It was a cold night in the mountains, and my friend and I were sitting in a forest in southern Kazakhstan, staring out over a small lake.
She was wearing a blue and white wool sweater that was just as comfortable as her clothes.
The sun was just beginning to set.
The sky was clear and there was a gentle breeze blowing from the west.
As she stood there, I could feel the soft breeze gently caressing her hair and skin.
She seemed to be having fun.
It was only a few months earlier, I was sitting at my desk, writing an article about an ancient explorer who was traveling the Caucasus.
“Oh, and I forgot to mention, he was wearing his wool sweater,” she told me, “and it was a good idea to wear a wool sweater.”
The idea for the story came from my friend’s childhood memories.
At the time, she and her parents, who were both archaeologists, were living in Kazakhstan and she had only visited once before.
She had been in the Soviet Union for a year, and was staying with her grandmother.
As the summers were short, it was the perfect time to get away from the constant, repetitive demands of living in a small village in the middle of a vast country.
It had also been a great year for the arts, and she was thrilled to be able to go to the theater.
As a result, the idea for a story came to her.
As her mother was sitting on the couch, she put her arms around her, kissed her, and said, “My mom, I want you to do something cool.”
Her mother said, I can’t do this, she told her.
But she did.
She took off her jacket and put it over her head.
Then she stood up.
Her face was as pale as a sheet of ice.
Her hands were shaking.
She looked so frail.
She walked up to the edge of the lake and slowly pulled her wool sweater up over her shoulder.
Her shoulders dropped down.
Her shirt became a thin, almost comical, fabric.
She stepped out onto the ice.
She stood up straight, as if nothing had happened.
She walked slowly across the ice, in a circle.
The water seemed to freeze in front of her.
She smiled at her friends.
Her friends had gathered around her and asked if she was OK.
She said she was fine, that she was just tired.
They were all surprised to see her in a warm, fuzzy sweater.
The friends started laughing.
But she wasn’t laughing.
Her arms were shaking and she looked so weak.
I walked over and told her I needed to call my father.
My dad was a geologist.
I was working on a new piece about a time machine that I wanted to make a movie about.
I called him, and he called the family to come over.
The family came.
I told them that I was doing a documentary about a woman from Kazakhstan.
They said, Oh, you’re not a good guy, and they told me that she would never come back.
They wanted to know why.
The film was supposed to premiere in May.
But my friend had gone to Kazakhstan.
She hadn’t been able to come back, and now she had to wait a long time for her family to make arrangements.
I don’t know how long it took for them to come to terms with that, but eventually they decided to move to Russia.
My friend was still upset, but at least she knew that her parents were there for her.
So, I called my father, who was a photographer.
He agreed to bring me to Russia, because the story was going to be on camera there.
He showed me a city that looked a lot like Kazakhstan, with a lot of trees and mountains.
It’s called Khabarovsk, which means “the heart of Russia.”
We went to a small apartment building, which looked like a modern office.
There were lots of old computers, but it had no Internet.
The place had all the amenities of an old Soviet apartment.
I sat down at a large wooden table and I asked him if he would like to come with me to the set of the movie.
We had no idea what was going on, but he told me I had to get dressed and show the crew.
He was a bit nervous because he had worked for the same production company in Kazakhstan.
I had never met him, but I figured he would be in good company.
I started packing.
My father showed me the set.
He wore a blue shirt and white pants.
He sat in a chair with a TV in front, on the wall, and a large black camera on the table.
He looked very tired.
He had to sit down.
He began to cry.
My father said, We don’t have time for that.
I tried to tell him that it would be really great if I could just come with you