— Mom, this is my apartment! Did you really think I’d put up with your games with Sveta? That’s it—enough! Vacate the premises.

— Have you lost your mind, Ilya?! — his mother’s voice cut through the air like a knife. — You know perfectly well that the apartment won’t go to you alone!

— Mom, — Ilya leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, — here we go again. Let’s skip the theatrics, okay? Just give me the documents.

— What documents? — she didn’t even turn around. She stood by the stove, stirring a pot of pasta and breathing fast, as if she’d been running. — You must be confused: this isn’t your office where you can give orders. This is my home.

— And the apartment on Prudnaya? Whose is that?

— Your grandmother’s. God rest her soul.

— No, Mom, — he said calmly. — Mine. It’s mine now.

She turned sharply. Her face was angry, but her eyes were tired and red, as if she hadn’t slept all night.

— My God, do you even hear yourself? We haven’t properly buried your mother, and you’re already dividing up papers.

— Papers are your thing, — Ilya nodded toward the table, where various receipts, bills, and certificates lay. — I just want to take what’s already mine.

— It’s not only yours! — she shouted. — You have a sister.

— I do, — he nodded. — A sister with three kids, a perpetually whining husband, and a habit of living off other people.

— Don’t you dare talk about Anya like that! — she struck the edge of the pot with the spoon, splashing sauce across the stove. — She’s a mother! It’s harder for her!

— Mom, and what about me—do you think it’s easier for me? I’ve been grinding away without a single day off for the last three years just to claw my way out of debt. No one helped. And no one planned to.

She exhaled, sat down at the table, and dropped the spoon.

— You know your grandmother wanted everything divided equally.

— Don’t tell fairy tales. She left a will. And if you have a hard time accepting that, that’s your problem.

— A will, — she mocked. — You filled her head with stories that I never visited her.

— Did you?

— I have a job! I can’t sit at home tinkering with a laptop on my knees like you!

— Right—yet you can pass judgment.

He walked over to the window. October in Moscow meant gray skies, shining puddles, and leaves nearly all gone. Trams clanged somewhere in the distance; it smelled of wet asphalt and something sour from the neighboring stairwell.

His mother was silent. Only the old wall clock with its Soviet-era face ticked on.

— Mom, — he finally said without turning around, — I just want to live peacefully. In that apartment. Alone. Without you, without Anya, without shouting and accusations.

— Anya and the kids are all in one room! — she jumped up. — Do you have any idea how hard it is for them?

— I don’t give a damn, Mom! — he snapped. — I’m tired of always being the one who has to make sacrifices! My whole life I’ve been the one who “understands.” When Anya needs something—I understand. When you want me to help—I understand. When your Vasya drinks—I understand that too. But when I just need a little peace, nobody understands!

She dug her fingers into the edge of the table.

— Vasya, by the way, is like a father to you.

— Vasya is like a TV: loud and impossible to turn off.

— Don’t you dare!

— Or what? You’ll stop talking to me again? Go ahead!

Silence fell. Outside, someone slammed a door; somewhere upstairs a child started crying. The apartment smelled of boiling-over sauce and anger.

— Ilya, — his mother suddenly said calmly, almost softly. — I don’t want to fight with you. I’m just asking… be human. Give your sister a chance.

— She needs a chance? Fine. Let her work. Let her sort things out with her husband. Why should I be the bank for all your “chances”?

— Because you’re the son.

— And she isn’t?

She pressed her lips together.

— You’ve always been cold. Your grandmother spoiled you with all her “Ilyusha, well done.” That’s how you grew up—selfish.

He nodded with a smirk.

— So I’m selfish. Great. Then the selfish one will take his things and leave.

He pulled a folder of documents out of his backpack.

— Here are copies of the will. The original is with the notary. Everything is legal.

— You… — she fell silent, as if she couldn’t find the final blow. — Do you even realize that we’re strangers to each other now?..

— I understand, — he replied shortly. — And you know, for the first time in many years, that actually makes me feel calm.

He stepped into the hallway, pulled on his jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets. Behind him his mother was saying something, but he was no longer listening. His head was buzzing — a mix of exhaustion and a strange, heavy silence.

Outside it was damp. The air smelled of autumn and something metallic, as if the city were rusting along with the people. Ilya walked to the bus stop, got on a bus, and stared out the window.

His phone vibrated.

Pasha: “Bro, if you need a place, my couch is at your service. One spring sticks out, but hey — it’s free.”

Ilya smirked.

“That’ll do. As long as there are no family councils.”

By evening he was already sitting in Pasha’s kitchen — that same one-room flat in a prefab building near the MCD line. Trains hummed outside; inside it smelled of coffee and fried dumplings. Magnets from Pyaterochka on the wall, a laptop, mugs, and a pack of cheap cigarettes on the table.

— Well, you’re something else, — Pasha said, lighting a cigarette. — Your mom’s in shock, your sister’s screaming, and you’re just being you.

— To hell with both of them. I’m sick of being the backup option.

— Wait. Anya was really planning to move in there?

— Uh-huh. With the kids, the husband, and their “we have no other choice.”

— And you told them…?

— That they don’t have a choice anyway.

Pasha laughed.

— Harsh.

— But honest.

He poured himself some tea and blew on the mug.

— You know, I didn’t even dig my heels in just because of the apartment. It’s just… if I keep staying silent, they’ll erase me. Like I never existed.

— You’re such a dramatist. But I get it. My cousins haven’t spoken for two years over a garage.

— Same here. I won’t talk either. Let them think I’m dead. It’s more convenient for them that way.

He sat there staring out the window. A commuter train passed by, lights flickering across the glass.

The smell of wet asphalt and someone else’s food rose from below. Pasha was talking about his job, about an idiot boss and an advance that wouldn’t come, but Ilya was barely listening.

He had already made up his mind.

A week later he received a notification: registration of property rights completed. Official. Final.

He showed his phone to Pasha.

— Congratulations, — Pasha smirked. — You’re now the king of your thirty-five-square-meter empire.

— With no subjects, — Ilya added.

— And no mother.

— All the better.

That same evening Anya called. Her voice was tired but icy.

— Ilya, have you completely lost your mind? Why did you register everything without us?

— Did you ask me when you decided to move in there?

— We have children!

— And I have nerves. And they’re not made of steel either.

— Mom’s crying, — she said. — Do you even realize what you’ve done to her?

— Yes. I did exactly what she’d been pushing me toward my whole life. I became independent.

— You’re not human, Ilya.

— Maybe. But now I have an apartment.

He hung up and sat down on the couch, staring at his phone.

His reflection on the screen showed a tired, angry face — and, for the first time, one that seemed confident.

“Strangers,” he thought. “Every last one of them.”

Two weeks later, a letter arrived.

A plain white envelope, neat handwriting on it: “From O.V.”

Inside was a court notice.

His mother had filed a lawsuit to have the will declared invalid.

Pasha read it and whistled.

— Damn… She really went to court?

— Yeah, — Ilya smirked, but without joy. — Guess she decided that if persuasion didn’t work, she’d try the courts.

— And you?

— What else? I’ll defend myself.

— Alone?

— Who’s with me? Grandma? She said everything she needed to while she was alive.

He raised his head. The kitchen was quiet. Only the old refrigerator hummed like a diesel engine.

Outside it was raining, tapping steadily against the windowsill, almost soothing.

The hearing was scheduled for mid-November.

The sky hung low and gray those days, as if the city had been covered with a wet rag. On buses — the smell of damp jackets and irritation. People coughing, snapping, rushing. Ilya among them. On his way to court, with no fear, no anxiety in his head. Just a dull, scorched calm — the kind that comes when everything has already been decided.

At the entrance to the building stood his mother. In the coat he remembered from last autumn, and a headscarf — the one with daisies. Beside her was Anya, wearing her usual expression of weary superiority. They stood without speaking, just watching him approach.

An awkward silence stretched for about ten seconds. Then his mother exhaled:

— So. Are we going to fight this to the end?

— What choice do we have, Mom? You made it yourself.

— I chose justice.

— Justice? — Ilya smirked. — In your version, justice means I give them the apartment and go to hell, right?

— Don’t be rude. — Her voice was cold, like a stranger’s. — We could have settled everything like human beings.

— This is what you call “like human beings”? Filing a lawsuit against your own son?

— When a son behaves like a stranger, you have to.

He wanted to answer, but Anya cut in:

— Enough. We’re not going to make a circus here. Let the court decide.

— Let it, — Ilya said and walked past them.

The courtroom smelled of paper, dust, and old radiators. The judge was a woman in her mid-forties, with a tired face and the look of someone who had seen too many families like this.

“A routine case,” she was probably thinking. “Another drama over thirty-five square meters.”

Ilya’s lawyer was an acquaintance of Pasha’s friend. Not expensive, but confident. He laid out the documents and whispered quietly:

— Everything’s clean on paper. They’re just pressing emotionally. Hold on.

The judge looked at everyone in turn.

— Plaintiff, please state your claim.

His mother stood up. Her voice trembled, but she held herself together:

— I request that the will be declared invalid because my son… took advantage of an elderly woman’s trust. He… pressured her. Persuaded her. She no longer fully understood what she was signing.

Ilya stared at a single point — not at his mother, not at his sister, just past them. He had heard these phrases before; he knew they would come.

— Defendant, what do you have to say?

He stands up. His voice is calm, without any showy anger.

— Everything was voluntary. I didn’t force her. I was with my grandmother for the last two years. I helped her, took her to the clinic, bought groceries. We have our correspondence and receipts. She herself asked to have the apartment registered in my name.

The judge nods.

— The evidence is admitted.

His mother sits without looking up. Anya whispers something in her ear; she nods.

Half an hour later, the hearing ends.

The ruling is in Ilya’s favor.

The will remains valid.

No feeling of victory. Just emptiness.

At the exit, his mother stands by the door, as if waiting for him to stop.

— I hoped you would understand, — she says quietly. — But apparently your heart is made of stone.

— And you have nerves of steel. Suing your own son — that takes talent.

She sighs and turns to Anya.

— Let’s go. There’s nothing more to say here.

Ilya steps outside. The air is cold and sharp, as if deliberately meant to keep him from relaxing.

Snow is already hanging in the air, though it hasn’t started falling yet. It just smells like winter.

He walks down the street without really knowing where he’s going.

Past cafés where people sit with mulled wine, talking and laughing.

Past shop windows with New Year’s garlands already hung, even though December is still a week away.

And inside — silence. The kind that comes after a loud slam.

At home, Pasha greets him with a question:

— Well?

— It’s over. I won.

— Oh, congratulations. — He takes out two mugs and puts the kettle on. — But you don’t look like a winner.

— I didn’t win, — Ilya snorts. — I just ended up with nothing but an apartment.

— And what more do you need?

— I guess I want all of this to mean something.

Pasha sits down on a chair, staring at him.

— Look, you and I live in different worlds. Yours is family, scandals, wills. Mine is, at most, a neighbor who bangs on the radiator if I turn the music up.

But one thing I’ve learned: if you choose to be alone, then be alone. And don’t complain.

— I’m not complaining, — Ilya replied. — I just… didn’t think loneliness could be this loud.

They drank tea in silence. Outside, the first snow was falling. The city hid under a white blanket, as if it wanted to start over.

A month passed.

The apartment on Prudnaya stood empty.

He went there rarely, doing repairs little by little: leveled the floor, changed the outlets, repainted the walls. He did everything himself. Without help, without advice.

At first the walls seemed hollow, чужие, as if they didn’t belong to him. Then he got used to it.

One evening, coming back from work, he opened the door — and heard the doorbell.

His mother stood on the threshold. Without a coat, in an old sweater, a bag in her hand.

— I’m not here to beg, — she said right away. — I just wanted to… talk.

He stepped aside.

— Come in.

She went into the kitchen and put the bag down. Inside were bread, apples, a jar of coffee.

— I didn’t know what to buy you. Just… something.

— Mom, — he said quietly, — you don’t have to bring gifts.

— I didn’t bring a gift. — She sat down at the table and folded her hands. — I think I came to say that… I was wrong.

He sat across from her.

— Seriously?

— I don’t know how to say it properly, — she sighed. — I thought I was doing what was best. And it turned out — like always.

— Mom, — he looked at her, — we’re just too different. You live the way you can, I live the way I know how. But please, don’t touch this apartment anymore. It’s the only thing I have.

She nodded.

— I promise.

A pause. Long and strange.

Then she suddenly said:

— Anya is still angry. She says you abandoned us.

— I didn’t abandon anyone. I just stopped being convenient.

She smiled — tired, but with a hint of warmth.

— You get that from your father. He always did things his own way too.

— I know, — Ilya said. — But he’s been gone a long time.

— But you’re still here.

They sat in silence. The kettle boiled; she poured herself a cup.

— You know, I was thinking, — she said, — maybe not everything is lost yet.

— Maybe.

She stood up and got dressed. At the door she turned back.

— Ilya… thank you for letting me in.

— Thank you for no shouting.

She nodded and left.

Then came a long, cold winter.

Work, commuting, rare calls from Pasha. Sometimes messages from Anya, but without much substance: “Mom is sick,” “The kids are growing.” He replied politely, but briefly.

In spring he tore out the old bathroom tiles and renovated. He met summer in silence, without visits or showdowns.

And only by autumn did he realize that he no longer felt resentment.

As if everything had burned out.

One day in a supermarket he saw his mother. She stood by the pasta shelf, turning a package over in her hands.

He recognized her immediately. His heart gave a small jolt — not from anger, but from a soft, calm regret.

He walked up to her.

— Hi.

She looked up.

— Oh… hi. — She smiled awkwardly. — It’s been a while.

— Yeah. How are you?

— Fine. Working a little. Anya asked me to move in with her, but I refused.

— Why?