Always Visible: The Movie

The city train station at seven in the morning is a symphony of chaos, played by an orchestra of horns, footsteps and the endless noise of voices. The station building is a massive, dusty monster, more reminiscent of a temple, only here instead of believers there are travelers, and instead of incense there is the smell of coffee and cheap pies.

Workers, not yet fully awake, walk in a line, as if on a conveyor belt. Their faces are dull, as if polished by a cold wind; their eyes are searching for an answer to the question of why the day off is still so far away. Students - awkward and with torn backpacks - are grouped at newspaper stands, trying to snatch hot tea before the commuter train. Here and there you can see seasoned traders in wrinkled jackets and with briefcases that have long since lost their form, but have not lost their purpose.

The landscape is completed by grannies in worn-out down jackets, like street generals armed with packages with mysterious contents. Some are already arguing, some are dozing, leaning on cold benches, and some are looking at the world through a thick veil of cigarette smoke.

And suddenly the noise of the station died away. Even the horn of the old truck loaded with potatoes stopped mid-sound, as if the air itself had suddenly stopped transmitting sound vibrations for a second. And all this because HE had stepped out of the third carriage of the commuter train.

THE HERO OF OUR TIME.

Tall, with short black hair, like a movie star on a black-and-white poster. His young face was perfectly smooth, without a hint of fatigue, as if the world had not yet managed to leave its marks on it. You wouldn't give him a day over nineteen, but he carried himself as if he had already conquered three continents and was about to conquer a fourth.

He wore an immaculate suit, midnight black and so perfectly tailored that every thread seemed to have been sewn in with a prayer. His white shirt was flawless, without a tie—something about the deliberate minimalism was defiant. On his right hand, a pair of thin but confident cufflinks gleamed.

He leaped from the carriage with the rapidity of a young man who had not yet learned to slow down for the sake of peace. But then, as soon as he stepped onto the platform, he froze, as if re-learning gravity. His gaze slid over the crowd, cold and full of contempt.

These workers with their wrinkled jackets, students in torn jeans, grandmothers with endless bags - it was as if he was assessing everyone, involuntarily comparing them to himself. And, of course, no one would have survived this silent judgment.

In his left hand he held a leather folder. Not just a folder, but an accessory that screamed status, ambition and taste. If he held it higher, you could see the morning light reflected in it.

Having finished his contemptuous review, he lifted his head slightly, as if challenging not only this dusty platform but the world itself. As if to say that he was here, and that alone was enough to change everything. Then he moved forward, with confident, precise steps that brooked no hesitation or fuss.

He entered the station building, and even the air inside seemed to have changed—drier, cooler, like a museum where relics are kept under glass. The long corridor before him stretched out like a deserted carpet of tiles, on which there was not a single person. His footsteps echoed loudly in the silence, turning into a melody, as if each sound had been planned in advance.

As if he were in no hurry, he walked forward without looking back, and each step he took seemed to draw a line separating "then" from "now". The smooth leather folder in his hand looked as if it contained not papers, but answers to questions that no one had yet thought to ask.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he entered a spacious waiting room. The smell of coffee and station dust mingled with the quiet hum of conversations and the rustle of newspapers. But his appearance immediately created a pause. People - workers, students, and grandmothers - looked at him, trying to understand who this young man was, who seemed to have control over time itself.

He stopped in the middle of the room, as if in the center of an invisible stage. He took out a watch from his inside pocket, small but perfectly shiny, with a grace that marked him out as not just a man, but a dandy. His hand moved smoothly, like an actor in a perfectly staged play.

Checking the time—as if deciding how much longer he would allow this place to detain him—he smoothly put the watch back and moved forward again.

His destination was clear: the escalator. As he approached it, he paused for a moment, as if letting everyone know that the next moment would be worthy of a monument. Then he stepped smoothly onto the moving step and began his descent.

He stood up straight, with a light, unperturbed pride, looking down on everyone - not because of his height, but because of some inner superiority. His eyes seemed to say: "Look and remember! You are lucky to be witnesses!" The crowd below may not have understood why, but no one could look away.

When he reached the end of the escalator, his steps became even more springy, but still unhurried. He crossed the hall of the station, not paying the slightest attention to the people around him, as if they were just decorations on his way. The doors of the building swung open before him, releasing him onto the streets of the city.

And here he stopped again. He took a deep breath, as if absorbing the noise and smell and energy of the street. The chaos of the cars, the shouts of the vendors and the honking of the trams came crashing down on him, but he did not flinch. He stood there, right in the middle of it all, a challenge to the city itself, a living embodiment of audacity and confidence.

His path led to the bus stop. Walking along the sidewalk, he was once again the center of attention. Each step was perfectly measured, each fold of his suit emphasized his impeccability. He moved as if the city belonged to him, and the stop was not just a place where transport arrives, but a point where something great would begin.