Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу  A Man from the Future. 1856

автор Евгений Платонов

Contents

Dedication

To all those who ever dreamed of changing their life,

who felt trapped by circumstances,

and wondered if another path was possible.

To the dreamers who became pragmatists,

and to the pragmatists who never forgot their dreams.

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

This novel explores a question that has haunted me for years: What if we could travel back in time? But not just to witness history, but to live it. To understand how people in the past really thought, felt, and suffered.

The protagonist, Dmitry Komarov, is a man trapped between two worlds — the modern world that offers comfort but no meaning, and the past that offers struggle but purpose. His journey is a meditation on what we truly value in life.

This is both a story of time travel and a love letter to history itself. It’s an examination of whether changing the past can change us, and whether escaping our circumstances is possible, or if we carry ourselves with us wherever we go.

I invite you into Dmitry’s world. I hope his struggles will resonate with you, and that his journey might spark reflection on your own.

Warm regards,

Evgeniy Platonov

About the Author

Evgeniy is a marketer, philosopher, and author based in Moscow, Russia. When not exploring the corridors of commerce, he spends time with books, music, and the written word.

A passionate believer in the power of stories to transform how we understand ourselves and the world, Evgeniy writes at the intersection of philosophy, history, and speculative fiction.

“A Man from the Future” is his first novel — a project born from years of contemplation about time, choice, and the meaning of a life well-lived.

When not writing, you can find [Your Name]:

— Reading historical texts and philosophical works

— Listening to classical music

— Exploring the lesser-known corners of Russian history

— Marketing books and ideas to readers who might need them

For more information, visit: Telegram: t.me/evg_plat_books_en

Table of Contents

Part I. Life Before the Crossing

— Chapter 0. One Month Before

— I. September 17, 2025

— II. Lunch. Finally

— III. Night Thoughts

— IV. Midweek

— V. Childhood Memories

— VI. University Years

— VII. The Death of a Dream

— VIII. First Job

— IX. An Encounter with the Past

— X. A Last Hope

— XI. The Collapse of Hope

— XII. Friday

Part II. The Crossing

— Chapter 1. The Transition

— I. The Museum

— II. The Locked Room

— III. The Glasses

— IV. The Vision

— V. The Fall

— VI. The First Minutes

— VII. First Steps in the Nineteenth Century

— VIII. First Meeting

— IX. Loss of Consciousness

— X. Comprehension

— XI. A Plan for Survival

— XII. The First Night

Part III. Life in the Nineteenth Century

— Chapter 2. The First Weeks

— Chapter 3. Hunger and Transformation

— Chapter 4. Finding Your Place

— Chapter 5. The Circle Expands

— Chapter 6. Knowledge and Power

— Chapter 7. A Man from Another World

— Chapter 8. The Meeting

— Chapter 9. Consequences

— Chapter 10. The Fire

— Chapter 11. Choices

— Chapter 12. Redemption

— Chapter 13. Two Times

— Chapter 14. The Return

— Chapter 15. The Ending

Copyright Information

© 2025 Evgeniy Platonov. All rights reserved.

Published by Self-Published

First Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN: [To be assigned]

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank:

— My family for their patience during the long hours spent writing and rewriting this novel

— My readers and friends who offered feedback, encouragement, and critical insights

— The authors and philosophers whose works informed this story: Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and countless others

— The city of St. Petersburg, which inspired much of this work’s setting and atmosphere

— Everyone who has ever felt that their life was someone else’s story — this book is for you

A Man from the Future

A Novel

Part 1. Life Before the Crossing

Chapter 0. One Month Before

September 17, 2025, Monday, 09:47

Dmitry Komarov sat at his desk in an open-plan office on the twenty-third floor of a business center, staring at his monitor without seeing a thing. The screen glowed with the white light of an Excel spreadsheet, rows of numbers blurring before his eyes. He was supposed to have the quarterly report finished by ten, but his hands wouldn’t obey. His fingers had frozen above the keyboard.

His right hand reached mechanically for the phone lying next to the mouse. To check notifications. Even though he’d checked a minute ago. Even though there was nothing important there, and couldn’t be.

Behind him, the office hummed — a hundred people locked in one enormous hall. The clatter of keyboards, the rustle of papers, muffled phone conversations, someone’s nervous coughing. The coffee machine hissed and gurgled in the corner. The air conditioning ran at full blast, pushing dry, dead air around the room. Something synthetic hung in the air — air freshener, plastic, burnt-out electronics.

By lunchtime, his neck had stiffened — he’d spent all day looking at the monitor from the same angle. Text neck, the doctors call it. The office worker’s disease. The disease of the twenty-first century.

Dmitry raised his eyes and looked out the window. His right hand reached mechanically for the phone lying next to the mouse. To check notifications. Even though he’d checked a minute ago. Even though there was nothing important there, and couldn’t be. St. Petersburg sprawled below — gray, endless, indifferent. Glass and concrete skyscrapers, billboards, roads choked with cars. November. Wet snow that melts before it can land. A sky the color of dirty cotton. Not a single bright spot, not a single living detail. Everything the same as always. Everything the same as yesterday. Everything the same as it would be tomorrow.

He was twenty-five years old — an age when, according to everyone around him, life was just beginning. “Young, promising, everything ahead of you,” his parents, friends, and colleagues all said. But Dmitry didn’t feel that way. He felt like life had already passed. Or, more precisely, that he was living not his own life, but someone else’s, following someone else’s script.

A mid-level manager at an IT company. Salary of a hundred and eighty thousand rubles a month — not bad for twenty-five, everyone said. Forty of that went to rent for a studio apartment on the outskirts, twenty to car payments, another thirty to food and utilities. The rest went to “living,” if you could call it that. Once a year — a vacation in Turkey or Egypt, all-inclusive, two weeks on the beach where he tried to forget about the office but couldn’t. He’d come back tanned, rested — and within three days feel the same exhaustion, the same apathy, the same emptiness.

What am I doing here? he thought, not for the first time that week, that month, those last three years. What’s the point of any of this?

Once, back in school, he’d dreamed of becoming a historian. He read thick books — about Ancient Rome, the Middle Ages, Rus, revolutions. He imagined himself as an archaeologist excavating ancient cities, finding artifacts, reconstructing the past. Or a scholar writing a dissertation on how people lived a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years ago. He loved understanding why the world was the way it was. Why people kept making the same mistakes. Why history repeated itself like a worn-out record.

Getting into the university’s history department felt like a breath of fresh air for Dmitry. Finally, he was among people who found the same things fascinating! Professor Boris Nikolaevich Krylov — gray-haired, stern, with piercing eyes — taught the course on medieval history. His lectures weren’t just recitations of facts; they were true one-man theater.

“History,” Professor Krylov would say, “is not a collection of dates and names. It is living people, living destinies.”

In his third year, Dmitry met Katya — a tall, slender girl with black braids and dark eyes, studying art history. They met in the library, where both of them stayed late preparing for seminars.

“You’re always reading about wars and politics,” she said one day, glancing at his notes. “But there’s another history too — a history of beauty, creativity, the human spirit.”

“But aren’t they the same thing?” Dmitry asked, surprised. “Can you really understand an era without knowing what music people listened to, what paintings they created, what they believed in?”

That was how their relationship began — first as friends, then something more. They went to museums together, to exhibitions, to the theater. Katya opened up a world he hadn’t even known existed — a world of subtle emotions, poetry, philosophical reflection.

Katya, Dmitry thought with pain. The only girl I ever truly loved. And the one I lost through my own foolishness.

They dated for two years. Dmitry was happier than he’d ever been. They dreamed about the future: getting married after graduation, working together, traveling, writing books.

“We were made for each other,” he’d tell Katya. “We share the same interests, the same dreams. After university, we’ll get married, work together, do research, teach.”

“Don’t rush, Dima,” she would smile. “We’re still young, there’s so much interesting stuff ahead.”

But in his fourth year, something changed. Katya grew colder, they met less often, and they ran out of things to talk about. Dmitry tried to understand what was happening, but she answered evasively: “Nothing special, just busy, exams are coming up.”

One day he saw her in a café with another guy — tall, confident, in an expensive blazer. Dmitry walked over.

“Katya, I need to talk to you.”

“Dima, don’t,” she avoided his gaze. “We’ve already talked about everything. You understand…”

“No, I don’t understand,” he replied. “Explain it to me, please.”

“We’re just too different, Dima. You’re still dreaming about the Middle Ages, about some old books, about the past. But I want to live in the here and now. I want a career, money, a normal life.”

“What about love? What about dreams?”

“Dreams are for children. Adults think about money. I’m sorry.”

And then an acquaintance suggested:

“Dima, drop this history stuff. Come work at my company. IT. We’ll train you, show you the ropes. Starting salary fifty, eighty after six months. Think about it.”

And Dmitry went. Because he had to pay rent. Because his parents were tired of repeating: “When are you going to start making real money? Dead people’s traditions! You’d be better off learning programming or English. At least that pays.”

Money, money, money… Dmitry thought. For my parents, nothing existed except money. Dad worked as an engineer at a factory, Mom as an accountant at an office. Honest, hardworking people, but so gray, so faceless. They lived their whole lives without understanding anything about it, without feeling anything.

He barely noticed five years passing. How he turned into a systems administrator, then a manager. How he gave in. How he stopped arguing with reality.

But along with the salary, the apartment, and the car came something else — a feeling that he had betrayed himself. That once there had been a dream, a purpose, a belief that life was more than just money and career. And now he had become just like everyone else. Wake up at seven, commute to the office, sit eight hours in front of a monitor, come home, eat dinner in front of the TV, go to bed. And so on every day. Until retirement. Until death.

Maybe this is what growing up is, he thought. Maybe this is how everyone lives. Maybe dreams are for children, and adults have to be practical.

But for some reason, this thought made him afraid. Physically afraid, as if his throat were tightening, he couldn’t get enough air, the walls were closing in.

“Dima, you coming to the stand-up?” a colleague called out, walking past with a cardboard coffee cup in hand.

Dmitry flinched, snapped back to reality.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he answered automatically, without turning around.

The colleague walked on. Dmitry stayed seated. He glanced at the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen: 09:52. Meeting at 10:00. He had to go. Grab the printed report, his notebook, a pen. Sit in the conference room, listen to the boss talk about plans for the quarter, about KPIs, about development strategy. Nod. Pretend it all mattered.

The phone on the desk vibrated. A message from the boss:

“Stand-up postponed to 10:30. Prepare a presentation on the project.”

Dmitry exhaled. Another half hour. He opened PowerPoint and began dragging slides around. Added a graph, a chart, a bulleted list. Everything polished, professional, meaningless.

Why? he thought again. Why does anyone need this?

November 17, 2025, Monday, 14:10

2. Lunch. Finally

Dmitry left the office, took the elevator down, pushed open the heavy glass door, and stepped outside. Moscow greeted him with cold wind, wet snow, and the roar of traffic. He zipped his jacket up to his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started walking — where, he didn’t know. He just walked.

Usually he ate in the office cafeteria — quick, cheap, convenient. Soup, a main course, compote, three hundred rubles. But today he couldn’t. Today he needed to get away from here, far from the office, from his colleagues, from the endless conversations about projects, deadlines, reports.

He walked along Tverskaya, past shop windows, past cafés, past pedestrians buried in their smartphones. Everyone was rushing somewhere. Everyone was busy. Everyone knew what they were living for.

And him?

Dmitry stopped at a traffic light and looked at the people around him. A woman in her thirties in a business suit, phone pressed to her ear, talking fast, agitated. A guy in a hoodie with headphones, nodding to the beat of the music. An elderly man with a cane, slowly crossing the street, not looking around. All different, but all the same. All living in the same system, by the same rules. Work — home — work — home. Day after day. Year after year.

Is this really how I’m going to live my whole life? he thought, and the thought made him sick.

He remembered himself at seventeen. Bright eyes, dreams, faith that the world could be changed. He’d wanted to become a historian, to write books, to tell people about the past, to teach them to understand the present. He’d wanted to be useful, important, needed. Not for money, but for meaning.

And now? A manager. Reports in Excel. Presentations in PowerPoint. Meetings where everyone talked a lot but decided little. A salary that went to rent, food, loan payments. And at the end of the month — nothing left.

I sold my dream for a hundred and eighty thousand a month, he thought, and the thought was bitter as wormwood.

He kept walking, not noticing where. Past a square, past a monument, past theaters. The snow fell thicker, clinging to his hair, melting on his face. It was cold, but Dmitry didn’t feel it. He was somewhere far away, in his thoughts, in his past that would never return.

What if I’d finished my degree? he thought. What if I’d stayed in the history department? Finished my studies, defended my thesis, completed graduate school? I’d have lived hand to mouth, but I’d have been doing what I loved. I’d have lectured to students, written articles, gone on archaeological digs. Would I have been happy?

But immediately another voice in his head answered: No. You’d have been broke. You’d have lived in a dormitory, survived on instant noodles, couldn’t have afforded anything. No car, no apartment, no vacations. No girlfriend — what girl would want to date a poor lecturer?

And it was true. Bitter, but true.

So there was no choice? he asked himself. Did I do the right thing?

Then why did it hurt so much? Why the emptiness inside?

3. Night Thoughts

At night he couldn’t sleep. He lay with his eyes open and thought. Thought about how life was passing, and he hadn’t done anything. Twenty-five years — a quarter of a century! — and what did he have? No family, no home of his own, no job he loved, not even real friends.

Friends, he thought bitterly. Who are my friends? Maxim from the office, who I say hello to every day but never talk to about anything personal? The guys from the reenactors’ forum, who I last saw a year ago? Classmates who’ve all scattered, started families, and who I only talk to through social media?

He got out of bed and walked to the window. Outside it was dark and empty. Only the streetlamps glowed with dim yellow light, and somewhere in the distance advertising signs blinked.

St. Petersburg, he thought. City of great writers, poets, artists. The city that Pushkin and Dostoevsky celebrated. And for me it’s just a place where I’m stuck. Gray, cold, indifferent.

He remembered reading Crime and Punishment in university. Raskolnikov had also lived in St. Petersburg, had also suffered, had also been unable to find his place. But Raskolnikov at least had an idea, even if it was insane. And Dmitry — what? He didn’t even have an idea. Just emptiness.

Raskolnikov wanted to test whether he was “a trembling creature or whether he had the right,” Dmitry reflected. But I don’t even ask myself such questions. I just exist. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to sleep. And so on every day. I’m not even a trembling creature anymore — I’m nobody at all.

Suddenly a terrifying thought came to him: What if I die tomorrow? What will be left of me? Who will remember me? My colleagues will say: “Oh, Dima died? Too bad, he was good at fixing computers.” My parents will cry and feel guilty that they didn’t keep in touch. Friends who’ll genuinely grieve — none. No wife, no children. No mark on history. I’ll just disappear — and that’s it.

The thought was so frightening that Dmitry felt a panic attack beginning. His heart beat faster, his breathing became ragged, his hands trembled.

Calm down, calm down, he tried to get a grip on himself. These are just night thoughts. It’ll be easier in the morning. It’s always easier in the morning.

But he knew it wouldn’t be easier in the morning. In the morning it would be the same thing — hatred for the sound of the alarm, not wanting to get up, dread at the thought of work. And so on until the end of his life.

No, he suddenly thought with unexpected clarity. No, I can’t live like this. I have to change something. I have to! But what? What can I change? Quit? And live on what? Find another job? But it’s the same everywhere. Move to another city? But does geography really change anything?

He went back to bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts swirled in his head, refusing to let him sleep.

Finally, toward morning, he fell into a restless sleep, full of strange dreams about medieval castles, knightly tournaments, and some incomprehensible events.

4. Midweek

Wednesday started even worse. Dmitry overslept — the alarm had turned itself off, or he’d hit the button in his sleep and drifted off again. He woke up in a panic at eight in the morning, realizing he was late.

The first thing Dmitry did when he opened his eyes was reach for the phone on the nightstand. He hadn’t gotten up yet, hadn’t washed his face, but he was already scrolling through the news feed. A terrorist attack somewhere in the Middle East. A political scandal. A highway accident. Sticky anxiety crept into his chest before he’d even gotten out of bed.

He washed hurriedly, got dressed, ran out of the house without breakfast. The metro was even more crowded than usual. He squeezed into the packed car, feeling someone’s elbow digging into his ribs and someone’s bag pressing against his leg.

The car was jammed. Dmitry pressed his back against the door and took out his phone. Opened social network. The feed — endless, garish, someone else’s. Maxim in Dubai, against the backdrop of a skyscraper. Sveta showing off the keys to her new apartment. Andrei with his wife at a restaurant, candles, wine, smiles.

Dmitry knew it was an illusion — people only posted their best moments. But knowing didn’t help. Every time he scrolled through the feed, he felt it: his life was gray, boring, wrong. And theirs — bright, full, real.

Something clenched inside him.

God, how much longer? he thought, suffocating in the stuffiness. How much longer do I have to live in this hell? Metro, office, metro, home. And no light at the end.

He burst into the office at nine-twenty, breathless and disheveled. The supervisor, Igor Vladimirovich, was sitting in the conference room and looked pointedly at his watch.

“Dmitry, you’re late.”

“Sorry, Igor Vladimirovich, there was traffic,” Dmitry lied.

“Traffic,” the supervisor repeated skeptically. “I see. Try not to be late again. We have an important meeting at ten today.”

An important meeting, Dmitry thought sarcastically. Where ten people will spend an hour and a half discussing what color buttons to choose for a new interface for a program that nobody’s going to use anyway.

The meeting really was excruciating. An hour and a half of useless talk, during which Dmitry struggled not to fall asleep. They talked about the new project, about deadlines, about budgets, about tasks. All of it was uninteresting, boring, and pointless.

Why am I here? he thought, pretending to listen attentively. Why do I need any of this? I never wanted to work in IT. I wanted to study history, to teach, to write articles, maybe books. And instead I’m sitting in a meeting about button colors.

After the meeting, he was called to see the director — a young guy, about thirty, who’d built his career thanks to his father’s connections and considered himself a brilliant manager.

“Dmitry,” the director began, “I wanted to talk to you about your work.”

Oh no, Dmitry thought. Here comes the talk about efficiency, about KPIs, about how I’m not motivated enough.

“You see, we have some concerns about your productivity,” the director continued, leafing through some papers. “You’ve been less active lately, less proactive. Colleagues are complaining that you don’t always respond quickly to their requests.”

Colleagues are complaining? Dmitry fumed internally. I spend all day doing nothing but solving their problems! I don’t have a single minute to work on my own tasks!

“I’m doing my best, Igor Vladimirovich,” he replied politely out loud. “But I have a lot of tasks, and I can’t always keep up.”

“I understand, I understand,” the director nodded. “But we need more output. You know, we’re thinking of introducing a performance bonus system. Those who work better get more. Those who work worse — correspondingly, less.”

So they want to cut my salary, Dmitry realized. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

“Fine, I’ll try to work more efficiently,” he said, feeling something boiling inside.

“Excellent!” the director said happily. “I believe in you, Dmitry. You’re a good specialist, you just need a little more motivation.”

Walking out of the office, Dmitry felt he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t keep playing this game, pretending he found any of this interesting, that he was motivated, that he was ready to work “more efficiently.”

I’m quitting, he suddenly decided. Right now I’m writing my resignation and leaving. To hell with this job, to hell with this director, to hell with all of it.

But then he remembered the rented apartment, remembered he had to pay for housing, for food, for internet, for his phone. And he realized he couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to live on.

I’m trapped, he realized with horror. In a real trap. I can’t leave because I need money. I can’t stay because I’m losing my mind. What do I do? What do I do?!

5. Childhood Memories

Dmitry spent Friday evening at home, lying on the couch and mindlessly flipping through TV channels. But his thoughts were far away — in the past, in a childhood that now seemed somehow unreal, as if from someone else’s life.

When did everything change? he thought. When did I become like this? I was a child once, I dreamed about things, I was happy about things. When did it end?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember himself as a little boy. There he was, seven-year-old Mitya, sitting in an armchair at his grandfather Sergei Ivanovich’s place, listening to stories about the war, about the siege, about how people died of hunger but never surrendered.

“Could you have died for the Motherland, Grandpa?” little Dmitry would ask.

“I could have, grandson,” Grandpa would answer, stroking his head. “Because there are things more precious than life. Honor, conscience, love for your people.”

Honor, conscience, love for your people, the adult Dmitry thought bitterly. And what do I have? I update antivirus software and get paid for it. Where’s the honor in that? Where’s the conscience? Where’s the love for something greater than my own belly?

Grandpa died when Dmitry was twelve. In his final years the old man had been ill, but until his very death he kept a clear mind and a love of books. He had an enormous library — shelves from floor to ceiling, filled with historical works, memoirs, fiction.

“Mitya,” Grandpa would say, “books are the only thing that remains of a person after death. Not money, not things — but thoughts, ideas, feelings that he managed to pass on to others.”

And what will remain of me? Dmitry thought painfully. I haven’t written any books, haven’t passed on any ideas. I haven’t even had children who might remember something about me.

After Grandpa’s death, his parents sold the apartment and the library. “Nobody needs these old books,” his mother said. “Better to get money, spend it on your education.” That was when twelve-year-old Dmitry felt real pain for the first time in his life — not physical, but spiritual. He understood that his closest person was gone, and everything that remained of him was being sold off.

Maybe that’s when it started? he reflected. When I understood that everything in this world is temporary, that people die, and their legacy gets sold for money?

At thirteen, Dmitry discovered historical films. First it was Soviet classics — Alexander Nevsky, Ivan the Terrible, War and Peace. Then American ones — Braveheart, Gladiator, Kingdom of Heaven.

He watched and envied the heroes of the past. They lived in an era when you could perform great deeds, fight for justice, die for an idea. And what had fallen to him? An age of consumption, where the main goal was to make money and buy something new.

That’s when the dream was born, he remembered. To travel to another time, another era. To become a knight or a warrior, to defend the weak, to fight injustice. Childish dreams, naive, stupid.

In high school he took up historical reenactment. At first he just went to festivals to watch, then tried his hand as a squire, and by graduation he had his own armor and sword.

“Mitya, enough playing war!” his father would say. “You’re an adult now, you’ll be going to the army soon, and you’re still playing at knights.”

“It’s not a game, Dad,” Dmitry tried to explain. “It’s studying history, culture, traditions.”

“What traditions?” his father would snap. “Dead people’s traditions! You’d be better off learning programming or English. At least that pays.”

Money, money, money, Dmitry thought. For my parents, nothing existed except money. Dad worked as an engineer at a factory, Mom as an accountant at an office. Honest, hardworking people, but so gray, so faceless. They lived their whole lives without understanding anything about it, without feeling anything.

6. University Years

Getting into the university’s history department felt like a breath of fresh air for Dmitry. Finally, he was among people who found the same things fascinating! Professor Boris Nikolaevich Krylov — gray-haired, stern, with piercing eyes — taught the course on medieval history. His lectures weren’t just recitations of facts; they were true one-man theater. He could tell the story of the Crusades or the fall of Constantinople in a way that sent shivers down students’ spines.

“History,” Professor Krylov would say, “is not a collection of dates and names. It is living people who loved, suffered, made mistakes, performed great deeds. And if you don’t feel this, if you can’t imagine yourself in their place — you’re not historians, just rote learners.”

How right he was! Dmitry thought. I really could imagine myself in the place of a medieval knight or a Byzantine emperor. I felt their joys and pains, their fears and hopes. And now? Now I don’t even feel my own emotions.

In his second year he met Katya Shipilova — a delicate girl with huge dark eyes who was studying art history. They met in the library, where both of them stayed late preparing for seminars.

Katya, Dmitry thought with pain. The only girl I ever truly loved. And the one I lost through my own foolishness.

They dated for two years — sophomore and junior year. Dmitry was happier than he’d ever been. He felt he had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood him without words.

Anton Veselsky, Dmitry remembered his rival’s name. Son of wealthy parents, future businessman. Confident, successful, with prospects. And what was I? A failed historian dreaming about the dead past.

He walked over to their table. Katya went pale, and Anton stood and extended his hand:

“You must be Dima? Katya told me about you.”

“Told you?” Dmitry repeated, feeling everything burning inside. “And what did she tell you?”

“That you two were friends,” Anton replied calmly. “And that you’re really into history.”

Friends, Dmitry repeated to himself. Two years of a relationship turned into “friendship.” Two years of love erased from memory like an unwanted recording.

“Katya, I need to talk to you,” he said quietly.

“Dima, don’t,” she avoided his gaze. “We’ve already talked about everything. You understand…”

“No, I don’t understand,” he replied. “Explain it to me, please.”

They went outside, and there, under the cold St. Petersburg sky, Katya said the words he would remember for the rest of his life:

“Dima, you’re a good person, but you live in the past. Dead knights are more interesting to you than living people. You dream about heroic deeds and don’t see what’s happening right next to you. And I don’t want to live in a museum.”

In a museum, he repeated now, lying on the couch. She said I live in a museum. And she was right. Even then, in my fourth year, I was a living exhibit. And now I’m just a sphinx.

7. The Death of a Dream

After breaking up with Katya, Dmitry threw himself into his studies. He wrote term papers, prepared for exams, participated in academic conferences. It seemed like the pain was subsiding, like life was going on.

In his fifth year he began work on his thesis: “Chivalric Culture in the Era of the Crusades.” His advisor was Professor Krylov, who highly valued Dmitry’s abilities.

“You have talent, young man,” he would say. “You know how to not just study facts, but feel an era. That’s a rare quality. After you defend your thesis, I’ll recommend you for graduate school.”

Graduate school, Dmitry dreamed back then. Then a doctoral dissertation, teaching, academic work. There it is, my destiny, my calling.

He defended his thesis with honors. The committee praised his work, Professor Krylov was pleased, his parents finally felt proud of their son.

“So, historian,” his father said after the defense, “now you’ll teach at the university?”

“First graduate school, Dad,” Dmitry explained. “And then, if everything works out, I’ll become a lecturer.”

“And how much does it pay?” his mother asked practically.

“Not much for now,” Dmitry admitted. “But it’s a calling, Mom. It’s what makes life worth living.”

A calling, he smirked bitterly in the present. How naive I was.

He was indeed accepted into graduate school. The first year went well — he studied primary sources, wrote articles, presented at conferences. Professor Krylov supported him, gave valuable advice, introduced him to colleagues from other cities.

But in the second year of graduate school, something happened that turned his whole life upside down. Professor Krylov suddenly died of a heart attack — right in the middle of a lecture, collapsed at the blackboard and never got up. For Dmitry it wasn’t just the loss of an academic advisor — it was like losing a father, a mentor, the only person who believed in him.

“What do I do now?” he asked the department chair. “Who will be my advisor?”

“We’ll see,” the chair answered vaguely. “We’ll find someone.”

They found a new advisor — a young associate professor named Petrov, who specialized in twentieth-century Russian history and understood little about the Middle Ages. The very first meeting showed they wouldn’t be able to work together.

“Your topic is too narrow,” Petrov declared. “Chivalric culture isn’t relevant. You’d better switch to something more contemporary. I can offer you a topic on the history of nineteenth-century industry.”

“But I’ve spent three years studying the Middle Ages!” Dmitry objected. “I already have research, sources, a dissertation plan!”

“The sources will stay in the archives,” Petrov replied coldly. “But you need to think about your career. Nobody’s interested in the Middle Ages. But industry — that’s an in-demand topic.”

*An in-demand topic,* Dmitry remembered with disgust. *Everything has to be in-demand, relevant, useful. But beauty, poetry, the human spirit — those aren’t relevant.*

He tried to find another advisor, but everywhere he was turned down. The Middle Ages really was of no interest to anyone — everyone was working on either contemporary topics or “relevant” historical periods.

After six months of struggle, Dmitry realized that graduate school was over for him. He wrote a letter of withdrawal and left the university.

*That’s when something broke inside me,* he thought. *The dream I’d lived with since childhood had collapsed. And I couldn’t find anything to replace it.*

***

8. First Job

After university, a dark period began. Dmitry tried to find work in his field, but everywhere they demanded experience he didn’t have. He didn’t want to work as a history teacher in a school — the salary was pathetic and there were no prospects.

“Maybe you could get a job at a museum?” his mother suggested. “You do know history.”

He did try to get a job at a museum. He went through several interviews, but everywhere they said the same thing: “There are no openings, but we’ll keep you in mind.”

*Keep me in mind, sure,* he thought sarcastically. *The same people who worked in museums twenty years ago are still there. They don’t hire new ones.*

Money was running out, his parents started hinting that it was time their son started supporting himself. And so Dmitry took a desperate step — he enrolled in a retraining course in computer technology.

*If you can’t do what you love,* he reasoned back then, *you have to do what pays.*

The course lasted six months. He studied operating systems, networks, programming. It went pretty well — he had a technical mind, and he had enough persistence for anything.

After finishing the course, he was hired as a systems administrator at a small IT company. The salary was decent for those times — three times what teachers or museum workers made.

“You see,” his mother rejoiced, “how good it is that you retrained! Now you have stable work, good money.”

*Stable work,* he repeated. *Good money. But what is a good life? That question didn’t interest Mom.*

The first months of work went fine. The novelty, the need to dig into details, to learn new technologies — all of it distracted from sad thoughts. Dmitry even began to think that maybe he would find himself in this new profession.

But soon the routine swallowed him. Every day the same tasks: set up a computer, fix a printer, update a program, solve an internet problem. Nothing creative, nothing interesting — just technology and more technology.

*I’ve become support staff,* he realized. *Just an appendage to machines. People bring me their technical problems, I solve them, I get paid for it. That’s my whole life.*

Sometimes he tried to remember what he’d dreamed about in university. Historical research, teaching, an academic career — all of it now seemed like a fairy tale from childhood.

*Maybe it’s for the best?* he tried to convince himself. *Maybe I was just overestimating my abilities? Maybe I wouldn’t have become a good historian anyway?*

But these attempts at self-deception didn’t help. Deep inside, he knew he had betrayed himself, his dream, his calling. And there was no escaping that knowledge.

***

9. An Encounter with the Past

Three years ago, already working as a systems administrator, Dmitry happened to run into a former classmate on the street — Sergei Mikhailov, who had stayed in academia and earned his PhD in history.

“Dima!” Sergei said happily. “It’s been ages! How are you? Where are you working?”

“At an IT company,” Dmitry answered vaguely. “And you, still doing research?”

“Yeah, defended my dissertation, now I’m an associate professor,” Sergei announced proudly. “Teaching students, writing articles. Remember how we dreamed of becoming historians? I made it!”

*He made it,* Dmitry thought with envy. *And I didn’t. Why? What did I do wrong?*

“What are you studying?” he asked.

“The history of nineteenth-century industry,” Sergei replied. “It’s a relevant topic, in demand. They give grants, send you on research trips.”

*Nineteenth-century industry,* Dmitry thought with disgust. *The very topic Petrov suggested to me. So if I’d agreed, I could have become a PhD too.*

“Do you remember Professor Krylov?” Sergei asked. “Shame he died. He was a good teacher.”

“I remember,” Dmitry answered briefly.

“They say he really praised you. Too bad you left graduate school. You could have become a scholar too.”

*Could have become,* Dmitry repeated to himself. *If I’d agreed to study industry instead of knights. If I’d compromised my principles, betrayed my dream. But back then I was still proud, still thought principles mattered more than bread.*

After that encounter, Dmitry walked around in a fog for several days. He understood he’d made the wrong choice, but there was no going back. Time had passed, opportunities were lost.

*Three years ago I still had a chance to change everything,* he thought then. *Re-enroll in graduate school, agree to any topic, just to stay in academia. But I was too proud, too principled. And now I’m twenty-five, and it’s too late to start over.*

***

10. A Last Hope

A week ago — it was December 10th — something happened that for a moment gave Dmitry hope again. An email arrived from a certain Anna Vladimirovna Korshunova, director of a private historical center called “Chronos.”

“Dear Dmitry Sergeevich!” she wrote. “We know about your education and your interest in medieval history. We have an opening for a research associate to work on a project about the history of the Crusades. Would you be able to come in for an interview?”

*This can’t be,* Dmitry thought, reading the letter. *How do they know about me? And what kind of center is this?*

He found the “Chronos” website online — a solid organization that conducted historical research for museums and private collectors. The salary, judging by their job postings, was even higher than what he made now.

What if I try? he thought. What if fate is giving me one last chance?

The next day he went to the interview. The center was located in a beautiful building in the city center, the offices were tastefully decorated, and reproductions of medieval miniatures hung on the walls. Anna Vladimirovna turned out to be an elegant woman in her mid-forties, a doctor of historical sciences and former employee of the Hermitage.

“We know about your thesis,” she said. “Professor Krylov spoke very highly of you. He showed me your work while he was still alive.”

“How do you know Professor Krylov?” Dmitry asked, surprised.

“We were colleagues, worked together on a project. He said you were one of his most talented students. It’s a shame you left graduate school.”

Talented students, Dmitry thought. So not everything was lost. So those years studying history weren’t for nothing.

“What kind of project do you have?” he asked.

“We’re preparing a large exhibition on the history of the Crusades,” Anna Vladimirovna explained. “We need research, translations of primary sources, catalog writing. It’s interesting, creative work.”

Creative work, Dmitry repeated dreamily to himself. The thing I’ve dreamed about my whole life.

The interview went beautifully. Dmitry talked about his research, answered all the questions, even quoted several passages from medieval chronicles from memory.

“You’re a good fit for us,” Anna Vladimirovna said at the end. “We’re ready to offer you the job. Think about it and give us an answer by Monday.”

By Monday, Dmitry repeated. That’s December 17th, a week away. Could it really work out?

He left the center elated. For the first time in many years, he had real hope. Work in his field, a decent salary, the opportunity to do what interested him.

I’ll call Monday and accept, he decided. Finally my life will change for the better.

11. The Collapse of Hope

But on Thursday, December 15, 2023, something happened that he never expected. Anna Vladimirovna called him with news that was a blow:

“Dmitry Sergeevich, unfortunately I have to give you bad news. Our foreign sponsor has withdrawn funding for the project. The exhibition is being postponed indefinitely.”

“What do you mean, postponed?” Dmitry didn’t understand.

“Economic crisis, you understand. People prefer not to spend money on culture. Possibly in a year or two the situation will change.”

In a year or two, he repeated. And what will I do for those one or two years? Update antivirus software again?

“Is there perhaps another project?” he asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately not,” Anna Vladimirovna answered sadly. “It all depends on the sponsors, and they’re being cautious right now.”

After that call, Dmitry felt that something inside him had broken irreparably. The last hope died, the last chance to change his life disappeared.

That’s it, he thought. There won’t be any more chances. I’m stuck in this life forever.

He spent the remaining days off in complete despair. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, just lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling. He lied to his parents that everything was fine, told himself he’d go to work Monday as if nothing had happened.

There’s my fate, he thought. Systems administrator for the rest of my days. No history, no creativity, no meaning. Just existence.

And now, December 17th, Monday, he was walking along the embankment thinking the same thoughts.

The week at work had passed like a blur. He performed his duties mechanically, didn’t talk to anyone, just waited for the end of the day.

Twenty-five years, he counted for the hundredth time. Half a life lived, and what have I done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He came to the museum — that old building he passed every day. Today, for some reason, he felt like going inside.

Why not? he thought. I’ll forget this gray reality for an hour. I’ll see how people lived in the past, when life had meaning.

12. Friday

By Friday, Dmitry was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The whole week had passed in a fog — he worked on autopilot, communicated with colleagues mechanically, came home and collapsed on the couch in complete exhaustion.

This can’t go on, he thought. I can’t live like this. I have to change something. But what? What?!

Friday evening he was walking home along the Neva embankment — he’d decided to walk, to get some air. October was cold and overcast, the wind from the river cut through to the bone, but Dmitry didn’t notice the cold. He walked and thought, thought, thought.

Twenty-five years, he counted. If I live to seventy — and that’s an optimistic estimate — I have forty-five years left. Forty-five years of this life. Forty-five years of work I hate. Forty-five years of loneliness. Forty-five years of despair.

He stopped and looked at the murky waters of the Neva. The river flowed slowly, heavily, carrying the reflections of city lights within it.

What if I jumped? he suddenly thought. Just jumped into this cold water and ended it all? No more hated work, no more loneliness, no more this despair that eats away from inside.

He even walked closer to the railing, looked down. The water was dark, cold, terrifying.

No, he suddenly thought. No, I can’t. Not because I’m afraid of death. But because it would mean I gave up. That life defeated me. And I don’t want to give up. I don’t!

He turned away from the railing and continued. Ahead he could see the museum building — an old eighteenth-century mansion that had recently reopened after restoration. Dmitry passed it every day but had never gone inside.

Why not? he thought. I’ll go in, see how people lived in the past. I’ll forget this gray reality for at least an hour.

He turned toward the museum, climbed the steps, and pushed open the heavy door.

Part 2. The Crossing

1. The Transition

1. The Museum

Dmitry pushed open the heavy museum door and stepped inside. The door closed with a creak. Silence fell upon him like water — thick, dense, almost tangible. Outside the windows the city hummed, cars roared, people rushed, but here, behind these old walls, time seemed to have stopped.

Like in a church, he thought. The same solemn silence, the same feeling that you’ve entered another world.

In the foyer, behind an old writing desk, sat an elderly woman in glasses, reading something. When she saw the visitor, she looked up and smiled in greeting, but somehow strangely — as if she’d known him for a long time.

“Good evening, young man,” she said in a quiet voice. “Is this your first time with us?”

“Yes,” Dmitry answered, reaching for his wallet. “How much is admission?”

“Three hundred rubles,” she said, handing him a small ticket on thick yellowish paper, the kind they used to make long ago. “Come in. The exhibition is on the second floor. But please, don’t touch anything with your hands.”

Don’t touch anything, echoed in his head. Like I’m a child.

Dmitry climbed the wide wooden staircase with carved railings. The steps creaked under his feet — a pleasant, cozy creak of old wood. On the walls hung portraits in heavy gilded frames: men in uniforms, women in evening gowns, children with serious faces. They all looked at him with a particular, almost living attentiveness.

Funny, Dmitry thought. Dead people who lived two hundred years ago, and it seems to me they see right through me. That they know something about me that I don’t know myself.

On the second floor the exhibition began. The first room was devoted to the eighteenth century — the time of Catherine the Great. In the display cases lay old fans, snuffboxes, gloves, journals. On mannequins were dressed gowns and coats. In the corner stood a harpsichord — a real one, not a replica — and Dmitry involuntarily imagined someone playing it while ladies in full skirts danced a minuet.

That’s when people knew how to live, he thought, slowly going around the cases. Unhurried, beautifully, with dignity. Not like now — everyone’s running somewhere, fussing, never keeping up. And for what? To make money? Buy a new phone? Take a vacation once a year?

In the second room were objects from the nineteenth century — an era he knew best. There were books in antique bindings, writing implements, photographs in oval frames. Dmitry stopped at a display case with books and read the titles on the spines: Мертвые души (Dead Souls) by Gogol, Герой нашего времени (A Hero of Our Time) by Lermontov, Отцы и дети (Fathers and Sons) by Turgenev.

First editions, he thought respectfully. How old are they? A hundred and fifty years? A hundred and sixty? And they’re still here, still alive, still able to tell their stories.

Further on were household items: samovars, candlesticks, lamps, dishes. On the wall hung a clock — large, round, with Roman numerals and a heavy pendulum. It was running — ticking steadily, solemnly, marking time that was long gone.

A paradox, Dmitry thought. A clock showing time that no longer exists. But it still runs, still ticks. For what? For whom?

2. The Locked Room

At the end of the second room he noticed a small door — old, dark, with a tarnished brass handle. Beside it hung a sign: “Staff Area. Admission Forbidden.”

I wonder what’s in there? Dmitry thought. Probably a storage room or something.

He was about to move on, but suddenly heard a strange sound — quiet, barely perceptible, like a whisper or breathing. The sound came from behind the door.

A hallucination, he decided. Or maybe a draft.

But the sound repeated — and this time he clearly made out the words, spoken quietly but distinctly:

“Enter… enter…”

Dmitry went cold. He looked around — there was no one in the room. The museum clearly wasn’t popular, and he was the only visitor.

I’m losing my mind, he thought. From stress, from exhaustion, from all this shit that’s accumulated in my life. I should go home, take something to calm my nerves. I haven’t even picked up that prescription the neurologist or psychologist gave me, whoever knows about these things anyway…

His hand reached for the door handle of its own accord. He turned it. The door opened — easily, silently, as if it had been waiting for this moment.

Beyond the door was a small room — no more than three meters long and wide. There was no window, but somehow it was light — a dim yellowish glow came from nowhere in particular, as if the walls themselves were emitting a soft radiance. In the room stood one single object — an old writing desk with drawers and a green leather desktop. On the desk lay an open book — a thick volume in a worn leather binding.

What is this? Dmitry wondered. Some kind of strange exhibit? Why lock visitors away from just a table and a book?

He stepped into the room — and the door silently closed behind him. Dmitry turned around, tried to open it again, but the handle wouldn’t turn.

It’s jammed, he thought irritably. Damn it. I should call the attendant.

But instead of calling for help, he somehow walked over to the desk and looked at the open book. The pages were covered in small, old-fashioned handwriting — ink, pen, with curlicues and flourishes.

He tried to read the text but couldn’t — the letters blurred before his eyes, formed into incomprehensible patterns. Then suddenly one phrase became readable, appeared bright and clear:

“He who has lost himself in the present may find himself in another time.”

What nonsense is this? Dmitry thought. Some mystical garbage.

But his heart suddenly beat faster. Because these words — they were addressed directly to him. Lost himself in the present. That was about him! He really had lost himself — that Dmitry who dreamed, who loved history, who wanted to live for a reason.

Find myself where? he repeated to himself. How? What does that mean?

3. The Glasses

He looked away from the book and noticed that on the corner of the desk lay another object — old glasses in a thin wire frame. The lenses were an unusual color — not transparent, but slightly yellowish, as if covered with the patina of time.

Beside the glasses lay a small card — yellowed, with writing in an old typeface: