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One day I felt a familiar apple aroma. I hadn't met it a lot of years. 

Until I was 18, every autumn I would get a bag of dried apples from the closed city* of Sarov - it was "hello" from my father's side. My father and mother broke up when I was 4 years old, my father left our home in Siberia after the divorce. All I remembered about him and my grandmother was dried apples in a white sack. When I turned 18, something stopped, the magic apples were becoming rotten.

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*Sarov is a city in Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, Russia, known as a city of nuclear weapon production

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