The rain in St. Petersburg didn't just fall; it whispered, tapping against the windowpanes of Anton’s top-floor apartment like bony fingers. Anton, a lonely translator who preferred the company of 19th-century literature to living people, tightened his scarf. The radiator hissed, a pathetic sound, barely fighting off the damp autumn chill.
He laughed, assuming it was a stupid prank by the teenagers downstairs. But the tapping continued for days, even with the door locked and bolted. The apartment felt smaller, filled with a heavy, stifling atmosphere, as if the air itself was infected with a memory. gosty po tb
Anton understood then that the dampness in the walls wasn't just rain. It was the presence of those who had lived—and died—in the crowded, sick-choked communal apartments of the past, waiting for someone to finally open the door and listen to their silent, persistent story. The rain in St