I spent my whole childhood on the train. During the summer holidays I was invariably sent to my relatives in Ukraine.

I was about six. We drove south. There was no money on the coupe, and I was always joyfully carried on a placard car.

That time I was very lucky - I had a like-minded boy, a boy of my same age, who was driving with his grandmother on the mother's line in our same shop. We played, painted and composed all the way.

And now it was time for them and my grandmother to go out, and my new acquaintance and already best friend, regretting our separation, gave me a ticket with the words that we will definitely meet.

Previously, tickets were paper, and they were handed over to the conductor for reporting, and then before leaving at your station you could ask the conductor to give them. Then he took a funny book with transparent plastic pockets, like a 1st class box, and sought your ticket. Tickets themselves were for us desirable trophies, with which you can play in the train or paint. And this treasure the boy gives me! This is such an act. I pressed the rest of the way to the heart of the trophy.

Years have passed a lot. That ticket was stored with me in a box of memories, and I occasionally stumbled upon it, glimpsing and warmly recalling that trip.

When the social networks appeared, I had a terrible thought. I remember the name, and there is a boy’s name on the ticket! I can find him! ! to

A solemn moment, one hand is placed over the keyboard, the other balls through the box of memories in search of the ticket and with excitement unfolds it. Serena gave me my grandma’s ticket.