It was 10:20 PM in Moscow. The lights in the old cinema hall dimmed, and the words "The End" flashed on the screen, signaling the conclusion of yet another movie. The vintage cinema, a symbol of classic times, echoed with the soft murmur of patrons as they filed out, their footsteps reverberating in the wooden halls. The theatre had stood for decades, a relic of the past, its walls filled with history, and the air still carried the scent of old velvet and popcorn. It was the kind of place that held memories of countless screenings, where each ticket bought felt like a small pilgrimage to the past. It was one of it's only kind of cinema in the whole city, vintage in modern times.

  Boris Ivanov, the cinema manager, lingered for a while at the entrance, watching the last of the guests leave. His heart swelled with pride. The cinema, though old and weathered, had a certain charm—its vintage touch was unmistakable. He glanced around, admiring the place he had cared for so long. But tonight was different. There was something new in the air.

  The cinema was undergoing renovations, a long-overdue project he’d pushed for. The basement, which had been out of sight and out of mind for so long, was now being transformed. The upper floors had been done, but the basement still had a long way to go. Boris was excited to check on it, as he had designed it to have a glassy modern style - something that reflected the new Russia. It was 75% complete, with modern lighting fixtures, sleek walls, and smooth, polished floors.

  Boris made his way down the narrow hallway to the basement, the soundproofed walls absorbing every footstep. The moment he reached the door, he paused. The sleek, modern lights greeted him as he stepped inside, and for a brief moment, he felt a sense of accomplishment. He ran his hand along the smooth, freshly painted wall, feeling the cool texture beneath his fingers. Once this place is done, he thought, the whole cinema will be revitalized. It’ll be like a new beginning for this old place. Finally, this vintage theatre is pushing forward.

  Boris turned on the overhead lamps as he entered, the bright lights cutting through the shadows. The modern vibes mixed effortlessly with the elements, new structure, modern instruments and modern walls. Boris smiled to himself, pleased with the direction the renovations were taking. He could almost hear the sound of future movies being enjoyed by new generations in this space.

  As he walked further in, his eyes scanned the room. He was alone now—everyone else had left, and he had the basement to himself. He walked through the area, touching various parts of the renovation, admiring the progress. He didn’t mind the work still left to be done; the space already felt complete in some way.

  But then, something caught his eye.

  Scattered across the floor were several photographs. They were slightly curled at the edges, as if they had been carelessly tossed aside. At first, he couldn’t make out the faces, but when he stepped closer, a cold shiver ran through him.

  The photos were of a soldier. The uniform, the posture, the familiar face—it hit him like a punch to the gut. It was his son, Alexei. The same son he had lost seven months ago in the war. Boris’s breath caught in his throat as he bent down and picked up one of the photos. The smile, the proud eyes, the youthful energy—it was all there. He couldn’t comprehend how or why these photos were here. His hands trembled as he reached for another photo, then another. Each one was the same—Alexei, in full uniform, standing tall, looking like the boy he had known before he went off to war and never came back.

  Boris’s eyes blurred with tears. His mind raced. How are these here? Why? The questions spun in his head, but there were no answers. The memories of his son, of the pain he’d felt when he received that knock on the door—his son’s death—flooded back in a rush. His heart twisted in grief. He couldn’t understand why someone would bring these here, these painful reminders, these pieces of his past that he had locked away.

  His fingers clenched around the photos, the edges curling under the pressure. The weight of his son’s absence was too real, too present. The photos seemed to mock him, to bring him face-to-face with the boy he would never see again.

  Then, the lights above flickered.

  Boris froze. The silence of the soundproofed basement seemed to intensify, like the whole world had paused. And then, the lights went out completely.

  In the pitch darkness, Boris’s heart raced. He felt a chill in the air, a sense of something wrong. He couldn’t see anything, but the sensation of being watched was undeniable.

  “Is anyone here?” he called out, his voice breaking the silence, but it was swallowed by the thick walls of the basement.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He fumbled for his phone, trying to turn on the flashlight, but before he could, he heard the faintest sound—the soft creak of a door.

  He turned quickly, his pulse quickening, but before he could react, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door being closed, locking him in.

  Boris’s breath caught in his throat. No one could have been here. I’m sure I was alone.

  Suddenly, a soft light pierced the darkness. Boris squinted, trying to make out the figure standing in the distance. The man was tall, wearing a thick winter coat and boots, his face hidden beneath a mask.

  The man didn’t move. He just stood there, watching Boris. Then, with a calmness that chilled Boris to the bone, the man stepped forward and raised a gun.

  Boris had no time to react.

  The shot was quick, precise. The bullet slammed into his forehead, and his body collapsed to the ground, the photos slipping from his hands, falling to the cold concrete floor.

  The man stood still for a moment, holding a lamp kept in the basement, put it near boris, the blue light of the lamp, casting a long shadow across Boris’s lifeless body. He glanced down at the photos, then at Boris, before turning and walking out of the room.

  The basement fell silent once again, the only sound the distant hum of the modern lights that now seemed so out of place in this place of death.

  Next day, morning, ....

  The soft flutter of wings filled the cold russian air as a flock of birds flew overhead, their dark silhouettes against the fading winter sky. Snowflakes drifted lazily, covering the streets of Moscow in a pristine layer of white. The city felt quieter now, wrapped in a stillness that seemed to absorb the noise of the world.

  Lisa Svetlov, a 20-year-old photographer, stood in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral, her camera poised, the lens expertly focused. She had an eye for capturing the world in ways that most missed, an artist in the digital age. Her fingers worked the camera controls with ease, making slight adjustments to the settings before she clicked the shutter. The red, green, and gold of the cathedral’s spires contrasted sharply against the muted winter sky, and Lisa’s passion for photography was evident in every shot.

  “Hi, I’m Lisa" , she muttered to herself as she moved around the scene, speaking almost like an introduction. "My passion is photography, capturing the soul of the city, its history... its people."

  With a quick flick of her wrist, Lisa adjusted the camera to snap a few more shots, framing the iconic structure just right. The light from the fading sun hit her face in a soft, warm hue, the yellowish golden cheerful glow illuminating her sharp features, the faint traces of her youth blending with the ancient beauty she was capturing. She leaned back and clicked the shutter again, the lens capturing more than just a building—it captured the pulse of Moscow itself.

  From there, she shifted her focus to the Kremlin, its towering walls and golden domes bathed in the last of the day’s light. The **Red Square** loomed large in the background, the grand scale of it all further emphasized by Lisa’s camera. She quickly adjusted the lens, applying filters and presets that enhanced the vibrancy of her shots, carefully composing each image with the same meticulous attention she gave every project. For Lisa, photography wasn’t just a hobby—it was an extension of herself.

  After a few more shots, she slung her camera bag over her shoulder and began the walk home. It wasn’t a long journey, but it was peaceful. The streets were quiet, the occasional car passing by, but the path she took felt more like a **countryside escape** than a bustling city. The snow on the ground was untouched, the gardens stretching wide in every direction, offering a sense of calm and tranquility.

  Lisa’s house stood just off a quiet street, nestled away from the usual chaos of the city. It was a small cottage, cozy and welcoming, surrounded by nature. It felt like her own personal sanctuary, a home that reflected her passion for creativity. "Lisa’s Studio"was painted in bold, flowing letters on the sign by the front door, giving a glimpse into the artistic world within. The house itself was warm, inviting, with charming details like amazing flower pots beside the windows, that spoke to her love of art and design.

  The garage was visible from the window— empty, but with memories lingering. Lisa’s family had owned a car once, a pink, American-designed beauty that had caught everyone’s eye. But time had taken its toll, and the car had long since stopped working, eventually sold to make room for the future. Lisa had her sights set on a photography competition now, one with a grand prize—a car. Maybe this time, she’d win and bring a new vehicle back into the garage.

  She stepped inside, letting the warmth of the house envelope her. The faint smell of pine and old wood filled the air. As she made her way through the living room, her eyes landed on the black-and-white portrait of her grandfather, a proud Soviet soldier, his stern gaze fixed on the past. The photo had been there for as long as Lisa could remember, a reminder of her roots, of her family’s strength during the tumult of Soviet times. She ran a finger gently over the frame, lost in thought for a moment.

  "And this is my grandma," Lisa said softly, as the old woman appeared from the kitchen. Her smile was warm, kind, and the two embraced, the love between them clear without words.

  Lisa was still in the warmth of her grandma’s embrace when the old woman whispered, “He has come.”

  Lisa didn’t need to ask who. She just sighed and muttered, “That weirdo??”

  She walked past her grandma, rolling her eyes slightly but smiling as she made her way toward her photo studio—a space that felt more like her second home than any other room in the house.