The concrete stairwell was dim and cool. I climbed, my footsteps echoing, until I reached the top and pushed against a heavy metal bar on the door. It opened with a whoosh of hydraulic air, and I stepped out.
My jaw dropped. This wasn't a roof. It wasn't a flat, tar-covered slab with air conditioning units. It was a greenhouse.
A massive, glassed-in garden spanned the entire top of the main building, exactly where I'd seen the glass panels from the ground. The ceiling and walls were made of huge panes of reinforced glass, and the late-afternoon sun was streaming through, making the entire space warm and bright. It was filled with... everything. There were neat rows of beautiful, delicate flowers I didn't recognize. Strange, exotic plants with massive leaves. There were even small, manicured trees growing right out of soil beds built into the floor. In one corner, I saw a set of pristine gardening tools and labeled bags of soil.
"Floristics and biology..." I muttered, remembering the weird, vague class on my schedule for tomorrow. "They're really going to teach us on real examples."
Kirin was, once again, more exquisite and ridiculously extra than I could have possibly imagined.
Best of all? There was no one here. It was completely silent. I found a spot in the back corner, a small, ornamental tree with dark purple leaves.
I sat on the floor, my back against the planter, letting the shadows of the setting sun cast patterns over me through the glass windows. I unzipped my guitar case.
I didn't feel like playing rock. I didn't feel like being loud. I just felt... heavy.
My fingers found a different, more familiar set of chords. Soft, melancholy.
It was "Спи собі сама" (Sleep on your own) by Skryabin.
I'd always loved Kuzma's music. It was honest. It was the sound of my home. His death back in February... that had been a national tragedy. I'd even gone to the memorial concert in Kyiv with my dad, standing in a huge crowd, all of us singing his songs, all of us feeling like we'd lost a friend.
It was actually my first time seeing my dad cry.
I started to sing, my voice barely a whisper in the warm, sunlit greenhouse. "Часом буває так, що хочеш почути
Речi, яких нiколи б не знати..." (Sometimes it happens, you want to be hearing,
Things you were better off never knowing....)
The first line hit me, and my throat tightened. I was here, in this impossible palace of a school, assigned to be a partner with an ice queen who hated me, and a talent show representative against my will.
I'd been in a fight. I'd played basketball with a guy who was my rival, spied on a girl, and been called a "puppy" and a "mountain" all in the span of a day and a half.
"Тидивишсявкухнi накран i воду
Аправданiзвiдкиневиходить..."(You stare at the tap in the kitchen, the water —
But truth won't come out, no matter how you want her....)
A hot tear suddenly escaped my eye, tracing a path down my cheek.
"I дивляться в очi тобi знайомi
А їхнi очi твоїм говорять..."( Friends are heavily staring at you being frozen
and thier eyes are yours informing....)
Then another.
"Спи собi сама
Коли бiля тебе мене нема..."( Sleep on your own
Unless I'm with you, in case I've gone....)
And just like that, I was crying. I kept playing, the chords blurring as I wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. It was the first time I'd cried since I'd left my mom at Boryspil. It wasn't that I was unhappy. It wasn't that I regretted coming. I was thrilled to be here. It was just... everything. The exhaustion. The homesickness. The sheer, overwhelming emotion of the last 36 hours. I was a string pulled too tight, and this song, this quiet, sad song from home, was the one thing that finally made me snap.
I played until the song was over, finishing on a soft, fading chord. I just sat there for a minute, my head resting on my guitar, my breathing shaky. Then I let out a long, wet sniff and wiped my face for good. I felt... better. Lighter.
I pulled out my phone. The period was almost over. I checked the time in Ukraine. 9:15 AM. My mom was probably up, having her morning coffee, worrying. I hit "Call" on Skype.
"Hi, Mom."
"Sonechko! You're calling! Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, Mom, everything's great," I said, my voice still a little thick. I stood up, grabbing my backpack, and started strolling aimlessly through the greenhouse as I talked. "Just finished my last class for the day... Yeah, it was fine. Performance theory… Or something… I forgot the exact name and English. No, I haven't skipped any meals..." I walked for another fifteen minutes, pacing between rows of orchids and strange, spiky plants, giving her the heavily censored version of my second day. "...I promise I'll eat properly. I love you too. Bye, Mom."
I hung up, feeling anchored again.
I grabbed my guitar case and headed for the stairwell door.
I was just about to push the bar when I heard it.
A sound. A high-pitched, digital... ringing.
A phone.
It wasn't mine.
Mine was in my hand, silent.
The ringing was coming from... somewhere in the greenhouse. I stopped, listening. It rang twice, three times, then stopped.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice sounding way too loud in the glass room. "Is someone there?"
Silence. I looked behind the big tree I'd been sitting under. I peered down the aisles of flowers. No one. I was completely alone. I shrugged. Must have been my imagination.
Or maybe a gardener's phone left in a tool-shed I couldn't see. Whatever. It was strange, but I was too tired to care. I pushed the door open and headed back down, leaving the silent, sun-filled garden behind.