where the seagulls cry

Victor has lived in St. Petersburg his whole life. He grew up walking down these streets, clinging to his mother’s hand, stumbling in his too big winter boots and gawking at the big, clunky cars racing past them on their way to daycare. Even the cracks in the sidewalk had interested him then, and his mother would have to tug him along to not be late. When he got tired and whiny she would hoist him up on her hip, and Victor would count streetlights and pigeons over her shoulder for the rest of the way, hands curled in her warm winter scarf. Or: Victor never thought he'd leave St. Petersburg.