He grabbed his coat. In Nakhodka, the past doesn't stay buried; it just waits for someone to pick up the phone.
The rain in Nakhodka didn't just fall; it slammed against the window of Artyom’s cramped apartment like it was trying to get in. On his desk lay a relic from a different era: a (Nakhodka spravochnik telefonov), its yellowed pages swollen from the humidity of the Sea of Japan. nahodka spravochnik telefonov
He flipped to the back, where hand-drawn notes bled into the margins. His father had written: "If the fog hides the Cape, call the harbor master of the silent ships." He grabbed his coat
Artyom wasn't looking for a plumber or a taxi. He was looking for a ghost. He grabbed his coat. In Nakhodka