In Russia’s cold and distant town,
Yevgeny stepped outside one day.
No luggage packed, no plan declared—
just walked, then drove, then rode away.
A thousand miles to St. Petersburg,
he traveled silent, blank, and pale.
Two days he sat without a thought,
as though his mind had slipped its trail.
He reached the city late at night,
then wandered to the airport grounds—
not for a plane, not for a gate,
but something hidden underground.
A manhole cover lifted up,
he climbed inside without a sound.
Below the earth, the tunnels split
like veins within the frozen ground.
He chose a pipe—just twelve inches wide—
and crawled headfirst into the black.
Forty feet he forced himself,
till there was no path forth or back.
Then terror struck; he screamed for help,
his voice a muffled, distant cry.
A passerby heard faint distress
and found the hole with fear nearby.
Rescuers came with ropes and tools,
and hours passed in rigid strife—
but finally they pulled him free,
bloodied, frozen—barely life.
His skin was torn, his breath was weak,
gas fumes had clawed his lungs inside.
Yet when revived, asked why he’d gone,
he shook his head—no memory tied.
A journey long, a tunnel tight,
a life preserved by threads so slim—
a mystery locked within the dark,
of what had silently called to him.