Four Ways to Be Wrong

A man from behind on the wooden porch of an old dacha at dawn, looking at a silent snowy forest, a grey cat on the step beside him.

On day eleven, I saw her for the first time.

Not in the sense of meeting—there was a meeting. I stepped out onto the porch that morning (habit: every morning, stand on the porch, look at the forest, breathe air that smells like something Russian doesn’t have a word for—roughly “cleanliness,” if cleanliness were a scent)—and she was standing by the fence. Same thin coat. Same notebook.

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