The week after their afternoon in Kagemori Park settled into a quiet rhythm. Not dull—but charged, like a drawn breath. The tears and truths they'd shared lingered in the spaces between Alex and Katarina, infusing their interactions with something unspoken. At school, the Seiwa International Cultural Festival loomed ever closer, and Class 2-B buzzed with creative energy. Their booth—"Crosscurrents of Culture"—was slowly coming to life. Alex spent most free periods and several after-school hours working side by side with Katya on their chosen theme: Russian Fairy Tales.
They began their planning in the school library, their heads bent over tables scattered with books and notepads. Conversations spilled into lunch breaks, soft and brimming with ideas. Katya, emboldened by Alex's calm encouragement, threw herself into the project with an enthusiasm that was equal parts earnest and chaotic.
"Нам нужно выбрать самые знаковые сказки," she said one afternoon, voice half-muffled by a stack of richly illustrated books from her Babushka Natasha's collection. "Сказки, которые действительно отражают русскую душу. Про Бабу-Ягу, конечно. И про Ивана-царевича и Серого Волка. И Василису Прекрасную! Обязательно Василису!"
(Fairy tales that reflect the Russian soul. About Baba Yaga, of course. And Ivan Tsarevich and the Grey Wolf. And Vasilisa the Beautiful! Definitely Vasilisa!)
Alex smiled as she spoke. Her eyes lit up, her hands alive with motion as she unraveled the layers of symbolism behind each tale. The icy composure she was known for melted when she spoke of skazki—what emerged was a storyteller, passionate and unfiltered.
"Those are great choices," he said. "Baba Yaga especially. We could do something striking with her hut on chicken legs."
Katya's face brightened. "Yes! And we can show her duality—how she's both a villain and a guide. That complexity is why I love Russian folklore." Then, almost shyly: "Надеюсь, это не будет слишком… по-детски?"
(I hope it won't come across as… childish?)
"Not at all," Alex replied. "Fairy tales are more than bedtime stories. They hold cultural memory. The way you explain them—it's clear they have depth."
Her posture straightened, reassured. They selected three tales: Vasilisa the Beautiful (featuring Baba Yaga), Ivan Tsarevich and the Grey Wolf, and The Frog Princess. Each would be paired with illustrated storyboards, rich in traditional motifs—Khokhloma, Palekh, Gzhel. Katya knew far more about these than Alex expected, thanks again to her grandmother.
Their materials came together in the after-school hum of the art room, where the scent of acrylic and the rustle of sketch paper filled the air. Dozens of students worked around them, yet Alex and Katya fell into their own rhythm. He handled digital layout and high-res assets; she, the delicate hand-drawn scenes and fine details of Russian dress and landscape.
One afternoon, as Alex fine-tuned text on his laptop for the Vasilisa board, Katya stared at her sketchpad in frustration.
"Эта Баба-Яга… она никак не получается такой, какой я её представляю," she muttered. "Она должна быть страшной, но с… искоркой хитрости в глазах, понимаешь? А у меня выходит просто… старая карга."
(This Baba Yaga… she's not coming out the way I picture her. She should be scary, but with a spark of cunning in her eyes, you know? Mine just looks like… an old hag.)
Alex leaned over. Her sketch was good—strong lines, gnarled features. But he saw what she meant. "You're close. But Baba Yaga isn't just monstrous—she's ancient, watchful, unpredictable. Try giving her eyes that glint with knowledge. Like she's always one step ahead."
He grabbed a spare scrap of paper and pencil, sketching quick lines—arched one brow slightly, added a glimmer to the eye, the trace of a smirk that never quite surfaced. "Maybe like this?"
Katya studied it, then blinked. "Да! Именно так! Откуда ты… ты так хорошо её чувствуешь?"
(Yes! Exactly like that! How do you… how do you understand her so well?)
Alex shrugged. "Just a feeling. She's a layered character."
He didn't say how many evenings he'd spent lost in his grandfather's worn volumes of Russian folktales, or the way they'd analyzed characters over warm tea and quiet silence.
Katya took up her pencil again, gaze sharpened with purpose. "Теперь я поняла. Спасибо, Алексей-кун. Ты… ты удивительный."
(Now I understand. Thank you, Alexey-kun. You… you're amazing.)
She said it so quietly he almost missed it. But he didn't—and it landed in his chest like a lit ember.
There were other moments like that. Dozens. Folding paper borders together, laughing at mismatched color swatches, or brushing fingers when they reached for the same sketchbook. A certain ease had taken root between them, quiet but undeniable.
Kenji, now on the "International Snack Attack" team (his all-ramen proposal had been diplomatically vetoed), frequently popped in to check on them.
"Still hanging out with fairy tales, Power Duo?" he teased. "Don't forget the dragons! Every good story needs dragons."
Katya, rolling her eyes, would mutter, "Драконы? В русских сказках чаще Змей Горыныч, трёхглавый."
(Dragons? In Russian fairy tales, it's usually Zmey Gorynych—the three-headed one.)
But there was no sting in her tone anymore. If anything, a reluctant fondness.
One evening, the art room was nearly empty, the sky outside already turning navy. They stood before a pinboard discussing color palettes. Katya argued for traditional reds and golds; Alex for icy blues and silvers.
"Красный и золотой – это тепло, это жизнь, это праздник," she insisted, holding up crimson and gold swatches.(Red and gold—it's warmth, life, celebration.)
"True," Alex said. "But blue and silver are magic. They call to mind Russian winters, moonlight on snow, the hush before something mysterious happens."
They circled the argument with smiles, each defending their vision. Then Katya paused, tapping her lip thoughtfully.
"Хорошо, убедил. Может быть, компромисс?"(Alright, you've convinced me. How about a compromise?)
"Основной фон – глубокий синий, как зимняя ночь, а акценты – золотые и красные. Как искры костра или ягоды рябины на снегу."(Deep blue as the backdrop—like a winter night—and red and gold as accents. Like sparks from a fire or rowanberries in the snow.)
Alex's grin widened. "Katya, that's perfect. It's both festive and magical."
She flushed at the compliment. "Мне нравится, когда мы… когда мы находим решение вместе."(I like it when we… find solutions together.)
They held each other's gaze longer than before. Not awkward. Just… aware. Of something shifting.
Later, as they packed up, the streetlamps cast a golden web through the art room's windows. Neither seemed eager to leave.
"You know," Alex said as they stepped into the night, "talking about Russian fairy tales makes me think of blini. My grandfather used to say you can't survive a Russian winter without them."
Katya stopped mid-step. "You know blini?"
"A bit," he said with a shrug. "Especially with sour cream. And caviar, if you're feeling fancy."
She stared at him, then burst into laughter—light and unrestrained. The sound startled him in the best way.
"Ты… ты просто кладезь сюрпризов, Алексей-кун! Блины с икрой! Ты точно не тайный русский агент?"(You… you're a treasure trove of surprises, Alexey-kun! Blini with caviar! Are you sure you're not a secret Russian agent?)
Alex laughed too. "Not unless someone forgot to tell me. But I do like good food. From anywhere."
He hesitated. Then, more softly, "Maybe after the festival, if our booth turns out well… we could celebrate. With blini?"
Katya's breath caught. Her expression softened. The blush on her cheeks deepened, visible even under the pale streetlights.
"Праздновать… с ним? Блинами? Это… это было бы просто невероятно."(Celebrate… with him? With blini? That… that would be simply incredible.)
"I would like that very much, Alexey-kun," she whispered. "Very much indeed."
And so, beneath the glow of streetlamps and the whisper of early autumn leaves, a quiet promise bloomed—of blini, of winter warmth, of something fragile but growing. The festival was still weeks away, but Alex walked home feeling as if his own fairy tale had already begun.