This is one of the evenings that I spend at our house with Ksyusha, hoping to see her at least for a glimpse. It is unbearable to be in the apartment, she is not there and everything reminds me of her and my fault, but here there is a slightest illusion that Ksyusha is nearby. When she sits in her favorite spot on the second floor's enclosed loggia, I can clearly see her through the windows. Every tilt of the head, every gesture echoes in me, responds with a painful spasm in the heart. I physically feel how my palms are burning, so I long to touch her. My gut...