The Sun by Anastasia Kononenko

 Sound waves were the only

thing I could remember vividly about him. Not an obnoxiously loud alcoholic and definitely not a teenage girl rambling about her day at school — he wasn't the kind of person whose voice could usually be heard in an atmosphere like this.

And yet, he must have been really loud.

The tram had its soundtrack consisting of rusty wheels hitting the crooked track, rattling window glass threatening to fall out — and he still beat it. Because despite his voice filling each crevice in the old tram for so long, it became their shared symphony, one would absolutely want to look back and figure out the story behind his nervous mumbling on the phone. And I turned around, as well.

His hair was blond — or so was the tangled mess of a fur sticking out from his backpack. That's a thing about nearly empty public spaces — you are only allowed to observe strangers if you're a kid, an artsy eccentric, or a noisy old gossip. Another thing — I was, in fact, an artsy eccentric, but his voice felt so raw and panicked, I couldn't help turning around — and then immediately minding my own business.

I still felt him existing behind me — just present, like heat on skin. He had something similar to an aura. The day was sunny, his soundwaves filled with kindness, his hair bright — for a few seconds, he became the sun in my mind.

From countless phone calls he made, I gathered he had work that evening, so the injured cat in his backpack was a problem he had to deal with by seven. What kind of job starts at seven in the evening? And the man was young, probably a couple of years older than me. His anxiety eased in waves as his voice grew more confident.

At some point, he even asked if I needed a cat.

I had one already.