“No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away...” - wrote Terry Pratchett, whose works I like a lot and read quite often.
So, here's a story of some ripples, to remember someone long dead and most likely – forgotten by everyone, but a handful of people, me being one of them.
The story I'm going to write about had happened in the 70s, in the USSR, when my father was just a teenager, and he, his little brother and their parents were going on a cruise down the Volga River. From what I know, it was actually quite a nice experience, despite only going from one river-town to another basically in a river-boat, albeit a large and comfy one.
At some point, closer to the end of the trip the ship had docked for a refuel, repair or something along those lines at some small Godforsaken place in a middle of the Great Russian Nowhere (and nowhere in the world Nowhere is as middle of nowhere as Russian Nowhere), with nothing to see there, but a collectiv