergei announced proudly. “Teaching students, writing articles. Remember how we dreamed of becoming historians? I made it!”

*He made it,* Dmitry thought with envy. *And I didn’t. Why? What did I do wrong?*

“What are you studying?” he asked.

“The history of nineteenth-century industry,” Sergei replied. “It’s a relevant topic, in demand. They give grants, send you on research trips.”

*Nineteenth-century industry,* Dmitry thought with disgust. *The very topic Petrov suggested to me. So if I’d agreed, I could have become a PhD too.*

“Do you remember Professor Krylov?” Sergei asked. “Shame he died. He was a good teacher.”

“I remember,” Dmitry answered briefly.

“They say he really praised you. Too bad you left graduate school. You could have become a scholar too.”

*Could have become,* Dmitry repeated to himself. *If I’d agreed to study industry instead of knights. If I’d compromised my principles, betrayed my dream. But back then I was still proud, still thought principles mattered more than bread.*

After that encounter, Dmitry walked around in a fog for several days. He understood he’d made the wrong choice, but there was no going back. Time had passed, opportunities were lost.

*Three years ago I still had a chance to change everything,* he thought then. *Re-enroll in graduate school, agree to any topic, just to stay in academia. But I was too proud, too principled. And now I’m twenty-five, and it’s too late to start over.*

***

10. A Last Hope

A week ago – it was December 10th – something happened that for a moment gave Dmitry hope again. An email arrived from a certain Anna Vladimirovna Korshunova, director of a private historical center called “Chronos.”

“Dear Dmitry Sergeevich!” she wrote. “We know about your education and your interest in medieval history. We have an opening for a research associate to work on a project about the history of the Crusades. Would you be able to come in for an interview?”

*This can’t be,* Dmitry thought, reading the letter. *How do they know about me? And what kind of center is this?*

He found the “Chronos” website online – a solid organization that conducted historical research for museums and private collectors. The salary, judging by their job postings, was even higher than what he made now.

What if I try? he thought. What if fate is giving me one last chance?

The next day he went to the interview. The center was located in a beautiful building in the city center, the offices were tastefully decorated, and reproductions of medieval miniatures hung on the walls. Anna Vladimirovna turned out to be an elegant woman in her mid-forties, a doctor of historical sciences and former employee of the Hermitage.

“We know about your thesis,” she said. “Professor Krylov spoke very highly of you. He showed me your work while he was still alive.”

“How do you know Professor Krylov?” Dmitry asked, surprised.

“We were colleagues, worked together on a project. He said you were one of his most talented students. It’s a shame you left graduate school.”

Talented students, Dmitry thought. So not everything was lost. So those years studying history weren’t for nothing.

“What kind of project do you have?” he asked.

“We’re preparing a large exhibition on the history of the Crusades,” Anna Vladimirovna explained. “We need research, translations of primary sources, catalog writing. It’s interesting, creative work.”

Creative work, Dmitry repeated dreamily to himself. The thing I’ve dreamed about my whole life.

The interview went beautifully. Dmitry talked about his research, answered all the questions, even quoted several passages from medieval chronicles from memory.

“You’re a good fit for us,” Anna Vladimirovna said at the end. “We’re ready to offer you the job. Think about it and give us an answer by Monday.”

By Monday, Dmitry repeated. That’s December 17th, a week away. Could it really work out?

He left the center elated. For the first time in many years, he had real hope. Work in his field, a decent salary, the opportunity to do what interested him.

I’ll call Monday and accept, he decided. Finally my life will change for the better.

11. The Collapse of Hope

But on Thursday, December 15, 2023, something happened that he never expected. Anna Vladimirovna called him with news that was a blow:

“Dmitry Sergeevich, unfortunately I have to give you bad news. Our foreign sponsor has withdrawn funding for the project. The exhibition is being postponed indefinitely.”

“What do you mean, postponed?” Dmitry didn’t understand.

“Economic crisis, you understand. People prefer not to spend money on culture. Possibly in a year or two the situation will change.”

In a year or two, he repeated. And what will I do for those one or two years? Update antivirus software again?

“Is there perhaps another project?” he asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately not,” Anna Vladimirovna answered sadly. “It all depends on the sponsors, and they’re being cautious right now.”

After that call, Dmitry felt that something inside him had broken irreparably. The last hope died, the last chance to change his life disappeared.

That’s it, he thought. There won’t be any more chances. I’m stuck in this life forever.

He spent the remaining days off in complete despair. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, just lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling. He lied to his parents that everything was fine, told himself he’d go to work Monday as if nothing had happened.

There’s my fate, he thought. Systems administrator for the rest of my days. No history, no creativity, no meaning. Just existence.

And now, December 17th, Monday, he was walking along the embankment thinking the same thoughts.

The week at work had passed like a blur. He performed his duties mechanically, didn’t talk to anyone, just waited for the end of the day.

Twenty-five years, he counted for the hundredth time. Half a life lived, and what have I done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He came to the museum – that old building he passed every day. Today, for some reason, he felt like going inside.

Why not? he thought. I’ll forget this gray reality for an hour. I’ll see how people lived in the past, when life had meaning.

12. Friday

By Friday, Dmitry was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The whole week had passed in a fog – he worked on autopilot, communicated with colleagues mechanically, came home and collapsed on the couch in complete exhaustion.

This can’t go on, he thought. I can’t live like this. I have to change something. But what? What?!

Friday evening he was walking home along the Neva embankment – he’d decided to walk, to get some air. October was cold and overcast, the wind from the river cut through to the bone, but Dmitry didn’t notice the cold. He walked and thought, thought, thought.

Twenty-five years, he counted. If I live to seventy – and that’s an optimistic estimate – I have forty-five years left. Forty-five years of this life. Forty-five years of work I hate. Forty-five years of loneliness. Forty-five years of despair.

He stopped and looked at the murky waters of the Neva. The river flowed slowly, heavily, carrying the reflections of city lights within it.

What if I jumped? he suddenly thought. Just jumped into this cold water and ended it all? No more hated work, no more loneliness, no more this despair that eats away from inside.

He even walked closer to the railing, looked down. The water was dark, cold, terrifying.

No, he suddenly thought. No, I can’t. Not because I’m afraid of death. But because it would mean I gave up. That life defeated me. And I don’t want to give up. I don’t!

He turned away from the railing and continued. Ahead he could see the museum building – an old eighteenth-century mansion that had recently reopened after restoration. Dmitry passed it every day but had never gone inside.

Why not? he thought. I’ll go in, see how people lived in the past. I’ll forget this gray reality for at least an hour.

He turned toward the museum, climbed the steps, and pushed open the heavy door.

Part 2. The Crossing

1. The Transition

1. The Museum

Dmitry pushed open the heavy museum door and stepped inside. The door closed with a creak. Silence fell upon him like water – thick, dense, almost tangible. Outside the windows the city hummed, cars roared, people rushed, but here, behind these old walls, time seemed to have stopped.

Like in a church, he thought. The same solemn silence, the same feeling that you’ve entered another world.

In the foyer, behind an old writing desk, sat an elderly woman in glasses, reading something. When she saw the visitor, she looked up and smiled in greeting, but somehow strangely – as if she’d known him for a long time.

“Good evening, young man,” she said in a quiet voice. “Is this your first time with us?”

“Yes,” Dmitry answered, reaching for his wallet. “How much is admission?”

“Three hundred rubles,” she said, handing him a small ticket on thick yellowish paper, the kind they used to make long ago. “Come in. The exhibition is on the second floor. But please, don’t touch anything with your hands.”

Don’t touch anything, echoed in his head. Like I’m a child.

Dmitry climbed the wide wooden staircase with carved railings. The steps creaked under his feet – a pleasant, cozy creak of old wood. On the walls hung portraits in heavy gilded frames: men in uniforms, women in evening gowns, children with serious faces. They all looked at him with a particular, almost living attentiveness.

Funny, Dmitry thought. Dead people who lived two hundred years ago, and it seems to me they see right through me. That they know something about me that I don’t know myself.

On the second floor the exhibition began. The first room was devoted to the eighteenth century – the time of Catherine the Great. In the display cases lay old fans, snuffboxes, gloves, journals. On mannequins were dressed gowns and coats. In the corner stood a harpsichord – a real one, not a replica – and Dmitry involuntarily imagined someone playing it while ladies in full skirts danced a minuet.

That’s when people knew how to live, he thought, slowly going around the cases. Unhurried, beautifully, with dignity. Not like now – everyone’s running somewhere, fussing, never keeping up. And for what? To make money? Buy a new phone? Take a vacation once a year?

In the second room were objects from the nineteenth century – an era he knew best. There were books in antique bindings, writing implements, photographs in oval frames. Dmitry stopped at a display case with books and read the titles on the spines: Мертвые души (Dead Souls) by Gogol, Герой нашего времени (A Hero of Our Time) by Lermontov, Отцы и дети (Fathers and Sons) by Turgenev.

First editions, he thought respectfully. How old are they? A hundred and fifty years? A hundred and sixty? And they’re still here, still alive, still able to tell their stories.

Further on were household items: samovars, candlesticks, lamps, dishes. On the wall hung a clock – large, round, with Roman numerals and a heavy pendulum. It was running – ticking steadily, solemnly, marking time that was long gone.

A paradox, Dmitry thought. A clock showing time that no longer exists. But it still runs, still ticks. For what? For whom?

2. The Locked Room

At the end of the second room he noticed a small door – old, dark, with a tarnished brass handle. Beside it hung a sign: “Staff Area. Admission Forbidden.”

I wonder what’s in there? Dmitry thought. Probably a storage room or something.

He was about to move on, but suddenly heard a strange sound – quiet, barely perceptible, like a whisper or breathing. The sound came from behind the door.

A hallucination, he decided. Or maybe a draft.

But the sound repeated – and this time he clearly made out the words, spoken quietly but distinctly:

“Enter… enter…”

Dmitry went cold. He looked around – there was no one in the room. The museum clearly wasn’t popular, and he was the only visitor.

I’m losing my mind, he thought. From stress, from exhaustion, from all this shit that’s accumulated in my life. I should go home, take something to calm my nerves. I haven’t even picked up that prescription the neurologist or psychologist gave me, whoever knows about these things anyway…

His hand reached for the door handle of its own accord. He turned it. The door opened – easily, silently, as if it had been waiting for this moment.

Beyond the door was a small room – no more than three meters long and wide. There was no window, but somehow it was light – a dim yellowish glow came from nowhere in particular, as if the walls themselves were emitting a soft radiance. In the room stood one single object – an old writing desk with drawers and a green leather desktop. On the desk lay an open book – a thick volume in a worn leather binding.

What is this? Dmitry wondered. Some kind of strange exhibit? Why lock visitors away from just a table and a book?

He stepped into the room – and the door silently closed behind him. Dmitry turned around, tried to open it again, but the handle wouldn’t turn.

It’s jammed, he thought irritably. Damn it. I should call the attendant.

But instead of calling for help, he somehow walked over to the desk and looked at the open book. The pages were covered in small, old-fashioned handwriting – ink, pen, with curlicues and flourishes.

He tried to read the text but couldn’t – the letters blurred before his eyes, formed into incomprehensible patterns. Then suddenly one phrase became readable, appeared bright and clear:

“He who has lost himself in the present may find himself in another time.”

What nonsense is this? Dmitry thought. Some mystical garbage.

But his heart suddenly beat faster. Because these words – they were addressed directly to him. Lost himself in the present. That was about him! He really had lost himself – that Dmitry who dreamed, who loved history, who wanted to live for a reason.

Find myself where? he repeated to himself. How? What does that mean?

3. The Glasses

He looked away from the book and noticed that on the corner of the desk lay another object – old glasses in a thin wire frame. The lenses were an unusual color – not transparent, but slightly yellowish, as if covered with the patina of time.

Beside the glasses lay a small card – yellowed, with writing in an old typeface:

“Spectacles belonging to the learned gentleman E. von H., 1840s. The owner claimed that through these lenses one could see not only the present but also the past.”

Dmitry smirked.

Of course, he thought. A mystical story for tourists. Magical glasses that let you see the past. Next they’ll say they grant wishes.

But his hand reached for the glasses again. He picked them up. Held them to his eyes.

What am I doing? Dmitry thought. Why would I put on some old glasses? This is stupid, a children’s game.

But something inside – some incomprehensible feeling, a mixture of despair and hope, longing and curiosity – made him put on the glasses. The lenses were slightly fogged, as if someone had recently breathed on them. Dmitry wiped them with the edge of his shirt and put them back on.

And the world changed.

4. The Vision

At first he saw the same room, but as if in a different light – not in the dim yellowish glow, but in a bright, almost cutting light. Then the walls began to blur, as if they were watercolor paintings in the rain. Colors flowed, mixed, disappeared.

Hallucination, Dmitry thought. I’ve definitely lost my mind.

He tried to take off the glasses, but his hands wouldn’t obey – as if paralyzed, they hung limp at his sides. His legs didn’t move either. He stood in the middle of the disappearing room and felt the ground giving way beneath his feet – not metaphorically, but literally.

Fear overwhelmed him – animal, primal fear of death, of disappearing, of dissolving into the void.

No! he cried out silently. No, I don’t want this! Stop it! Send me back!

But there was no voice – he was screaming soundlessly into the void that swallowed everything. And suddenly, in that void, he heard a Voice. Not the whisper that had called him from behind the door – but a real Voice, loud, solemn, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once:

“Dmitry Sergeevich Komarov, you are tired of your life. You believe your existence has no meaning. You think you were born in the wrong era, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

Yes, Dmitry answered mentally. Yes, that’s true. I’m tired. I don’t want to live like this anymore.

“I give you the opportunity,” the Voice continued. “The opportunity to leave your time and enter the one you dream of. The nineteenth century. But remember: this is not a game. This is not a dream. You will go there for real. And it’s not certain you’ll be able to return.”

And do I have anything to return to? Dmitry thought bitterly. I have nothing in this time. No one and nothing.

“Then go,” said the Voice. “Go and find yourself. Or perish in the attempt.”

5. The Fall

And Dmitry fell.

Not down – not up – but sideways, into some unknown dimension where there was neither up nor down, neither light nor darkness. He flew through the void, feeling his mind grasping at the last threads of reality.

I’m dying, he realized. This is death. My brain is dying, and it seems to me I’m flying somewhere.

But then the void began to fill. First came sounds – distant, unclear. A noise like that of a big city, but different – no roar of motors, no screech of brakes.

The clop of hooves, the creak of wheels, the shouts of street vendors, the ringing of church bells.

Church bells? Dmitry wondered. Where are church bells coming from?

Then came the smells. Sharp, strong, unfamiliar. The smell of horse manure, the smell of smoke from stoves, the smell of unwashed bodies and cheap perfume, the smell of the river, the smell of bread, the smell of kerosene.

Kerosene? He tried to remember where he could have smelled that. No, this is something else. This is the smell of oil lamps.

Then came the colors. Gray. Yellow. Brown. Black. The sky – covered in clouds. The walls of houses – peeling, dirty. The street – wet, with puddles. People – in long overcoats, in hats, in shawls.

Lord, Dmitry thought, I really…

And at that moment he fell. A real fall – onto hard, cold, wet cobblestones. He hit his knees, his hands, almost smashed his face. The glasses flew off and rolled across the stones. He lay there for a few seconds, unable to move. Then slowly he lifted his head and looked around.

He was on a street. A narrow, dirty, cobblestone street. Around him stood houses – old, four or five stories high, with peeling plaster and dark windows. People walked along the street – men in long frock coats and top hats, women in full skirts and bonnets, children in short pants and stockings.

On the corner of the street stood a lamp – old-fashioned, oil-burning, not yet lit. Beside it a beggar in rags begged for alms, extending a dirty hand to passersby.

This is impossible, Dmitry thought. This can’t be real. I’m asleep. Or hallucinating. Or dead.

He tried to stand – and then noticed his clothes. Jeans. A sweatshirt. Sneakers. Modern clothing that here looked like an alien’s costume.

The passersby looked at him with confusion and fear. An old woman crossed herself and hurried away. A cabdriver passing by nearly dropped his reins when he saw the strangely dressed man lying on the street.

“Sir, are you alive?” someone asked in pure русском (Russian), but with some unusual intonation. “Are you unwell?”

Dmitry lifted his head and saw a man about forty in a worn frock coat and crushed hat. His face was kind, worried, but his eyes looked with distrust – as if they didn’t understand what kind of character this was.

“I… who?…” Dmitry began, then stopped. Because he understood: this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a hallucination. This was reality.

He really had arrived in the nineteenth century.

6. The First Minutes

Dmitry slowly got to his feet, feeling his knees tremble. The man in the worn frock coat steadied him by the arm.

“Careful, sir,” he said. “Looks like you took quite a knock. Should we call a doctor? Or shall I take you home?”

“I… no, I’m fine,” Dmitry mumbled.

How is he addressing me? Sir? So he’s taking me for a nobleman. Or maybe that’s just how he addresses everyone who’s decently dressed?

He looked around once more – more carefully this time, trying to understand where he was. The street was clearly a St. Petersburg street – narrow, gloomy, with tall buildings on both sides. In the distance the dome of some church was visible. It smelled of the Neva – he recognized that smell, specific, riverlike, with a hint of industrial runoff.

St. Petersburg, he understood. I’m in St. Petersburg. But what year? What part of the city?

“Excuse me,” he said to the man, who was still standing beside him, curiously examining his strange clothes. “Could you please tell me what today’s date is?”

The man looked at him in surprise:

“The date? It’s October seventeenth, sir. Monday.”

“And the year?”

Dmitry began feeling the curb and stones on the road, trying to understand if this was a set, maybe a prank.

Now the man looked at him with obvious bewilderment, even with alarm:

“The year? Why, it’s eighteen sixty-five, sir. Are you sure you’re all right? Should I really call a doctor?”

“1856,” Dmitry repeated to himself. “October seventeenth, 1856. Dostoevsky hasn’t written Crime and Punishment yet. The assassination of the tsar is still sixteen years away. The revolution – fifty-two years.”

His head spun – not from physical weakness, but from the realization of what had happened. He really was here. In the past. In the real, actual past.

“Thank you,” he said to the man. “I really am fine. Just… a bit dazed.”

“I can see that,” the man agreed. “And if you don’t mind my asking, sir, where are you from? Your clothes are… unusual.”

Clothes, Dmitry caught himself. Yes, I need to change immediately. Otherwise they’ll think I’m insane or escaped from a psychiatric hospital.

“I’m… I’m a foreigner,” he quickly lied. “From America. Just arrived. That’s how we dress there… fashionable.”

“From America!” the man whistled. “Well, that’s something! You’ve come far. But you speak Russian so pure, without any accent at all.”

“I studied for a long time,” Dmitry mumbled.

I need to leave, he thought. I need to find somewhere to collect myself, figure out the situation. And find clothes urgently.

“Excuse me, I have to go,” he said, and quickly walked down the street, not knowing where he was headed.

The man in the worn frock coat watched him go with confusion, then shook his head and went on his way.

7. First Steps in the Nineteenth Century

Dmitry walked along the wet cobblestones, trying not to pay attention to the stares of passersby. Everyone who saw him stopped and looked at him in amazement – as if they’d seen a ghost or some exotic beast.

I have to be careful, he thought. If they take me for a madman, they could send me to a hospital. Or worse – to the police. And what would I say? That I’m from the future?

The cold October wind cut through him – the sweatshirt didn’t protect against St. Petersburg’s dampness. Dmitry shivered and quickened his pace.

Around him was the real nineteenth century – not a museum version, not from a book, but living, actual. There went a merchant in a beaver hat and fur coat, fat, with a full beard. There ran a messenger boy with a package in his hands. There stood a police officer in uniform, carefully examining the passersby. There begged a disabled veteran without a leg, leaning on a crutch.

Lord, Dmitry thought, this is all real. These people are alive. They have their own lives, their own fates. And I’ve ended up here. But why? What for? What am I supposed to do here?

He turned toward the embankment – recognized it immediately. The Neva flowed the same as in the twenty-first century, but the embankment looked different – not as well-maintained, without modern streetlights and asphalt. But there were those very granite parapets he’d read about in books.

He stopped, placed his hands on the cold stone, and looked at the water. Murky, dark, it flowed slowly toward the gulf, carrying the reflection of the gray sky within it.

What should I do? he asked himself. Where should I go? I have no money – well, I do have modern money, but it’s useless here. No documents. No clothes. No roof over my head. I’m completely alone in a strange time.

Fear began to rise from within again – cold, sticky, paralyzing. But with it came another feeling – strange, incomprehensible. Exhilaration? Hope? The sensation that finally something real had happened, not invented, not illusory?

I’m free, he suddenly thought. For the first time in my life, truly free. No work, no obligations, no that gray routine. There’s only me and this time that I loved so much in books. And now I can live in it.

But then a sober thought came:

To live, I need money, clothes, shelter. And I need to somehow explain who I am. A foreigner from America – that’s a good cover story, but it won’t work for long. Sooner or later someone will ask for documents. What will I say?

He took his wallet from his jeans pocket and looked at what was inside. Three thousand rubles in modern bills. A bank card. A driver’s license with a photo. All of it was absolutely useless here.

Driver’s license, he smirked. I can just imagine how a police officer would examine this plastic with incomprehensible letters.

Suddenly he remembered the glasses. Those very ones that had brought him here. He fell, they flew off, rolled across the cobblestones…

Where are they? he thought in a panic. I lost them! What if they’re needed to get back?

He quickly felt his pockets – nothing. He turned around and ran back to the place where he’d fallen.

But the street was different now – or had he gotten lost in the alleys? Only twenty minutes had passed, and he already couldn’t remember the way.

Calm down, he ordered himself. Calm down. First I need to solve the problem of survival. And the glasses… maybe I don’t need them. Maybe I can’t go back anyway.

And strangely – this thought didn’t frighten him. On the contrary, it brought some relief.

Maybe this is what I needed? he thought. The chance to start over. In a world where no one knows me, where I can become anyone?

8. First Meeting

He was walking along the embankment, lost in thought, and didn’t notice he’d collided with a man coming toward him.

“Excuse me!” said Dmitry, stepping back.

“Never mind, never mind,” the man replied, and Dmitry looked up at him.

Before him stood a man about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, thin, pale, with burning, feverish eyes. He was dressed poorly – in a worn frock coat, scuffed boots, no hat. Dark, disheveled hair. An intelligent face, nervous, tormented.

A student, Dmitry thought. Or former student. By appearance – a poor man.

The man looked at him with confusion, examining his strange clothes.

“You’re… a foreigner?” he asked.

“Yes, from America,” Dmitry answered mechanically.

“America,” the man repeated, and there was something strange in his voice – contempt? mockery? “Yes, of course, America. They say everyone there is free and equal. And they dress as they like, ignoring propriety, shoving past pedestrians.”

Dmitry felt a prick of irritation – there was something challenging in the stranger’s tone.

“So here, do clothes define a person?” he asked sharply.

The man smiled – bitterly, viciously:

“Here everything defines a person. Clothes, money, position in society. You’ll understand that if you stay in our city.”

A strange character, Dmitry thought. There’s something about him… familiar. As if I’d seen him somewhere before.

“And you yourself… are you local?” he asked.

“Local,” the man nodded. “From St. Petersburg. Born here, grew up here, and probably will die here. In this damned city, where man is a wolf to man.”

He spoke with some suppressed malice, and Dmitry involuntarily remembered lines from Crime and Punishment: “I wanted to become Napoleon, that’s why I killed.”

My God, he suddenly realized. Could it be… no, that’s impossible. It’s just a similar type. Raskolnikov is a fictional character. He hasn’t even been written yet.

But something inside told him: Dostoevsky didn’t invent his characters out of thin air. He took them from life. And here was one of those wretched, tormented, proud, and sick people who populated the pages of his novels.

“Excuse me,” Dmitry said quietly, “I’ve kept you. Goodbye.”

He went on, but the man suddenly called after him:

“Wait! You… where are you going?”

Dmitry turned around:

“I don’t know. I just arrived, haven’t found a hotel yet.”

“A hotel,” the man smirked. “Do you have money? It’s expensive here. Very expensive.”

“A little,” Dmitry lied.

Although what’s the point of lying – I don’t have any local money at all.

The man looked at him carefully – long, searchingly, as if trying to understand something important. Then he said:

“You know what? If you want, I can show you around. I’ll tell you where you can stay cheaply. I know a landlady who rents out rooms to students and visitors.”

Why would he do that? Dmitry thought suspiciously. Why help a stranger?

But there was no choice. He really didn’t know where to go, and help from anyone was invaluable right now.

“Thank you,” he said. “I would be very grateful.”

“Let’s go,” the man turned and began walking along the embankment. “By the way, my name is Rodion. Rodion Romanovich.”

Rodion Romanovich, Dmitry repeated to himself. Lord, this can’t be…

But he didn’t finish the thought – because at that moment he bit his tongue and the world began to blur before his eyes again.

9. Loss of Consciousness

Dmitry felt the ground give way beneath his feet. Not metaphorically – literally. His legs gave out, black circles swam before his eyes, his ears rang.

What’s happening to me? he managed to think. My heart? A stroke?

The last thing he saw was the face of Rodion Romanovich bending over him. A worried, frightened face. And someone’s hands catching him by the elbows.

Then – darkness.

He came to from a sharp smell. Something acute, pungent, hit his nostrils, making him cough and wince.

“Smelling salts,” he heard a woman’s voice. “You’ll feel better soon, dear, don’t worry.”

Dmitry opened his eyes. An elderly woman in a dark dress and white bonnet was leaning over him. A kind, round face with little wrinkles around the eyes.

“Well, you’ve come to,” she said with satisfaction. “We were worried something might happen. Gospodin Rodion Romanovich says you’re a foreigner, just arrived. And you fainted right away. Well, that’s understandable – it’s a long journey, you must be exhausted.”

Dmitry tried to sit up. His head was spinning, but not as badly as before. He looked around – he was lying on a narrow bed in a small room. The walls were painted yellow, peeling in places. The window was small, dirty, and through it he could see a courtyard-well and the walls of neighboring houses. The furniture – a bed, a chair, a dresser, a washstand with a pitcher.

A rented room, he understood. The very one Rodion mentioned.

“Where am I?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Well, at my place, dear. I’m Praskovia Pavlovna Zarnitskaya, I rent out rooms. And Gospodin Rodion Romanovich brought you here, said you needed lodgings. So I agreed, a room had just become available. A student moved out, left owing money, well, what can you do. Maybe you’ll be more honest?”

She thinks I’m going to rent a room from her, Dmitry understood. Rodion told her that. Why?

“And where… where is Gospodin Rodion Romanovich?” he asked.

“He left, dear. Said he had urgent business. But he said to tell you he’d come by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

Dmitry tried to get up. His legs were trembling, but they held.

“Easy now, easy,” Praskovia Pavlovna worried. “You’re still weak. Would you like some tea? Or soup?”

Tea, Dmitry thought. Yes, tea would be nice. But how will I pay? I don’t have a kopeck in local currency.

“Thank you,” he said carefully. “Only… I can’t pay right now. My money is… in the bank. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

In the bank. How stupid. What banks? But what else can I say?

Praskovia Pavlovna looked at him with distrust:

“In the bank, you say? Well, all right. But you’d better not deceive me. The last tenant promised the same thing – tomorrow, the day after tomorrow – and then just ran off. Never paid me for two months.”

“I won’t run off,” Dmitry said firmly.

Although where would I run to? I don’t even know where I am or what I’m supposed to do.

Praskovia Pavlovna left, promising to come check on him in the evening. Dmitry was alone with his thoughts.

10. Comprehension

He sat on the bed and held his head in his hands. His thoughts tangled, overwhelming each other, not letting him concentrate.

So, he tried to organize the situation. I’m in 1856. In St. Petersburg. I have no money, no clothes except what I’m wearing, and they attract attention, no documents, no acquaintances. All I have is some Rodion Romanovich who for some reason decided to help me, and a landlady who expects me to pay for lodging.

The situation was catastrophic. But strangely – instead of panic, Dmitry felt some kind of cold excitement. As if this were a game, a puzzle to solve.

What do I need first? he reasoned. Clothes. I can’t walk around in jeans and a sweatshirt. Second – money. Without money I’ll starve. Third – a cover story. Who am I? Where from? Why did I come?

He stood and walked to the window. Beyond it was a typical nineteenth-century St. Petersburg courtyard – narrow, dirty, with piles of garbage in the corners, laundry hanging on ropes, children playing in the dirt. It smelled of slop, smoke, something sour and musty.

There’s the romance of the nineteenth century, he thought bitterly. In books everything looked beautiful – balls, duels, noble feelings. In reality – dirt, poverty, stench.

Praskovia Pavlovna returned with a tray on which stood a glass of tea in a glass holder and several pieces of black bread.

“Here, have some, dear,” she said, setting the tray on the dresser. “The tea is hot, with sugar. And fresh bread, baked today.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the glass and sipped.

The tea was strong, hot, very sweet. An unfamiliar taste – not like modern tea. More astringent, with some smoky aftertaste.

This is real Russian tea, he realized. Steeped in a samovar, boiled over coals.

The bread was different too – dense, heavy, smelling of sour dough. But delicious – real, alive, not like twenty-first-century store bread.

“Tell me, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he began carefully, “how much does it cost… well, to rent a room like this for a month?”

“Rent? Well, ten rubles, dear,” she answered. “That’s still cheap because the room is small, unfurnished. Other places charge fifteen.”

Ten rubles, Dmitry repeated to himself. How much is that in modern money? By purchasing power parity… probably thirty or forty thousand rubles. A lot. And I have zero.

“And if I want to buy clothes?” he continued. “Where can that be done and how much does it cost?”

Praskovia Pavlovna looked at him with interest:

“Clothes? What do you mean, dear, didn’t you come with any? Or were you robbed?”

“No, it’s just… my clothes…” Dmitry faltered, not knowing what to say. “They’re not suitable for the climate here.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” she agreed, eyeing his jeans. “Those pants of yours are some kind of strange. Form-fitting. We don’t wear such things here. Quite improper.”

Improper, Dmitry repeated. God, how different everything is. Even clothes – a question of morality.

“So tell me,” he asked, “where can I buy proper clothes?”

“Well, at the Sennaya market, dear, the rag dealers trade there. You can buy cheap. You’ll find a secondhand frock coat for about five rubles, pants for three, a shirt for one. Boots are more expensive though – seven or eight rubles for decent ones.”

So minimum sixteen rubles for clothes, Dmitry calculated. Plus ten for lodging. Plus at least a ruble a day for food. I need at least thirty rubles soon. Where can I get it?

Praskovia Pavlovna left, saying she’d come check on him in the evening. Dmitry was left alone with his thoughts.

11. A Plan for Survival

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He needed a plan. A clear, realistic plan for survival.

Option one, he began to think. Find a job. But what kind? I’m a systems administrator, but there are no computers here. I’m educated as a historian, but without documents no one will hire me. Can I teach English? No, in the nineteenth century all educated people knew English. Can I do physical labor? As a loader, for instance? But that requires strength, and I’m not used to hard work.

Option two, he continued. Use knowledge of the future. I know what events will happen in the coming years. Can I make money from this? How? Betting on horse races? But that requires initial capital. Making predictions? But I’ll be taken for a charlatan. Inventions? I’m not an engineer, I can’t even create the simplest mechanism, and besides, how would I sell it – this is a completely different time.

Option three, he reasoned further. Sell something I have. But what? Jeans? Who would buy them – they’re an unheard-of thing here. A phone? But it’s useless without a charger. A watch? I only have an ordinary electronic watch, also an incomprehensible thing for the nineteenth century.

He took his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. Battery—67%. No signal, of course. But there were photographs, music, books in the memory.

Books, he suddenly thought. I have dozens of books on my phone. Including ones that haven’t been written yet! Crime and Punishment won’t come out for another year. The Idiot – three years. Demons – six years. What if I… no, that’s madness. I can’t pass off Dostoevsky’s works as my own.

But the thought stuck in his head like a splinter. Technically it was possible. He could write down the text, say it was his work, try to get it published. Money from publication would help him survive.

But that’s a crime, he argued with himself. I’d steal from Dostoevsky his creations. Change literary history. No, it’s impossible. I can’t.

But there were no alternatives. He could starve to death in the coming days if he didn’t find a way to make money.

All right, he decided. That’s a last resort. First I’ll try something else.

12. The First Night

In the evening Praskovia Pavlovna came again, bringing a bowl of shchi and a piece of rye bread.

“Eat, dear,” she said. “You’ve wasted away, look so pale.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the bowl.

The shchi was hot, fatty, with pieces of cabbage and meat. The spoon was wooden, roughly made. He ate slowly, unaccustomed to it – in the twenty-first century he’d eaten mostly ready-made meals and fast food.

But it’s delicious, he thought. Real food, not chemistry. Except the spoon pokes my tongue.

“Praskovia Pavlovna,” he asked, chewing the shchi, “tell me, how long have you known Gospodin Rodion Romanovich?”

“For a long time, dear. About two years now he’s been living here. Was a student, then quit his studies. Sits in his little room, thinking about something. Strange one, I must say. Either not of this world or God knows what.”

Says things to himself, Dmitry repeated. A strange student who quit studying. Lives in a little room, thinks about something. Lord, this is straight out of Crime and Punishment! Could Dostoevsky have based Raskolnikov on a real person living in this house?

“What does he think about?” Dmitry asked.

“Who knows,” Praskovia Pavlovna shrugged. “He said once he wanted to do something great. Test himself, prove something. I didn’t understand what he meant. But he spoke so seriously, it even frightened me.”

Test himself, prove something, a chill ran down Dmitry’s spine. Lord, what if he really is planning to… no, that can’t be. Raskolnikov is a fictional character. There was no actual murder.

But was there certainty? Dostoevsky was a master of psychological realism. He didn’t invent but observed. And right now Dmitry was living near a person who possibly became the prototype for the most famous literary criminal.

I should stop him, he suddenly thought. If he really is planning to commit a crime, I should intervene.

But how? And did he have the right to interfere in someone else’s fate?

Praskovia Pavlovna left, wishing him a good night. Dmitry was left in darkness – she’d left a candle, but he blew it out to save it. He lay listening to the sounds of the house.

Behind the wall someone was coughing – long, agonizing, with wheezing. Downstairs came drunk voices – someone cursing, someone crying. Somewhere a door creaked, footsteps went up the stairs. There it is, Dostoevsky’s St. Petersburg, Dmitry thought. A city of poverty, disease, crime. Not the romantic city of white nights from tourist brochures, but real, terrifying, merciless.

He thought about his former life – the rental studio apartment with its cleanliness and solitude, the office work, the metro, the shops, the television. All of it seemed unreal now, like a dream.

What if I really am asleep? he thought. What if all this is a hallucination caused by stress? Maybe I’m lying in a psychiatric hospital right now, and it seems to me I’m in the nineteenth century?

But no. The smells were too real. The taste of the shchi was too authentic. The cold from the damp walls was too tangible. This wasn’t a dream.

So it’s real, he concluded. And I need to learn to live in it. Or die.

13. Morning of the Second Day

He woke to the sound of a rooster crowing. He opened his eyes – gray morning light streamed through the window. The room was cold, his breath turned to vapor.

No heating, he realized. The stove wasn’t lit. Or maybe there’s no stove heating at all in this room?

He got up, went to the washstand, and splashed water from the pitcher on his face. The water was ice-cold – it stung his skin, made him fully awake.

He looked at himself in the small cracked mirror hanging above the washstand. Unshaven face, tousled hair, dark circles under his eyes. Wrinkled, dirty clothes.

I look like a bum, he thought. I need to get cleaned up. But how? No razor. No clean clothes. No hot water.

There was a knock on the door. Praskovia Pavlovna came in with a pitcher of hot water and a piece of soap.

“Good morning, dear,” she said. “Here’s some hot water for washing. And soap. I forgot to give it to you yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the pitcher.

The soap was dark, stinking, but apparently the only kind available.

“Praskovia Pavlovna,” he asked, “could I borrow some money? Five or ten rubles. I’ll pay you back tomorrow, I give you my word.”

The woman looked at him suspiciously:

“Borrow? Well, I’m not rich myself, dear. Where would I get money? You’ll have to manage on your own…”

“I understand,” Dmitry nodded. Of course she won’t give it to me. Why should she trust a stranger?

After Praskovia Pavlovna left, he sat on the bed and thought. He needed to act. Today. Otherwise tomorrow would be too late – the landlady would throw him out for non-payment.

What can I do right now? he reasoned. Go to Sennaya Square and try to sell something? But what? Try to find a job? But where and what kind? Ask Rodion Romanovich for help? But what can he do?

Suddenly a thought came – mad, desperate, but possibly the only one.

Meeting Dostoevsky, he thought. I know Fyodor Mikhailovich is living in St. Petersburg now. He hasn’t written Crime and Punishment yet, but he’s already known as the author of Poor Folk and Notes from the House of the Dead. What if I find him? Offer him a collaboration? Tell him I have ideas for novels?

But it was risky. First, where would he find Dostoevsky? Second, why should he accept an unknown foreigner? Third, what specifically could Dmitry offer him?

I could tell him the plot of Crime and Punishment, he thought. Say that I heard this story from an acquaintance. Dostoevsky will be interested, will start writing. And I’ll ask him for help – money, clothes, work.

It was a plan. Not perfect, but better than nothing.

14. Rodion Romanovich Returns

At noon, when Dmitry was about to leave, there was a knock on the door. Rodion Romanovich came in.

He looked even worse than yesterday – pale, unshaven, with eyes red from sleeplessness. Dressed in the same worn frock coat, in torn boots.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Dmitry answered. “Thank you for your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Rodion waved his hand:

“Nonsense. I simply couldn’t leave a man in trouble. Especially a foreigner who doesn’t know the city.”

He sat on a chair, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and pressed them to his chin.

“Tell me,” Rodion began, staring intently at Dmitry, “are you really from America?”

Dmitry hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to this man – there was something honest, open in his gaze, despite all the darkness.

“Not exactly,” he finally said. “It’s… complicated to explain.”

“Try,” Rodion adjusted his clothes. “I have time.”

What should I say? Dmitry thought feverishly. The truth? That I’m from the future? He’ll think I’m mad. Lie? But he clearly senses falsehood.

“I…” he began slowly, “I really am not from here. I’m from… another place. Very far away. And I ended up here by chance. Not of my own will.”

Rodion watched him carefully, without interrupting.

“Go on, perhaps,” he said.

“I have no money, no clothes, no documents. I don’t know how to survive in this city. And I don’t know how to get back… home.”

“Home,” Rodion repeated and smiled grimly. “You know, sometimes I don’t know how to get home either. Even though I’ve lived here my whole life.”

He was silent for a moment, studying the ash on his cigarette.

“You’re a strange man,” he said finally. “I understood that at first sight. In your eyes… how can I put it better… there’s something missing that everyone else has. Habit. Submission to fate. You look at everything as if you’re seeing it for the first time.”

He senses it, Dmitry realized. He understands that I’m not like everyone else.

“I want to help you,” Rodion continued. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I once needed help and no one gave it to me. Maybe because you remind me of… myself. Lost, alien in this world.”

He stood, walked to the window.

“I have an acquaintance,” he said, not turning around. “A merchant at Sennaya. We can sell him your strange clothes. For a curiosity he’ll probably give five rubles. That’s enough to buy normal clothes and pants. After that… we’ll see.”

He’s helping me, Dmitry thought in surprise. A stranger, who has nothing himself, is helping me. Why?

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I won’t forget this.”

Rodion turned and looked at him with a long gaze:

“Don’t promise what you can’t deliver. In this city, promises are worth nothing. Only deeds matter.”

And they went to Sennaya Square.

15. Sennaya Square

They left the house together – Dmitry in his strange jeans and sweatshirt, Rodion in his worn frock coat. It was a gray, cold October day with drizzle. The sky hung low, like a dirty rag.

Dmitry walked and looked around with avid curiosity. He’d seen twenty-first-century St. Petersburg thousands of times – but this was a completely different city. The streets were narrower, the buildings lower and gloomier, the pavement made of cobblestones that hurt to walk on in his thin modern shoes. Instead of automobiles, carriages drawn by horses moved along the roads, and the occasional hired cab.

People were dressed heavily, in dark colors – men in long frock coats and greatcoats, women in full skirts and scarves. Everyone moved slowly, as if under the weight of exhaustion. Gray, tormented, indifferent faces.

There they are, nineteenth-century people, Dmitry thought. Not heroes from novels, not characters from historical films. Ordinary people who work, get tired, suffer. Like me in the twenty-first century. Like all people at all times.

The smells were unbearable. Horse manure – there was plenty of it on the streets, no one cleaned it up. Smoke from stoves – black, pungent, sinking into the lungs. Slop – it was poured directly onto the streets from windows. Unwashed bodies – in the nineteenth century there wasn’t a shower in every apartment, people washed rarely, the crowd reeked of sweat and dirt.

How do they stand this? Dmitry wondered. How can people live in such stench?

But then he understood: they simply didn’t know anything different. For them it was normal. This was how life smelled.

Rodion walked in silence, absorbed in his thoughts. Sometimes he muttered something to himself – Dmitry couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was anxious, tense.

What is he thinking about? Dmitry wondered. Could he really be planning a crime? Or am I making it up after reading Dostoevsky?

They turned onto a narrow street, then another, even narrower. The houses here stood so close to each other that it seemed they would soon touch. The windows were small, dirty, and behind them were visible dark rooms. From courtyards peeked ragged children with hungry eyes.

“The poorest people live here,” Rodion said quietly, noticing Dmitry’s gaze. “Those who have nowhere to go. Craftsmen, day laborers, prostitutes, thieves. The bottom of St. Petersburg.”

The bottom of St. Petersburg, Dmitry repeated to himself. I thought the bottom was the twenty-first century, office work, meaningless existence. Turns out it can be worse. Much worse.

Finally they came out onto a large square. Sennaya. Dmitry recognized it – he’d read descriptions by Dostoevsky, Nekrasov, other writers. But reading was one thing, seeing with your own eyes was another.

The square was enormous, filled with people, carts, horses. Everywhere stood stalls, tables, goods simply laid out on the ground. Merchants shouted, calling to customers. Customers haggled, cursed, examined goods. Beggars asked for alms. Cabdrivers waited for passengers. Police officers slowly strolled about, keeping an eye on order. The smell here was even stronger – a mixture of rot, slop, horse manure, unwashed bodies, cheap vodka, and something sickeningly sweet that Dmitry couldn’t identify.

A market, he realized. A real old-fashioned market. Not a supermarket with air conditioning and sterile counters, but a living, dirty, noisy bazaar.

“That rag dealer over there,” Rodion pointed to the corner of the square, where an old man with a long gray beard was sitting. “He buys all kinds of things. Maybe he’ll buy your clothes.”

They approached. The old man looked Dmitry over with a sharp gaze – from head to toe.

“What are you selling, young sir?” he asked hoarsely.

“Clothes,” Dmitry answered. “American. Very good quality.”

“American?” The old man squinted. “Show me.”

Dmitry took off his sweatshirt – underneath was a t-shirt. The old man took the sweatshirt in his hands, felt it, smelled it, turned it over.

“Strange fabric,” he muttered. “Soft, but strong. Doesn’t look like ours. And the cut is unusual. Is this some kind of coat?”

“Yes, something like that,” Dmitry nodded.

“What about the pants?” The old man pointed at the jeans.

“Selling those too.”

“Take them off, let me see.”

Take off my jeans in the middle of the square? Dmitry was horrified. But there’s no other way. He looked around – no one was paying particular attention. You saw all kinds of things at Sennaya. He quickly took off his jeans, remaining in his underwear – fortunately, modern boxer briefs that looked like short pants.

The old man took the jeans, examined them, felt the pockets, the zipper. The zipper particularly interested him.

“What’s this contraption?” he asked, pulling the slider up and down.

“A fastener,” Dmitry explained. “Instead of buttons.”

“Clever invention,” the old man approved. “The Americans are good with mechanics. Well, a real curiosity. I’ll give three rubles for everything.”

“Three?” Dmitry protested. “These are unique items! There’s nothing like them in Russia!”

“That’s exactly why three, not two,” the old man smirked. “Who needs these curiosities? You can’t wear them – it looks ridiculous. You could only sell them to a museum. Or to some rich man with money to burn. Three rubles – and be grateful.”

Rodion touched Dmitry on the shoulder:

“Agree. It’s a fair price.”

Dmitry clenched his teeth. Three rubles. For clothes that cost five thousand in the twenty-first century. But there was no choice.

“All right,” he agreed. “Three rubles.”

The old man took a wallet from his pocket, counted out three worn paper rubles, and handed them to Dmitry.

Nineteenth-century money, Dmitry thought, examining the bills. Real, not museum pieces. With the portrait of the emperor, a double-headed eagle. These are historical artifacts! And for me – just a way not to starve to death.

16. Buying Clothes

Now he needed to buy proper clothes. Rodion led him to another merchant – a fat man with a red face, selling secondhand clothes.

“Need a frock coat?” the merchant asked. “Look there, a good one, almost new. The previous owner died, the heirs are selling. Only five rubles.”

Died, Dmitry shuddered. I’ll be wearing the clothes of a dead man.

But again – there was no choice. He tried on the frock coat – long, dark blue, with buttons. It fit well enough, though it was a bit large in the shoulders.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

“What about pants? A shirt?” The merchant already sensed a customer. Dmitry selected gray pants, a white shirt (also secondhand, with yellow sweat stains under the armpits), a black vest, and a pair of boots.

“Eight rubles total,” the merchant announced.

Eight rubles, Dmitry calculated. I only have three. Damn.

“I only have three rubles,” he admitted.

The merchant frowned:

“Then pick something else. Either the frock coat or the pants with the shirt.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Rodion suddenly said.

Dmitry turned to him:

“What? No, I can’t accept…”

“You can,” Rodion answered curtly. “I have five rubles. I’ll lend them to you. Pay me back when you can.”

Five rubles, Dmitry thought. For him, that’s probably enormous money. Maybe all he has. And he’s willing to give it to a stranger. Why?

“Rodion Romanovich,” he began, “I don’t know how to thank you…”

“Don’t thank me,” Rodion cut him off. “Just later, when you get rich, help someone else. That’s how the world works – good produces good. Although…” he smiled bitterly, “sometimes good only produces pain.”

He took some crumpled bills from his pocket and gave them to the merchant. Dmitry received his clothes.

Right there, on the square, behind a cart, he changed. He stripped off the t-shirt, put on the shirt – rough, prickly, reeking of someone else’s sweat. He pulled on the pants – wide, with suspenders. He put on the vest and the frock coat. He put on the boots – heavy, uncomfortable, but at least warm.

Rodion examined him critically:

“Now you look like a man. A poor man, true, but that’s all right. The main thing is you don’t stand out.”

Dmitry looked at his reflection in a shop window. Yes, now he looked like a nineteenth-century resident. A worn frock coat, a wrinkled shirt, old boots. One of the thousands of minor clerks, students, and common people who populated St. Petersburg.

I’ve merged into the crowd, he thought. Become part of this time. Now I’m not a stranger here.

But inside there remained a strange feeling – as if he were an actor who had put on a costume for a play. An unreal person in unreal clothes, playing a role.

Or is it the opposite? he suddenly thought. Maybe back there in the twenty-first century I was playing a role? And here – I’m real?

17. First Philosophical Conversation

They went into a cheap tea house on the corner of the square – a dark, smoke-filled room with dirty tables and benches. They ordered a glass of tea each and a piece of bread.

The tea was strong, hot, with a heaping sugar cube on the saucer. The bread was black, sour. But for Dmitry it was almost a royal feast – he hadn’t eaten since morning, and yesterday’s shchi hadn’t really satisfied him.

“You still haven’t told me who you really are,” Rodion said, sipping his tea. “Where you came from and why.”

Dmitry thought. What should he say? The truth – that he’s from the future? Or continue lying about America?

He helped me, Dmitry thought. Gave me his last money. I can’t keep lying to him.

“I’ll say this,” he began carefully. “I really am not from America. I’m… from a very distant place. So distant that you won’t believe it.”

“Try me, I may not look smart,” Rodion looked at him carefully.

“I’m from the future,” Dmitry blurted out.

Silence fell. Rodion didn’t laugh, didn’t shout that his companion was mad. He just looked, searchingly, as if trying to understand – was this true or delirium?

“From the future,” he repeated slowly. “That is, you’re saying that… you traveled through time?”

“Yes. I was born and lived in… many years after your time. And I ended up here by accident. Through…” Dmitry faltered, “through some kind of artifact. Glasses. Old glasses in a museum.”

“In a museum,” Rodion thought. “I see. And now you can’t go back?”

“I don’t know. The glasses are lost. Maybe I can. Maybe not.”

Rodion was silent for a moment, then said:

“You know, I believe you.”

“You believe?” Dmitry was surprised.

“Yes. Because in this world anything is possible. If God created man from clay in a single day, if Christ can rise from the dead, then why can’t a man travel through time?” He smiled. “Besides, your clothes, the way you speak, your view of the world – all of it says you’re not from here.”

He believed me, Dmitry thought with relief. Or pretended to believe. But why?

“Tell me,” Rodion continued, “in your future… is it better than here?”

Dmitry thought. How to answer that?

“It’s mixed,” he said finally. “On one hand, there’s no poverty like here. People live longer, get sick less, have more opportunities. There’s no slavery, no serfdom, more freedom.”

“Sounds like paradise,” Rodion noted.

“But on the other hand,” Dmitry continued, “people have become… empty. They live for money, for consumption. They have no high goals, no faith, no meaning to life. They simply exist – work, buy things, entertain themselves, age, die.”

“Like me,” Rodion said quietly.

“What?”

“Well… I live like that too. Exist without meaning, like a dog. That’s why I think…” he hesitated, “I think about how to change that. How to become not just a creature, but a person. A real person.”

Become a real person, Dmitry repeated to himself. Lord, that’s straight out of Crime and Punishment. Raskolnikov wanted to prove that too – that he was a person, not a “trembling creature.”

“And how do you think you’ll do it?” he asked carefully.

Rodion was silent for a long time. Then he answered:

“I don’t know yet. But I think. I think a lot. Sometimes it seems to me that for this you need to do something… extraordinary. To cross a line. To go against all rules.”

Cross a line, Dmitry went cold. He really is planning a crime.

“Rodion Romanovich,” he said firmly, “don’t do it.”

“Do what?” Rodion looked at him in surprise.

“What you’re thinking about. Crossing a line – that’s a path to nowhere. You won’t become a person from it. You’ll only destroy yourself.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” There was sharpness in Rodion’s voice now.

“Because…” Dmitry caught himself.

Because I know your future. Because I read a novel where a character with your name commits murder and then suffers for the rest of his life. But I can’t tell him that.

“Because I thought the same thing myself,” he lied. “In my time. And I know where it leads. To emptiness. To even greater emptiness.”

Rodion looked at him with a long gaze:

“You’re a strange man. Very strange. But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’m looking in the wrong place.”

He stood, leaving his unfinished tea:

“I have to go. Business. Will you manage on your own?”

“Yes, thank you for everything,” Dmitry also stood.

“Come by tomorrow evening. To my room. Praskovia Pavlovna will show you. We’ll talk more.” Rodion put on his hat. “I think we have a lot to tell each other.”

He left, leaving Dmitry alone in the smoke-filled tea house.

18. First Evening

Dmitry went out into the street. It was already beginning to get dark – October days are short. Lamplighters were lighting the oil lamps, and the city was sinking into twilight.

What do I do next? he thought, wandering aimlessly through the streets. I have zero rubles left (gave all three for tea and bread), I have clothes, I have a room for one night. And tomorrow? Tomorrow Praskovia Pavlovna will demand money for lodging. Where can I get it?

He remembered his phone – he’d hidden it in his room, under the mattress. There was still battery. Maybe sell the phone? But to whom? Who would buy an incomprehensible gadget that doesn’t work without electricity?

A watch, he remembered. I have an electronic watch on my wrist.

He looked – yes, the watch was still there. Simple, inexpensive, but working. Maybe he could sell it as a curiosity?

But it was already late – the shops were closed, the merchants had gone. He’d have to wait until tomorrow.

Dmitry returned to Praskovia Pavlovna’s house. He climbed the creaking stairs to his room. He lay on the bed without undressing – it was cold, and the frock coat provided at least some warmth.

He lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house. Behind the walls life continued – someone was cursing, someone was crying, someone was praying. Somewhere a door creaked, heavy footsteps went past.

I’m here, Dmitry thought. I’m really in the nineteenth century. This is not a dream, not a hallucination. This is reality. And now I need to learn to live in it. Or die.

But strangely – there was almost no fear. Instead of fear – some strange calm. As if he had finally ended up where he was supposed to be.

Maybe this is my fate? he thought. Maybe I was born in the wrong time, and these glasses corrected the mistake? Returned me to where I belong?

Before sleep he took out his phone and turned it on. The screen lit up brightly, almost blinding in the darkness. He looked at the date: October 17, 2025.

No, he thought. Wrong.

He went into settings and changed the date to October 17, 1856. Now the phone showed the correct time.

I’m here now, he told himself. In 1856. And this is my real present.

He turned off the phone, hid it under the mattress. Closed his eyes.

And for the first time in many years, he slept peacefully, without anxiety, without nightmares.

Because for the first time in many years, he felt alive.

19. Morning of the Third Day

Dmitry woke to a knock on the door. Outside the window it was barely dawning – a gray, cold October dawn.

“Dear!” came Praskovia Pavlovna’s voice. “Are you awake? I was getting worried – that nothing had happened to you.”

He got up and opened the door. The landlady stood on the threshold with a tray on which steamed a glass of tea and lay a piece of black bread with butter.

“Here, dear, I’ve brought you something to eat,” she said with a kind smile. “I can see you’re a good man, though strange. Not like the previous tenants – they always tried to cheat, not pay. But yesterday you immediately and honestly admitted you didn’t have money. That means you have a conscience, you’re decent.”

Dmitry was touched by this simple kindness.

“Thank you, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he said sincerely. “You’re very kind to me. I’ll try to find work as soon as possible and settle up with you.”

His hand mechanically reached for the nightstand – to take the phone, check the time, notifications, news. His fingers found only a wooden surface and a candlestick. He froze. For the first time in fifteen years he’d woken without burying his face in a screen. Silence pressed on his ears. There were no notification sounds, no vibrations, no glowing pixels. Strange. Empty. And – unexpectedly – peaceful.

“Oh, don’t hurry, dear,” she waved her hand. “I can see people through and through. You’re not a cheat. You’ll pay when you can. But for now, live, rest. Only tell me,” she paused, then added quietly, “are you really from America?”

Dmitry thought. He didn’t want to lie to this kind woman.

“Not exactly from America, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he answered carefully. “I’m from… a very distant place. So distant that you might not even believe it.”

“And I’m not asking where,” she said gently. “I see you don’t want to talk – so there’s a reason for it. Everyone has their secrets. The main thing is that the heart is good. And yours, dear, is a good heart – I can feel it. I can feel it.”

Good heart, Dmitry thought bitterly. If she knew what I was like in the twenty-first century – cynical, indifferent, cruel. But here, in this time, I really do feel different. As if something inside has thawed.

“Tell me, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he asked, sipping his tea, “how do I find a job? I have an education, I can read and write, I speak languages. Maybe I could become a teacher somewhere?”

“Oh, a teacher?” she thought. “That’s good work, dear, but it’s hard without recommendations. All the positions were taken long ago. And you’re a new man, nobody knows you. Maybe find something simpler first? A clerk of some kind, or an assistant in a shop?”

“And where do I look for such work?”

“Well, you need to read the announcements, dear. They’re posted in the newspapers. Or you could go up and down Nevsky Prospect – there are all kinds of offices there, maybe someone needs an assistant. Or you could go see my son-in-law – he works at a print shop, as a typesetter I think. Maybe there are openings there.”

A print shop, Dmitry thought. That’s interesting. Though I’ve never worked with nineteenth-century printing machines.

“Thank you, Praskovia Pavlovna. I’ll try looking myself first, and if I don’t find anything, I’ll ask your son-in-law.”

“Good, dear, good. I’m going now, I have things to do. I’ll come by in the evening and ask how you’re getting on.”

She left, leaving him with his tea and bread. Dmitry ate slowly, thinking over his situation.

Work. I need a job. But what kind? I’m a systems administrator – a profession that doesn’t exist here. I’m a historian – but without credentials, no one will hire me. What else can I do? Write on a computer – but there are no computers here. Search for information on the internet – there is no internet here. I’m essentially unemployed in the nineteenth century.

The thought was not encouraging. But he wasn’t about to give up.

20. Job Search

Dressed in his new (or rather, old and someone else’s) frock coat, Dmitry went out into the street. The day was clear and cold, with a piercing wind. He walked toward Nevsky Prospect – the main street of St. Petersburg.

Nevsky amazed him. Of course, he’d seen this street in the twenty-first century thousands of times, but this was a completely different Nevsky. The buildings were the same – majestic palaces, mansions, churches – but the atmosphere was entirely different.

Along the street moved carriages – elegant coaches with coats of arms on their doors, simple cabs, heavy carts. Cabdrivers shouted at their horses. Along the sidewalks walked ladies in long dresses with umbrellas, gentlemen in top hats with walking sticks, merchants in expensive fur coats, students in worn overcoats.

The shops gleamed with displays – fashionable stores, jewelers, bookshops, confectioners. Doormen in livery stood at the entrances. It smelled of fresh sweet pastries, perfume, leather.

There it is, the grand St. Petersburg, Dmitry thought. A city of contrasts. At Sennaya – dirt and poverty, and here – luxury and wealth.

He went into various offices and shops, asking if they needed assistants, clerks, employees. Everywhere he got a polite but firm refusal:

“Sorry, sir, we have no openings.”

“We already have all the employees we need.”

“Do you have recommendations? No? Then, sorry, we can’t hire you.”

By noon he was tired and hungry. He went into a cheap eating house on a side street, ordered a bowl of shchi for five kopecks (almost his last money from what Rodion had lent him).

At the next table sat an elderly man with a gray beard, dressed simply but neatly – clearly a tradesman or minor official. He ate his shchi and kept glancing at Dmitry with curiosity.

“You’re not from around here, young man?” he finally asked.

“No, not from around here,” Dmitry answered. “I arrived recently, I’m looking for work.”

“Work?” the old man perked up. “What kind of work are you looking for?”

“Any, to be honest. I could work as a clerk, a teacher, an assistant in a shop. I have an education, I can read and write.”

“Education is good,” the old man nodded approvingly. “Without it nowadays you can’t get anywhere. And when did you study?”

“As a child,” Dmitry answered.

“And who taught you? Your parents?”

“My grandfather taught me. He was… a learned man.”

Not entirely a lie – Grandfather really did know a lot and loved books.

“A learned man!” the old man positively brightened. “Well that’s something! So you’re from a wealthy family. That’s good, very good. You know what, young man,” he leaned closer, “I have an acquaintance who runs a small school for merchants’ children. He needs an assistant just now – to teach the children reading and arithmetic. The pay is not much, of course – fifteen rubles a month, but the work is quiet, peaceful. Would you like an introduction?”

Dmitry nearly jumped with joy:

“Of course I would! Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome, sir,” the old man smiled. “I can see you’re a good man. Young, of course, inexperienced, but with a good heart. And with a good heart, a man will find his place everywhere.”

Again about a good heart, Dmitry wondered. Why does everyone here say that? In the twenty-first century no one cares about your heart – the main thing is that your resume is right and you have work experience.

21. Gospodin Krupov’s School

Semyon Ignatyich, as he introduced himself, led Dmitry through several streets to a small two-story house on a quiet street. On the gate hung a sign: “Private School of I.P. Krupov.”

“Here,” said Semyon Ignatyich. “Ivan Petrovich Krupov is a kind man, fair. He’s been working at the school for nearly twenty years. He teaches the children not just reading, but conscience, honor. A rare man these days.”

They went inside. In a small vestibule there was a smell of chalk, ink, and children’s voices – from somewhere came singing, someone was reading aloud by syllables, someone was laughing.

Semyon Ignatyich knocked on the door of a small office. From inside came:

“Enter!”

They went in. Behind a writing desk piled with notebooks and books sat a man about fifty – somewhat portly, with a round good-natured face, wearing glasses. When he saw Semyon Ignatyich, he became delighted:

“Ah, Semyon Ignatyich! What brings you? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Hello, Ivan Petrovich. Listen, I brought you an assistant. A young educated man looking for work. Will you take him or not?”

Krupov looked at Dmitry carefully, studying him:

“What is your name, young man?”

“Dmitry Sergeevich Komarov.”

“Komarov…” Krupov wrote something in a notebook. “And where are you from?”

“From… from the provinces,” Dmitry answered evasively. “I arrived in St. Petersburg recently.”

“What education do you have?”

“University. History and philology.”

Krupov raised his eyebrows:

“University? That’s wonderful! And which university did you graduate from?”

*Damn,* Dmitry thought. *Now he’s going to ask for documents, a diploma…*

“Kazan,” he quickly lied, remembering that Kazan University had existed for a long time.

“Kazan!” Krupov nodded. “An excellent institution. And do you have your diploma?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dmitry lowered his eyes. “I… lost all my documents. I was robbed on the road.”

“Robbed?” Krupov shook his head sympathetically. “Oh, what a misfortune! The roads have become dangerous these days, bandits have multiplied. Well, never mind, never mind. It’s not about the diploma but the knowledge. Tell me, young man,” he removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief, “why do you want to teach children?”

Dmitry thought. The question was unexpected and very apt.

“I want…” he began slowly, “to do something useful. Something real. Teaching children means shaping the future. Every child you teach to read, write, think – is a person who can change the world for the better.”

*Lord,* he thought to himself, *where did I get that? But it’s true. I really do think that.*

Krupov looked at him with growing interest:

“Change the world for the better…” he repeated quietly. “Yes, young man, you’re right. That’s what I’ve been doing my whole life. I teach children not just reading, but humanity, kindness, love for one’s neighbor.” He paused, then smiled: “You know what, Dmitry Sergeevich? I’ll take you. Fifteen rubles a month, lunch included, work from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon. Do you agree?”

“I agree!” Dmitry could barely contain his joyful cry.

“Excellent. You’ll start tomorrow. Today you can watch how classes are conducted, meet the children.”

***

22. First Lesson

Krupov led Dmitry into a classroom. A large room with tall windows, long tables with benches along the walls, pictures with letters and numbers on the walls, maps of Russia and Europe. About twenty children sat at the tables – boys aged eight to twelve in simple shirts and vests.

“Children!” Krupov said loudly, entering the classroom. “Meet Dmitry Sergeevich. Starting tomorrow he will help me teach you.”

The children turned to Dmitry and stared with curiosity. Some smiled, others looked doubtfully.

“Hello, children,” said Dmitry, feeling slight nervousness.

“Hello, Dmitry Sergeevich!” the children answered in unison, standing up from their places.

*They stood up,* Dmitry was surprised. *They showed respect to the teacher. In the twenty-first century students don’t behave like that.*

“Today we have a lesson in penmanship,” said Krupov. “Dmitry Sergeevich, would you like to show the children how to write properly?”

Dmitry approached the board. He took chalk – thick, white, leaving a dense mark. He wrote several sentences in beautiful handwriting (in university he’d specifically studied old-fashioned writing for archive work):

“Learning is light, and ignorance is darkness, as Suvorov himself said”

“Patience and labor overcome all”

The children watched in admiration.

“Oh, how beautifully you write!” exclaimed a round-faced boy with a snub nose.

“Will you teach me?” asked a girl with long braids.

*A girl?* Dmitry was surprised. *Krupov teaches girls too? That was rare in the nineteenth century.*

Krupov noticed his surprise and explained:

“I believe girls have as much right to education as boys. Not everyone understands this nowadays, but I hope with time everything will change.”

*A progressive man,* Dmitry thought with respect. *In the nineteenth century that took courage.*

The lesson continued. Dmitry walked between the rows, watching how the children carefully traced letters in their notebooks. He helped those who were struggling, corrected mistakes, praised successes.

*Strange,* he thought. *I’ve never worked with children. But I like it. They’re so open, sincere, trusting. Not like adults in the twenty-first century – cynical, closed off, suspicious.*

After the lesson, one boy – the smallest, about seven or eight years old, with big eyes and thin arms – approached him shyly:

“Dmitry Sergeevich, will you really be teaching us?”

“Yes, I will,” Dmitry smiled.

“Are you kind?” the boy asked with childish directness.

“I’ll try to be kind,” Dmitry answered.

“Will you not hit us with a ruler? The old teacher used to hit when we made mistakes.”

*Hit with a ruler,* Dmitry’s heart sank. *Yes, corporal punishment in schools was normal in the nineteenth century.*

“No,” Dmitry said firmly. “I will never hit you. I promise.”

The boy brightened:

“Really? That’s good! Then I’ll try hard to study well!”

He ran off to his friends, and Dmitry heard him say happily:

“He said he won’t hit! He’s kind!”

*Kind,* Dmitry repeated to himself. *Here that’s the main word. Not smart, not successful, not efficient – but kind. Maybe they’re right?*

***

23. Evening at Rodion’s

Returning in the evening to Praskovia Pavlovna’s house, Dmitry found a note slipped under his door:

“Dmitry Sergeevich, come see me this evening. I want to talk with you. Rodion Romanovich”

He went up one flight, found Rodion’s door, and knocked. From inside came a quiet:

“Enter.”

Rodion’s room was even smaller than Dmitry’s – a tiny little room right under the roof, with a low ceiling and a single small window. There was almost no furniture – a bed, a table, a chair, nothing else. Books and papers lay on the table, and a candle stub.

Rodion sat on the bed, dressed in the same worn frock coat, barefoot. His face was even paler than yesterday, his eyes sunken with dark circles, but burning with some strange, feverish fire.

“Come in, sit down,” he pointed to the chair.

Dmitry sat. A heavy, tense silence fell between them. Rodion looked out the window at the darkening sky and whispered something to himself.

“Rodion Romanovich,” Dmitry began carefully, “you wanted to talk?”

“Yes,” Rodion turned to him. “I’ve been thinking about your story. About you being from the future. And I understood that I believe you. Not because it’s logical or reasonable. But because there’s something… out of time about you. You look at everything as if you’re seeing it for the first time. As if you wonder at what’s ordinary for us.”

“That’s true,” Dmitry admitted. “I really do marvel. In my time everything is different.”

“Tell me,” Rodion asked, and there was something hungry, almost painful in his voice. “Tell me about it. About your future. Have people become better there? More just? Freer?”

Dmitry thought. How to answer that honestly?

“Well… for instance,” he began. “There’s not as much poverty there as here. That is, it exists, but it’s different. People don’t die of hunger in the streets. Everyone has homes, food, clothing. Medicine has become very advanced – they cure diseases that kill people here. People live to seventy, eighty years old.”

“Wow! That’s good,” Rodion nodded. “So progress is happening! So humanity is moving forward.”

“But,” Dmitry hesitated, “people have become… different. Colder. Everyone lives for themselves. Neighbors don’t know each other. People can pass by a dying man and not stop – because it’s ‘not their business.’”

“How is it not their business?” Rodion jumped off the bed, his eyes flashed. “How can it be not their business? If a man is dying – it’s everyone’s business! It’s…” He caught himself, paced the room. “So despite all the progress, people haven’t become better? Haven’t become kinder, more just?”

“No,” Dmitry admitted honestly. “They became richer, more educated, but not kinder.”

Rodion stopped, stared at him:

“And the division between people? Did it remain? Between the rich and poor, the powerful and powerless, those who have the right and those who… tremble?”

Lord, Dmitry went cold, he’s already formulated his theory. About “trembling creatures” and “those who have the right.”

“The division remained,” he answered slowly. “Maybe not as obvious, but it’s there. There are the rich, who rule the world, and the poor, who work for them.”

“So nothing has changed!” Rodion struck the table with his fist. “Despite all your machines, medicines, progress – the essence remains the same! Humanity hasn’t become more just!”

“Perhaps,” Dmitry said quietly, “justice doesn’t exist at all? Perhaps it’s just a beautiful idea that will never be realized?”

“No!” Rodion almost cried out. “No, it must exist! And if the world is unjust – then it needs to be changed. Someone has to do it. Someone has to… transgress. Step over all these rules, laws, morality, which are invented by those at the top to keep us at the bottom!”

There it is, Dmitry understood. He’s ready. Ready for crime.

“Rodion Romanovich,” he said firmly, “I understand you. I understand your pain, your anger. I was like that once too. I also thought the world was unjust and needed to be changed. But you know what I realized?”

“What?” Rodion looked at him with tense attention.

“That you can’t fix the world through evil. You can’t defeat injustice with murder. You can’t become a person by committing a crime.”

Rodion went even paler:

“How do you know that I…” he didn’t finish.

“Because I see it in your eyes,” said Dmitry. “You’re possessed by some idea. You think that if you do something terrible, you’ll prove to yourself and the world that you’re not a ‘trembling creature,’ but a person with a capital P. But it’s a trap, Rodion Romanovich. It’s a path to nowhere.”

Silence fell. Rodion stood with his head down, his hands trembling.

“You don’t understand,” he finally said quietly. “You can’t understand. You live in a world where people have choices. But I… I was born in poverty. My mother died of consumption because we didn’t have money for medicine. My sister married a scoundrel because there was no other way out.

I myself studied at university on my last kopecks, starved, froze, was humiliated. And all this – why? Because I was born into the wrong family. Because fate decided it that way.

He raised his head, and Dmitry saw tears in his eyes:

“And up there, people live! Who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Who’ve never gone hungry, never frozen, never been humiliated. Who think they have the right to rule our fates. Simply because that’s how the world is organized. And you tell me – don’t transgress? Don’t step over the line? But how else? How else can I prove I’m not worse than them? That I’m also a person?”

Dmitry said nothing. He understood Rodion – understood his pain, his despair, his rage. He’d felt something similar once himself.

“Rodion Romanovich,” he finally said, “I know how you suffer. But listen to me carefully. In my time, in the future, I know the story of a man. Very much like you. He also thought the world was unjust. He also wanted to prove he had the right. And he… committed a crime. He killed a man.”

Rodion flinched but didn’t interrupt.

“And you know what happened after?” Dmitry continued. “He didn’t become stronger. Didn’t become freer. He became the most miserable person in the world. Because he didn’t kill an old moneylender – he killed himself. His conscience. His soul. And then for the rest of his life he suffered, trying to atone for it. But you can’t atone. Murder stays on the soul forever.”

“How do you know this?” Rodion whispered.

“I read about it,” Dmitry answered. “In a book. A great book that will be written by a writer in a few years. He’ll tell the story of a man who committed a crime to prove himself right. And the whole book will be about how that man suffers. How remorse tears him apart. How he realizes he was wrong.”

Rodion sank onto the bed, covered his face with his hands:

“You speak as if you know my future…”

“Not your future,” Dmitry said gently. “But I know where this path leads. Rodion Romanovich, do you want to be a person? A real person? Then become one through good, not through evil. Through helping others, not through crime.”

Rodion was silent for a long time. Then he raised his head, and Dmitry saw in his eyes a strange mixture of gratitude and stubbornness.

“Thank you, Dmitry Sergeevich,” he said quietly. “Thank you for trying to stop me. You’re a good man. Better than I am. Perhaps you’re right. But…” he hesitated, “but I can’t just abandon my idea. I’ve thought about it for too long. It’s become part of me.”

“Rodion Romanovich…”

“No, listen to me,” Rodion interrupted. “I’ll think about your words. I give you my word, I’ll think. But I’m not promising anything. Because… because there are two forces battling inside me. One says – yes, you’re right, you can’t. The other says – no, you must, you have to. And I don’t know which will win.”

He stood, walked to the window, looked at the dark roofs of houses:

“You see, Dmitry Sergeevich, there are people who live peacefully. Who never have such thoughts. They just exist – work, eat, sleep, have children, age, die. They’re happy in their simplicity. And there are other people – those who are tormented by questions. Who am I? Why do I live? Do I have the right? And these questions don’t let you sleep, eat, breathe. They burn inside like fire. And the only way to extinguish this fire is to answer the question. Through action.”

“But what action?” asked Dmitry. “Murder?”

Rodion turned to him:

“Not necessarily murder. Maybe… something else. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. But I have to do something. Have to! Otherwise I’ll go mad.”

He’s not refusing, Dmitry realized with horror. He still plans to do something. I didn’t convince him.

“Rodion Romanovich,” Dmitry said desperately, “please, don’t do anything rash. I beg you. Promise me that before you act, you’ll come to me. Talk to me again.”

Rodion looked at him with a long gaze:

“All right,” he said finally. “I promise. If I decide to act – I’ll tell you. Though…” he smiled bitterly, “maybe I won’t have the courage. Maybe I really am just a ‘trembling creature’ who only talks but doesn’t act.”

“You’re not a creature,” Dmitry said firmly. “You’re a person. A thinking, feeling, suffering person. And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t become a murderer.”

Rodion nodded but said nothing. Dmitry understood the conversation was over. He stood:

“I’ll go. Good night, Rodion Romanovich.”

“Good night, Dmitry Sergeevich.”

Dmitry left the little room with a heavy heart. The conversation brought no relief – on the contrary, the fear intensified. Rodion hadn’t rejected his idea. He’d only postponed his decision.

What do I do? Dmitry thought as he descended the stairs. How do I stop him? Follow him? But I can’t follow him constantly. Tell the police? But what would I say? That my acquaintance is thinking about committing a crime? I’d be arrested for slander. Find whoever he’s planning to target and warn them? But I don’t even know who he’s chosen.

Returning to his room, he lay on the bed without undressing. Sleep wouldn’t come. Before his eyes stood Rodion’s pale, tormented face, his fever-bright eyes.

I have to save him, Dmitry decided firmly. That’s my task here. Not just to survive, not just to adapt – but to save a man standing on the edge of an abyss. Because if I don’t save him, who will?

Somewhere in the distance someone was shouting, someone was crying, someone was laughing drunkenly. St. Petersburg’s life continued – terrifying, beautiful, merciless life. And in a little room under the roof sat a young man thinking about crime.

24. First Days of Teaching

The morning of the next day began early. Dmitry woke to the sound of roosters crowing and carts rumbling over the pavement. His head ached from a sleepless night full of anxious thoughts about Rodion.

But life goes on, he thought, washing in ice-cold water. I have work. The children are waiting. I can’t let them down because of my worries.

He dressed, had breakfast of black bread with tea (Praskovia Pavlovna brought him food again, not asking for money – “Pay when you get your wages, dear”), and headed to Krupov’s school.

The walk took half an hour – through narrow streets, past shops, taverns, churches. The October morning was cold and gray, but Dmitry barely noticed the cold. His thoughts were occupied with the upcoming lesson.

What will I teach them? he wondered. Reading, arithmetic – that’s clear. But you can teach them more. You can teach them to think, feel, understand. You can make them better, kinder, smarter. That’s enormous responsibility.

At the school, Krupov met him – cheerful, energetic, despite the early hour:

“Ah, Dmitry Sergeevich! Good morning! Did you sleep well? Ready to work?”

“Ready, Ivan Petrovich,” Dmitry smiled.

“Excellent! Today you’ll have your first independent lesson. The younger group – children from seven to nine years old. Teach them writing. Here are the copybooks, here are the quills, the ink. The main thing is patience and kindness. You can’t show weakness with children – they sense it.”

Krupov led him to the classroom. The children were already sitting at their desks – about fifteen, boys and three girls. When they saw the new teacher, they grew quiet, stared curiously.

“Children,” said Krupov, “this is Dmitry Sergeevich, your new teacher. Listen to him carefully, don’t misbehave. I’m going to the older students.”

He left, leaving Dmitry alone with the children. For several seconds there was silence. Dmitry looked at the children, the children looked at him.

Lord, he thought, where do I start?

“Good morning, children,” he began.

“Good morning, Dmitry Sergeevich!” the children answered in unison, standing up.

“Please sit down,” Dmitry indicated with his hand. “Let’s get to know each other. My name is Dmitry Sergeevich Komarov. I’ll be teaching you writing and reading. And what are your names?”

The children began introducing themselves – one by one, shyly, embarrassed:

“Vanya Petrov…”

“Masha Ivanova…”

“Kolya Smirnov…”

“Sashenka Volkova…”

Simple names, simple children, Dmitry thought. Children of merchants, tradespeople, minor officials. Not wealthy, but not beggars either. They have a chance to get an education, find a profession, change their fate. And I can help them.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he said when everyone had introduced themselves. “Tell me, do you like to study?”

The children exchanged glances. One boy – the very one who’d asked yesterday if the new teacher was kind – shyly raised his hand:

“Do you really not hit us, Dmitry Sergeevich?”

“I really don’t,” Dmitry answered firmly. “Never. I promise.”

The children brightened noticeably. One girl with braids said:

“Then I’ll try hard! I want to learn to write beautifully, like ladies do!”

“And you will,” Dmitry smiled. “You’ll all learn if you try. The main thing is don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Mistakes are normal. Everyone makes them. Even adults. Even teachers.”

Even me, he added to himself. I’ve made so many mistakes in life. But here, in this time, I have a chance to fix everything.

The lesson began. Dmitry distributed copybooks to the children – notebooks with letter samples. He showed them how to hold the quill properly, how to dip it in the inkwell, how to form letters.

The children tried their hardest – tongues sticking out from effort, bent over their notebooks. Some did better, some worse. Someone got ink all over himself up to his ears, someone tore the paper with an awkward movement.

Dmitry walked between the rows, helping, correcting, encouraging:

“Good job, Vanyechka, already better!”

“Mashenka, hold the quill like this, see, it’ll be easier!”

“Kolya, don’t rush, write slowly, carefully!”

Strange, he thought, I feel happy. Despite all the problems, the poverty, the fear for Rodion – I’m happy. Because I’m doing something real. Something important. Not updating antivirus software, but teaching children. Shaping their future.

By the end of the lesson the children were tired but satisfied. They showed each other their notebooks, boasting:

“Look, mine turned out almost like the teacher’s!”

“And I don’t have a single blot!”

“And I wrote a whole line without mistakes!”

Krupov came in at the end of the lesson, looked at the children’s work, nodded approvingly:

“Good, Dmitry Sergeevich. I see you have a talent for teaching. The children listen to you, they try. That’s the main thing.”

After the lesson, when the children had run off, Krupov invited Dmitry to his office for tea.

“Tell me, Dmitry Sergeevich,” he asked, pouring tea from the samovar, “why did you decide to become a teacher? You’re an educated man, you could have found more profitable work. In some office or another.”

Dmitry thought. It was a fair question.

“You see, Ivan Petrovich,” he answered slowly, “I searched for a long time for my place in life. I tried different occupations. And I realized that money isn’t the main thing. The main thing is to feel that your work has meaning. That you’re making the world a little bit better. And a teacher – that’s exactly what he does, right?”

Krupov looked at him with respect:

“Right, Dmitry Sergeevich. Absolutely right. You know, I’ve devoted my whole life to children. I could have become a clerk, lived more comfortably. But I chose the school. And I’ve never regretted it. Because the greatest reward for a teacher is seeing your student grow up to be a good person. Educated, kind, honest. That’s true happiness.”

True happiness, Dmitry repeated to himself. In the twenty-first century people don’t talk about such happiness. There happiness is money, a car, an apartment, a vacation by the sea. But here, in the nineteenth century, people still remember that happiness is something different.

They finished their tea, talked a bit more about pedagogy, about children, about life. Krupov turned out to be a remarkable man – intelligent, kind, full of ideas. He spoke about his plans to open a bigger school where not just merchants’ children but poor children could study.

“Education should be available to everyone,” he said passionately. “It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor. Every child has the right to learn. But unfortunately not everyone understands this. The authorities think education for the lower classes is dangerous. That an educated people will rebel. But I think the opposite – an educated people will be reasonable. And reasonable people don’t rebel without cause.”

Krupov is an idealist, Dmitry thought. But such a bright, kind idealism. Not like Rodion – dark, obsessed, ready for crime. But healthy, creative. That’s who I need to show Rodion! That’s an example of how you can change the world not through destruction but through creation.

“Ivan Petrovich,” he said, “could I bring an acquaintance here? He’s an educated man too, also looking for his place in life. Maybe it would be good for him to talk with you.”

“Of course, Dmitry Sergeevich!” Krupov was delighted. “Bring him. I’m always glad to meet like-minded people.”

Yes, Dmitry decided. I’ll bring Rodion here. Let him see there’s another way. That you can be a person without committing a crime.

Part 3. Hunger and Transformation

1. Third Day Without Money

Dmitry woke from cold. The room was so cold that his breath turned to vapor. He lay under a thin blanket, huddled in his frock coat, looking at the ceiling.

Third day, he counted. Third day with almost no food. Yesterday – a crust of bread in the morning and evening. The day before – the same. Today it’ll be the same. Three more weeks until my first wages. How will I make it?

His stomach ached – not just rumbling from hunger, but actually aching, with a dull, sickening pull. His head spun when he stood up. His legs trembled.

I always thought I understood poverty, he reflected, slowly getting out of bed. I read about it in Dostoevsky and Nekrasov. I saw homeless people on the streets of the twenty-first century. But that wasn’t understanding. That was observation from the side, from a warm apartment window. Now I understand – real hunger isn’t just wanting to eat. It’s when your stomach aches, your head spins, your hands shake. When you think about food every second. When the smell of bread from a bakery causes physical pain.

There was a knock on the door. Praskovia Pavlovna came in with a tray – a glass of tea and a tiny piece of black bread.

“Here, dear, eat something,” she said and sighed. “I can’t give you more. You understand, I’m not wealthy. I can feed you like this for a week, maybe two. But not longer. I have to feed my own children.”

“Thank you, Praskovia Pavlovna,” Dmitry took the glass with trembling hands. “You’re very kind. I’ll try to find additional work.”

“God willing, dear. Because I see you’re getting thinner. You’ve gone very pale. I hope you don’t get sick.”

She left, and Dmitry was alone with his tea and the tiny piece of bread. He ate slowly, stretching it out, chewing each crumb as long as possible.

In the twenty-first century I threw away more food in a day than I eat now, he thought bitterly. Uneaten burgers, leftover pizza, stale bread – all in the trash. And here every crumb is worth its weight in gold.

2. School and Children

Dmitry came to school half an hour early – he wanted to sit somewhere warm. The classroom had a stove and it was relatively warm.

Krupov met him in the corridor:

“Good morning, Dmitry Sergeevich! How are you feeling?”

“Well, Ivan Petrovich, thank you,” Dmitry lied.

Krupov looked at him carefully:

“You’re pale, my friend. And you’ve lost weight. Maybe you need help?”

Yes, Dmitry almost cried out. Yes, I need help! I’m dying of hunger! Give me some money!

But aloud he said:

“No, everything’s fine. I’m just a bit tired.”

“Make sure you don’t overwork yourself,” Krupov patted him on the shoulder. “Health is more important. And come to my room for tea at lunch – we’ll have some.”

Tea, Dmitry thought desperately. Just tea again. But I need bread. Meat. Real food. But I can’t ask. Too shameful.

The lesson began. The children came – cheerful, noisy, rosy-cheeked. They’d been fed at home, given warm clothes, sent to study. They had a childhood.

And there are children who don’t, Dmitry thought, looking at them. Children who work at factories from age ten. Who go hungry. Who die from disease. And no one helps them. No one.

He taught the children writing, but his thoughts were far away. The letters blurred before his eyes, his head spun.

“Dmitry Sergeevich,” called little Vanyechka Petrov, “are you all right?”

“No, Vanyechka, everything’s fine,” Dmitry smiled. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“Did you eat today?” asked the girl with braids. “Mama says that if you don’t eat, your head will spin.”

What a smart girl, Dmitry thought. Smarter than me. I forgot I’m not a superhero. That I need food to live.

“I did eat, Mashenka, thank you,” he lied again.

But after the lesson, when the children had left, he remained sitting at the desk, his head in his hands. He didn’t have the strength to walk home.

3. Decision

In the evening, walking home across Sennaya Square, Dmitry saw a crowd of men outside a tavern. They stood waiting for something.

He approached closer. From the tavern came out a fat man in a dirty apron – the owner, apparently.

“Need a man to wash the floors, carry out the slop!” he shouted. “I’ll pay fifteen kopecks for the evening! Work till midnight! Who’s interested?”

The men were silent. For them, laborers, this work was humiliating. They were used to carrying heavy things, not washing floors like women.

Fifteen kopecks, Dmitry thought. If I work every evening, that’s ninety kopecks a week. Almost four rubles a month. I can buy bread, porridge, maybe even a little meat.

“I’ll do it,” he said, raising his hand.

The men looked at him – with confusion, with contempt. An intellectual, in a frock coat, going to wash floors. Either completely desperate or some kind of drunkard.

“You?” the owner looked him over. “Can you manage? You’re not some weakling?”

“I can manage,” Dmitry said firmly.

“All right then, come on. There’s a lot of work. Come at eight in the evening.”

I’m a teacher, Dmitry thought as he walked home. I’m a historian with a university education. In the twenty-first century I was a systems administrator, worked in an office, made decent money. And now I’ll be washing floors in a tavern for fifteen kopecks. For kopecks. There’s the price of pride in the nineteenth century – nothing.

But hunger was stronger than shame.

4. First Evening in the Tavern – Shock and Disgust

At eight o’clock, Dmitry came to the tavern. The owner – his name was Savely Kuzmich – showed him a bucket of water, a rag, and said:

“Here, get started. Wash the floors, wipe the tables, carry out the slop. If a customer throws up – clean it. If they fight – call me, don’t get involved yourself. Understand?”

“Understood,” Dmitry nodded.

“Well, get to work. The evening’s just beginning.”

Dmitry took the rag – gray, damp, with the sharp smell of cheap soap – and looked at the floor. Wooden boards were covered with something sticky, cigarette butts lay in the corners, someone had stepped in dirt and smeared it across the floor.

My God, he thought. Am I really going to do this?

He knelt down – and immediately felt something damp and disgusting soak into his pants. He tried to touch the rag to the floor – but his hand jerked back on its own.

I can’t, he thought in panic. Can’t touch this filth with my bare hands!

He looked around – maybe there was a stick, a mop? But Savely Kuzmich was already watching him suspiciously:

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.