The morning of the Seiwa International Cultural Festival broke bright and crisp, the kind of late spring day that felt touched by something magical. The school grounds had transformed overnight into a vibrant tapestry of color and sound. Banners snapped gently in the breeze, mingling with the mouthwatering aromas of sizzling street foods and the animated chatter of early visitors. Alex, arriving early with Katya to put the finishing touches on their Russian Fairy Tales display, felt a tingle of anticipation he hadn't expected to feel so keenly.
Their Class 2-B booth, "Crosscurrents of Culture," was sandwiched between Kenji's riotously popular "International Snack Attack"—which, despite beginning as a ramen-only operation, now offered an impressive array of snacks from around the world—and a kaleidoscopic display of Indian textiles and live henna art.
But their section—their world of Russian tales—was something else entirely. A deep midnight blue backdrop shimmered under the morning light, adorned with hand-painted silver snowflakes and golden stars that gave the whole scene a dreamlike quality. The three main storyboards—Vasilisa the Beautiful, Ivan Tsarevich and the Grey Wolf, and The Frog Princess—stood like sentinels, Katya's illustrations rich with texture and mood, while Alex's carefully written text wove each story in English and Japanese, side by side with the original Russian. Beside them, plaques hand-painted with Khokhloma and Gzhel motifs offered glimpses into the broader culture, and at the center of it all, a small velvet-covered table cradled a bound collection of fairy tales from Katya's Babushka Natasha, its pages gently fanned open like a tribute.
Katya, dressed in a simple yet elegant midnight-blue dress embroidered with silver threading—likely of Russian design—was a bundle of tightly coiled nerves. She darted from one side of the booth to the other, fixing a slightly tilted board here, smoothing velvet there, biting her lip as she whispered to herself.
"Всё должно быть идеально. Абсолютно идеально," she muttered. "Столько людей увидят… Что, если им не понравится? Что, если они подумают, что это глупо?"(Everything must be perfect. Absolutely perfect. So many people will see… What if they don't like it? What if they think it's silly?)
Alex, steady and composed, gently touched her arm. "Katya," he said, quiet but firm, "it's beautiful. It's honest. People will see that—and they'll love it because you clearly do."
She looked up at him, her anxious blue eyes softening. A small, almost reluctant smile curved her lips. "Спасибо, Алексей-кун. Ты всегда знаешь, что сказать, чтобы я почувствовала себя… немного смелее."(Thank you, Alexey-kun. You always know what to say to make me feel… a little braver.)
When the festival officially opened, the school grounds filled quickly. Students, parents, and neighbors streamed through the gates. Kenji's booming voice drew a raucous crowd to his food stall, while henna artists painted intricate designs onto eager hands.
Their Russian Fairy Tales display attracted a different kind of attention—quieter, more curious. People lingered, drawn in by the unfamiliar Cyrillic, the luminous art, the quiet elegance of the booth. Katya, hesitant at first, began answering questions in halting but clear Japanese. Then a group of wide-eyed children gathered around the Baba Yaga storyboard. Katya gave Alex a fleeting glance—he nodded—and she stepped forward.
With a deep breath, she launched into the tale of Vasilisa in simplified Japanese, her voice trembling at first, then steadying. Her gestures became expressive, her eyes alive. She pointed to the illustrations, explained the enchanted doll, even cackled softly like Baba Yaga—just enough to delight without scaring. The children were spellbound.
"Они слушают! Им нравится! Я не могу в это поверить!" she whispered to Alex during a lull, her cheeks flushed.(They're listening! They like it! I can't believe it!)
"Of course, they like it," Alex replied. "You're telling it beautifully."
He slipped into his own role with ease, explaining the meaning behind the painted motifs to older visitors. He found joy in it—not just in sharing culture, but in watching Katya bloom. He always found a way to redirect attention to her, to highlight her voice, her art, her heart in the project.
Some parents lingered longer than expected, particularly one serious-faced older man who turned out to be the German attaché. He studied their booth carefully, then asked Katya questions about the folklore. She answered hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence.
Later, she turned to Alex, dazed and smiling. "Он… он похвалил меня. Сказал, что я хорошо представляю русскую культуру. Это так… неожиданно и приятно."(He… he praised me. Said I represent Russian culture well. That's so… unexpected and lovely.)
Alex simply smiled. "You earned that."
All day, he was there—refilling her water, handing her snacks when she forgot to eat, offering gentle encouragement without hovering. He was her calm, her foundation. And as the hours passed, he found himself watching her more than the visitors—watching the way she lit up when she told a story, the way she lost herself in her passion. And something shifted in him, something that had been quietly growing all along.
During a quiet spell in the afternoon, while most of the crowd drifted to the main courtyard for a performance, they found a moment of peace. Leaning against the back of their booth, they shared lukewarm tea from a thermos, content in the soft silence between them.
"Well," Alex said at last, "I think we can officially call this a success."
Katya gave a dreamy sigh, her head tilting back slightly. "Yes. It's been… more than I hoped for. I was so scared this morning, but now…" She trailed off, eyes distant. "Это чувство… оно бесценно. Словно я действительно смогла построить маленький мостик между моим миром и их."(This feeling… it's priceless. Like I really did build a little bridge between my world and theirs.)
"You did," Alex said. "A beautiful one."
She turned, her eyes lingering on his face, something unspoken flickering there. "I couldn't have done it without you, Alexey-kun. You were my strength. My quiet strength."
"We're a team," he said, voice husky. "Always are."
Their eyes held, and in that moment, the bustle of the festival seemed to fall away. It was just the two of them, surrounded by fairy tales and hidden hopes, a silent thread of understanding tightening between them.
Then—
"Guys!" Kenji barreled into view, face glowing, powdered sugar on his chin. "You will not believe who tried my Volcano Kimchi Pancakes! Mr. Henderson! And he loved them! Said they had, and I quote, 'excellent exothermic properties'!"
Alex and Katya sprang apart instinctively. Kenji's grin grew wider.
"Whoa, did I crash something, Power Duo?"
Katya flushed crimson. "Кендзи-кун! Твоё чувство времени… оно безупречно, как всегда."(Kenji-kun! Your timing… it's impeccable, as always.)
Alex chuckled. "Just wrapping up a successful day. Congrats on the culinary triumph."
Kenji winked. "You two should walk around a bit. Take in the festival. You've earned it." And with that, he bounded off.
Katya looked back at Alex, her face still pink but her smile returning. "He means well."
"He does. And he's right. We've been here all day. Want to go see the rest of the festival before it ends?"
Her eyes lit up. "Прогуляться с ним по фестивалю? Это было бы… как настоящее свидание," she murmured.(A walk through the festival with him? It would be… like a real date.)
"I'd like that very much, Alexey-kun," she said aloud.
Leaving their booth in Megumi's capable hands, the two stepped out into the flow of the festival. The sun was sinking, casting everything in a golden haze. Their "blini date" could wait. For now, this walk—this sliver of magic in the fading light—was enough. As Alex glanced at Katya, wide-eyed and wonderstruck, he knew: what he felt wasn't simple admiration. It was something far deeper, tender and vast.
It was the beginning of something real.
[End Chapter 16]