A Man from the Future. 1856

Why am I here? he thought, pretending to listen attentively. Why do I need any of this? I never wanted to work in IT. I wanted to study history, to teach, to write articles, maybe books. And instead I’m sitting in a meeting about button colors.

After the meeting, he was called to see the director – a young guy, about thirty, who’d built his career thanks to his father’s connections and considered himself a brilliant manager.

“Dmitry,” the director began, “I wanted to talk to you about your work.”

Oh no, Dmitry thought. Here comes the talk about efficiency, about KPIs, about how I’m not motivated enough.

“You see, we have some concerns about your productivity,” the director continued, leafing through some papers. “You’ve been less active lately, less proactive. Colleagues are complaining that you don’t always respond quickly to their requests.”

Colleagues are complaining? Dmitry fumed internally. I spend all day doing nothing but solving their problems! I don’t have a single minute to work on my own tasks!

“I’m doing my best, Igor Vladimirovich,” he replied politely out loud. “But I have a lot of tasks, and I can’t always keep up.”

“I understand, I understand,” the director nodded. “But we need more output. You know, we’re thinking of introducing a performance bonus system. Those who work better get more. Those who work worse – correspondingly, less.”

So they want to cut my salary, Dmitry realized. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

“Fine, I’ll try to work more efficiently,” he said, feeling something boiling inside.

“Excellent!” the director said happily. “I believe in you, Dmitry. You’re a good specialist, you just need a little more motivation.”

Walking out of the office, Dmitry felt he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t keep playing this game, pretending he found any of this interesting, that he was motivated, that he was ready to work “more efficiently.”

I’m quitting, he suddenly decided. Right now I’m writing my resignation and leaving. To hell with this job, to hell with this director, to hell with all of it.

But then he remembered the rented apartment, remembered he had to pay for housing, for food, for internet, for his phone. And he realized he couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to live on.

I’m trapped, he realized with horror. In a real trap. I can’t leave because I need money. I can’t stay because I’m losing my mind. What do I do? What do I do?!

5. Childhood Memories

Dmitry spent Friday evening at home, lying on the couch and mindlessly flipping through TV channels. But his thoughts were far away – in the past, in a childhood that now seemed somehow unreal, as if from someone else’s life.

When did everything change? he thought. When did I become like this? I was a child once, I dreamed about things, I was happy about things. When did it end?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember himself as a little boy. There he was, seven-year-old Mitya, sitting in an armchair at his grandfather Sergei Ivanovich’s place, listening to stories about the war, about the siege, about how people died of hunger but never surrendered.

“Could you have died for the Motherland, Grandpa?” little Dmitry would ask.

“I could have, grandson,” Grandpa would answer, stroking his head. “Because there are things more precious than life. Honor, conscience, love for your people.”

Honor, conscience, love for your people, the adult Dmitry thought bitterly. And what do I have? I update antivirus software and get paid for it. Where’s the honor in that? Where’s the conscience? Where’s the love for something greater than my own belly?

Grandpa died when Dmitry was twelve. In his final years the old man had been ill, but until his very death he kept a clear mind and a love of books. He had an enormous library – shelves from floor to ceiling, filled with historical works, memoirs, fiction.

“Mitya,” Grandpa would say, “books are the only thing that remains of a person after death. Not money, not things – but thoughts, ideas, feelings that he managed to pass on to others.”

And what will remain of me? Dmitry thought painfully. I haven’t written any books, haven’t passed on any ideas. I haven’t even had children who might remember something about me.

After Grandpa’s death, his parents sold the apartment and the library. “Nobody needs these old books,” his mother said. “Better to get money, spend it on your education.” That was when twelve-year-old Dmitry felt real pain for the first time in his life – not physical, but spiritual. He understood that his closest person was gone, and everything that remained of him was being sold off.

Maybe that’s when it started? he reflected. When I understood that everything in this world is temporary, that people die, and their legacy gets sold for money?

At thirteen, Dmitry discovered historical films. First it was Soviet classics – Alexander Nevsky, Ivan the Terrible, War and Peace. Then American ones – Braveheart, Gladiator, Kingdom of Heaven.

He watched and envied the heroes of the past. They lived in an era when you could perform great deeds, fight for justice, die for an idea. And what had fallen to him? An age of consumption, where the main goal was to make money and buy something new.

That’s when the dream was born, he remembered. To travel to another time, another era. To become a knight or a warrior, to defend the weak, to fight injustice. Childish dreams, naive, stupid.

In high school he took up historical reenactment. At first he just went to festivals to watch, then tried his hand as a squire, and by graduation he had his own armor and sword.

“Mitya, enough playing war!” his father would say. “You’re an adult now, you’ll be going to the army soon, and you’re still playing at knights.”

“It’s not a game, Dad,” Dmitry tried to explain. “It’s studying history, culture, traditions.”

“What traditions?” his father would snap. “Dead people’s traditions! You’d be better off learning programming or English. At least that pays.”

Money, money, money, Dmitry thought. For my parents, nothing existed except money. Dad worked as an engineer at a factory, Mom as an accountant at an office. Honest, hardworking people, but so gray, so faceless. They lived their whole lives without understanding anything about it, without feeling anything.

6. University Years

Getting into the university’s history department felt like a breath of fresh air for Dmitry. Finally, he was among people who found the same things fascinating! Professor Boris Nikolaevich Krylov – gray-haired, stern, with piercing eyes – taught the course on medieval history. His lectures weren’t just recitations of facts; they were true one-man theater. He could tell the story of the Crusades or the fall of Constantinople in a way that sent shivers down students’ spines.

“History,” Professor Krylov would say, “is not a collection of dates and names. It is living people who loved, suffered, made mistakes, performed great deeds. And if you don’t feel this, if you can’t imagine yourself in their place – you’re not historians, just rote learners.”

How right he was! Dmitry thought. I really could imagine myself in the place of a medieval knight or a Byzantine emperor. I felt their joys and pains, their fears and hopes. And now? Now I don’t even feel my own emotions.

In his second year he met Katya Shipilova – a delicate girl with huge dark eyes who was studying art history. They met in the library, where both of them stayed late preparing for seminars.

Katya, Dmitry thought with pain. The only girl I ever truly loved. And the one I lost through my own foolishness.

They dated for two years – sophomore and junior year. Dmitry was happier than he’d ever been. He felt he had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood him without words.

Anton Veselsky, Dmitry remembered his rival’s name. Son of wealthy parents, future businessman. Confident, successful, with prospects. And what was I? A failed historian dreaming about the dead past.

He walked over to their table. Katya went pale, and Anton stood and extended his hand:

“You must be Dima? Katya told me about you.”

“Told you?” Dmitry repeated, feeling everything burning inside. “And what did she tell you?”

“That you two were friends,” Anton replied calmly. “And that you’re really into history.”

Friends, Dmitry repeated to himself. Two years of a relationship turned into “friendship.” Two years of love erased from memory like an unwanted recording.

“Katya, I need to talk to you,” he said quietly.

“Dima, don’t,” she avoided his gaze. “We’ve already talked about everything. You understand…”

“No, I don’t understand,” he replied. “Explain it to me, please.”

They went outside, and there, under the cold St. Petersburg sky, Katya said the words he would remember for the rest of his life:

“Dima, you’re a good person, but you live in the past. Dead knights are more interesting to you than living people. You dream about heroic deeds and don’t see what’s happening right next to you. And I don’t want to live in a museum.”

In a museum, he repeated now, lying on the couch. She said I live in a museum. And she was right. Even then, in my fourth year, I was a living exhibit. And now I’m just a sphinx.

7. The Death of a Dream

After breaking up with Katya, Dmitry threw himself into his studies. He wrote term papers, prepared for exams, participated in academic conferences. It seemed like the pain was subsiding, like life was going on.

In his fifth year he began work on his thesis: “Chivalric Culture in the Era of the Crusades.” His advisor was Professor Krylov, who highly valued Dmitry’s abilities.

“You have talent, young man,” he would say. “You know how to not just study facts, but feel an era. That’s a rare quality. After you defend your thesis, I’ll recommend you for graduate school.”

Graduate school, Dmitry dreamed back then. Then a doctoral dissertation, teaching, academic work. There it is, my destiny, my calling.

He defended his thesis with honors. The committee praised his work, Professor Krylov was pleased, his parents finally felt proud of their son.

“So, historian,” his father said after the defense, “now you’ll teach at the university?”

“First graduate school, Dad,” Dmitry explained. “And then, if everything works out, I’ll become a lecturer.”

“And how much does it pay?” his mother asked practically.

“Not much for now,” Dmitry admitted. “But it’s a calling, Mom. It’s what makes life worth living.”

A calling, he smirked bitterly in the present. How naive I was.

He was indeed accepted into graduate school. The first year went well – he studied primary sources, wrote articles, presented at conferences. Professor Krylov supported him, gave valuable advice, introduced him to colleagues from other cities.

But in the second year of graduate school, something happened that turned his whole life upside down. Professor Krylov suddenly died of a heart attack – right in the middle of a lecture, collapsed at the blackboard and never got up. For Dmitry it wasn’t just the loss of an academic advisor – it was like losing a father, a mentor, the only person who believed in him.

“What do I do now?” he asked the department chair. “Who will be my advisor?”

“We’ll see,” the chair answered vaguely. “We’ll find someone.”

They found a new advisor – a young associate professor named Petrov, who specialized in twentieth-century Russian history and understood little about the Middle Ages. The very first meeting showed they wouldn’t be able to work together.

“Your topic is too narrow,” Petrov declared. “Chivalric culture isn’t relevant. You’d better switch to something more contemporary. I can offer you a topic on the history of nineteenth-century industry.”

“But I’ve spent three years studying the Middle Ages!” Dmitry objected. “I already have research, sources, a dissertation plan!”

“The sources will stay in the archives,” Petrov replied coldly. “But you need to think about your career. Nobody’s interested in the Middle Ages. But industry – that’s an in-demand topic.”

*An in-demand topic,* Dmitry remembered with disgust. *Everything has to be in-demand, relevant, useful. But beauty, poetry, the human spirit – those aren’t relevant.*

He tried to find another advisor, but everywhere he was turned down. The Middle Ages really was of no interest to anyone – everyone was working on either contemporary topics or “relevant” historical periods.

After six months of struggle, Dmitry realized that graduate school was over for him. He wrote a letter of withdrawal and left the university.

*That’s when something broke inside me,* he thought. *The dream I’d lived with since childhood had collapsed. And I couldn’t find anything to replace it.*

***

8. First Job

After university, a dark period began. Dmitry tried to find work in his field, but everywhere they demanded experience he didn’t have. He didn’t want to work as a history teacher in a school – the salary was pathetic and there were no prospects.

“Maybe you could get a job at a museum?” his mother suggested. “You do know history.”

He did try to get a job at a museum. He went through several interviews, but everywhere they said the same thing: “There are no openings, but we’ll keep you in mind.”

*Keep me in mind, sure,* he thought sarcastically. *The same people who worked in museums twenty years ago are still there. They don’t hire new ones.*

Money was running out, his parents started hinting that it was time their son started supporting himself. And so Dmitry took a desperate step – he enrolled in a retraining course in computer technology.

*If you can’t do what you love,* he reasoned back then, *you have to do what pays.*

The course lasted six months. He studied operating systems, networks, programming. It went pretty well – he had a technical mind, and he had enough persistence for anything.

After finishing the course, he was hired as a systems administrator at a small IT company. The salary was decent for those times – three times what teachers or museum workers made.

“You see,” his mother rejoiced, “how good it is that you retrained! Now you have stable work, good money.”

*Stable work,* he repeated. *Good money. But what is a good life? That question didn’t interest Mom.*

The first months of work went fine. The novelty, the need to dig into details, to learn new technologies – all of it distracted from sad thoughts. Dmitry even began to think that maybe he would find himself in this new profession.

But soon the routine swallowed him. Every day the same tasks: set up a computer, fix a printer, update a program, solve an internet problem. Nothing creative, nothing interesting – just technology and more technology.

*I’ve become support staff,* he realized. *Just an appendage to machines. People bring me their technical problems, I solve them, I get paid for it. That’s my whole life.*

Sometimes he tried to remember what he’d dreamed about in university. Historical research, teaching, an academic career – all of it now seemed like a fairy tale from childhood.

*Maybe it’s for the best?* he tried to convince himself. *Maybe I was just overestimating my abilities? Maybe I wouldn’t have become a good historian anyway?*

But these attempts at self-deception didn’t help. Deep inside, he knew he had betrayed himself, his dream, his calling. And there was no escaping that knowledge.

***

9. An Encounter with the Past

Three years ago, already working as a systems administrator, Dmitry happened to run into a former classmate on the street – Sergei Mikhailov, who had stayed in academia and earned his PhD in history.

“Dima!” Sergei said happily. “It’s been ages! How are you? Where are you working?”

“At an IT company,” Dmitry answered vaguely. “And you, still doing research?”

“Yeah, defended my dissertation, now I’m an associate professor,” Sergei announced proudly. “Teaching students, writing articles. Remember how we dreamed of becoming historians? I made it!”

*He made it,* Dmitry thought with envy. *And I didn’t. Why? What did I do wrong?*

“What are you studying?” he asked.

“The history of nineteenth-century industry,” Sergei replied. “It’s a relevant topic, in demand. They give grants, send you on research trips.”

*Nineteenth-century industry,* Dmitry thought with disgust. *The very topic Petrov suggested to me. So if I’d agreed, I could have become a PhD too.*

“Do you remember Professor Krylov?” Sergei asked. “Shame he died. He was a good teacher.”

“I remember,” Dmitry answered briefly.

“They say he really praised you. Too bad you left graduate school. You could have become a scholar too.”

*Could have become,* Dmitry repeated to himself. *If I’d agreed to study industry instead of knights. If I’d compromised my principles, betrayed my dream. But back then I was still proud, still thought principles mattered more than bread.*

After that encounter, Dmitry walked around in a fog for several days. He understood he’d made the wrong choice, but there was no going back. Time had passed, opportunities were lost.

*Three years ago I still had a chance to change everything,* he thought then. *Re-enroll in graduate school, agree to any topic, just to stay in academia. But I was too proud, too principled. And now I’m twenty-five, and it’s too late to start over.*

***

10. A Last Hope

A week ago – it was December 10th – something happened that for a moment gave Dmitry hope again. An email arrived from a certain Anna Vladimirovna Korshunova, director of a private historical center called “Chronos.”

“Dear Dmitry Sergeevich!” she wrote. “We know about your education and your interest in medieval history. We have an opening for a research associate to work on a project about the history of the Crusades. Would you be able to come in for an interview?”

*This can’t be,* Dmitry thought, reading the letter. *How do they know about me? And what kind of center is this?*

He found the “Chronos” website online – a solid organization that conducted historical research for museums and private collectors. The salary, judging by their job postings, was even higher than what he made now.

What if I try? he thought. What if fate is giving me one last chance?

The next day he went to the interview. The center was located in a beautiful building in the city center, the offices were tastefully decorated, and reproductions of medieval miniatures hung on the walls. Anna Vladimirovna turned out to be an elegant woman in her mid-forties, a doctor of historical sciences and former employee of the Hermitage.

“We know about your thesis,” she said. “Professor Krylov spoke very highly of you. He showed me your work while he was still alive.”

“How do you know Professor Krylov?” Dmitry asked, surprised.

“We were colleagues, worked together on a project. He said you were one of his most talented students. It’s a shame you left graduate school.”

Talented students, Dmitry thought. So not everything was lost. So those years studying history weren’t for nothing.

“What kind of project do you have?” he asked.

“We’re preparing a large exhibition on the history of the Crusades,” Anna Vladimirovna explained. “We need research, translations of primary sources, catalog writing. It’s interesting, creative work.”

Creative work, Dmitry repeated dreamily to himself. The thing I’ve dreamed about my whole life.

The interview went beautifully. Dmitry talked about his research, answered all the questions, even quoted several passages from medieval chronicles from memory.

“You’re a good fit for us,” Anna Vladimirovna said at the end. “We’re ready to offer you the job. Think about it and give us an answer by Monday.”

By Monday, Dmitry repeated. That’s December 17th, a week away. Could it really work out?

He left the center elated. For the first time in many years, he had real hope. Work in his field, a decent salary, the opportunity to do what interested him.

I’ll call Monday and accept, he decided. Finally my life will change for the better.

11. The Collapse of Hope

But on Thursday, December 15, 2023, something happened that he never expected. Anna Vladimirovna called him with news that was a blow:

“Dmitry Sergeevich, unfortunately I have to give you bad news. Our foreign sponsor has withdrawn funding for the project. The exhibition is being postponed indefinitely.”

“What do you mean, postponed?” Dmitry didn’t understand.

“Economic crisis, you understand. People prefer not to spend money on culture. Possibly in a year or two the situation will change.”

In a year or two, he repeated. And what will I do for those one or two years? Update antivirus software again?

“Is there perhaps another project?” he asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately not,” Anna Vladimirovna answered sadly. “It all depends on the sponsors, and they’re being cautious right now.”

After that call, Dmitry felt that something inside him had broken irreparably. The last hope died, the last chance to change his life disappeared.

That’s it, he thought. There won’t be any more chances. I’m stuck in this life forever.

He spent the remaining days off in complete despair. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, just lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling. He lied to his parents that everything was fine, told himself he’d go to work Monday as if nothing had happened.

There’s my fate, he thought. Systems administrator for the rest of my days. No history, no creativity, no meaning. Just existence.

And now, December 17th, Monday, he was walking along the embankment thinking the same thoughts.

The week at work had passed like a blur. He performed his duties mechanically, didn’t talk to anyone, just waited for the end of the day.

Twenty-five years, he counted for the hundredth time. Half a life lived, and what have I done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He came to the museum – that old building he passed every day. Today, for some reason, he felt like going inside.

Why not? he thought. I’ll forget this gray reality for an hour. I’ll see how people lived in the past, when life had meaning.

12. Friday

By Friday, Dmitry was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The whole week had passed in a fog – he worked on autopilot, communicated with colleagues mechanically, came home and collapsed on the couch in complete exhaustion.

This can’t go on, he thought. I can’t live like this. I have to change something. But what? What?!

Friday evening he was walking home along the Neva embankment – he’d decided to walk, to get some air. October was cold and overcast, the wind from the river cut through to the bone, but Dmitry didn’t notice the cold. He walked and thought, thought, thought.

Twenty-five years, he counted. If I live to seventy – and that’s an optimistic estimate – I have forty-five years left. Forty-five years of this life. Forty-five years of work I hate. Forty-five years of loneliness. Forty-five years of despair.

He stopped and looked at the murky waters of the Neva. The river flowed slowly, heavily, carrying the reflections of city lights within it.

What if I jumped? he suddenly thought. Just jumped into this cold water and ended it all? No more hated work, no more loneliness, no more this despair that eats away from inside.