The Omen at the End of the World
Theologians, filled with the pride of knowledge, were wrong in claiming that the soul, leaving the mortal body, ascends to another world, reaching for the bright heights. In reality, by the will of unknown forces, after death, a person does not ascend to the heavens but remains bound to this world, endlessly wandering in a new, bodiless form. And his dwelling is not a radiant eternity, but a place called a Home at the End of the World.
A girl in a brown down jacket, which contrasted strangely with the warm, sun-drenched summer day, stood on the balcony of an old five-story building. Her face was hidden under a large hood, but her hand movements were quick and precise. In one hand she held a small mirror, in the other - bright red lipstick. The balcony looked neglected: peeling paint on the railing, cracks in the tiles, but it didn't seem to bother her.
Concentrating on applying lipstick to her lips, the girl tilted her head slightly to the sides, catching the reflection of the light. When she finished, she quickly closed the lipstick with a click and looked at her reflection with a slight smile.
"Mmm, I need to go to the prosecutor and find out about the brothers," she said, as if discussing it with herself.
Her gaze shifted from the mirror to the horizon. Her lips stopped smiling and her expression became sad. She brought her right hand to her chest, squeezed the fabric of her down jacket and whispered:
"What wonderful brothers I had…"
She took a step back, leaning against the concrete wall of the balcony, and closed her eyes, as if trying to push away the painful memories. After a moment, her hand slid to her forehead, her fingers nervously touching her temple.
"Oh God, how could they do this…" there was pain and bewilderment in her voice.
Taking a deep breath, she lowered her hand, and her gaze fell again down to the street. Cars drove slowly through the narrow asphalt yard, and old apartment buildings were visible in the background. Her face darkened, as if the weight of her thoughts had fallen upon her again.
"It's all that damned weed!" Her voice was sharp, and the words hung in the air.
For a few moments she stood motionless, looking down, as if considering what to do next.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a train pulled into the station. The sunlight reflected brightly off the shiny blue surfaces of the carriages, highlighting the rich color, and the platform was filled with hot air, mixed with the roar of the crowd and the screeching of brakes.
When the train stopped, a young man suddenly jumped out of one of the carriages. His short black hair, slightly disheveled, was carelessly combined with a perfectly ironed black jacket and white shirt. In his right hand he held a leather folder, pressing it to his side, as if the hustle and bustle of the road could snatch it from his hands at any moment.
He paused for a second, squinting, looking around carefully. His eyes quickly ran along the platform, lingering on the figures of people standing nearby. Two men, discussing something near the carriage, seemed not to pay any attention to him. A slight smile flickered on his lips, and he confidently stepped forward, turning the corner.
Having passed the crowd, the young man quickly crossed a small courtyard, strewn with cracked asphalt and rare flower beds with dried flowers. On the opposite side of the station building, he reached a massive wooden door. With one sharp movement, he pulled the handle, and the door creaked open, letting him inside.
A long, empty corridor stretched out before him. The iron floor rang under his steps, echoing in the silence. On either side of the corridor were huge windows, through which daylight streamed, making the space almost blinding.
The young man walked confidently, not looking back. The corridor stretched all the way to the end, where the waiting hall of the station was located. He walked through it without slowing down. Light pouring through the huge windows cast sharp rectangular strips on the iron floor, creating a play of light and shadow. As he approached the massive door leading to the waiting hall, he pushed it open, and the doors creaked with a dull sound.
A spacious waiting room stretched out before him. The floor was laid with marble tiles, glittering from the daylight streaming through the high glass walls. Rows of red chairs stretched in straight lines, as if emphasizing the strict geometry of the space. People were scattered around the room: some stood at the information boards, some wandered lazily, and some sat, intently buried in their smartphones.
The young man glanced slowly at his wristwatch. His movements were precise and almost mechanical, like a man who was used to always knowing the time. Then he walked toward the rows of chairs, chose one, and sat down, placing the leather folder on his lap.
He glanced around, his gaze lingering on each person for only a moment, as if scanning the surroundings. Once he was sure no one was noticing him, the young man straightened up slightly and, reaching into his bosom, pulled out a white radio. The device, which seemed like something from the last century, stood in stark contrast to the modernity around him.
The young man pulled out the antenna and, holding the radio to his ear, began to listen. He looked as if the world around him did not concern him at all. The people sitting in the hall were busy with their own affairs: someone was checking smartphones, from the screens of which bright reflections were shimmering, someone was nervously looking at the board with the train schedule.
Their devices were new, powerful, hundreds of thousands of times better than this old-fashioned radio. But the young man paid no attention to them, completely focused on what was coming from his strange device, namely, a voice, hoarse, as if its owner had not left the smoky room for a long time. The words sounded abrupt, with pauses, as if the informant carefully weighed each phrase. Through the crackling interference, the voice resonated in the young man's ears.
"Information about your mission…" the voice began, after which a short noise was heard, as if someone was leafing through papers. "…is in your folder. It also contains everything necessary for its implementation: addresses, keys and weapons, ammunition."
The boy nodded slowly, running his fingers along the edge of the leather folder on his lap. His gaze lingered for a moment on the empty chair opposite.
"You are to eliminate a certain Jack," the voice continued, the words sounding slightly mocking, as if the speaker considered the task banal. "Mind you, he doesn't know he's in the crosshairs because he has a Belarusian name."
The young man involuntarily tensed up. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he had suddenly begun to suspect someone sitting in the room. He slowly looked around the room: a married couple at the coffee machine, a woman with a tablet by the window, a man lazily examining his reflection in the glass. But none of them aroused obvious suspicion.
"You should also take into account, the voice said again, as if burdened by the need to say the next part, "that his television is broken, and there is a television repairman in the apartment.
The young man squinted, pondering what he heard, but the voice, as if guessing his thoughts, immediately added:
"If necessary, you can eliminate him too, although this master is so stupid that he will hardly be able to stop you. End of communication."
The radio crackled louder, and then the sound suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a ringing silence. The young man lowered the radio, removed the antenna, and carefully tucked the device into his bosom, as if it were something more valuable than just an old gadget.
He ran a hand over his face, glanced briefly at his watch, and looked around the room again. This time his eyes were cool and focused, as if he had already begun to mentally plot his next move.
At this time, the girl in the brown down jacket, despite the heat, carefully adjusted the hood and hugged the white bag tighter to herself. She stood in front of a massive door with a sign "Prosecutor" and, taking a deep breath, knocked, and then, without waiting for an answer, pushed it.
The prosecutor's office was spacious, but at the same time somehow sterilely empty. File cabinets lined the walls, and in the middle of the room, as if straight out of a business glossy, stood Vladimir Eduardovich himself. He was wearing a strict dark jacket, but no shirt, which looked strange and even slightly provocative. His face remained serious, as if he did not notice anything unusual in his appearance.
The girl stopped at the threshold, and her hand automatically reached to her chest. She stared at the prosecutor with wide eyes.
"Oh, hello, Vladimir Eduardovich," she exhaled, as if forgetting why she came here in the first place.
He raised his head, looking at her expectantly, and gestured for her to enter. The girl, looking down, took a few hesitant steps forward. The white bag in her hands swayed slightly from excitement. She swallowed nervously, trying to cope with her confusion, and spoke:
"I came to you about this matter, you see…" her voice wavered, and she hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "Brother killed brother… she finished quietly, but there was a sharp pain in her tone.
She came closer, at one point looking straight at Vladimir Eduardovich. The prosecutor's face remained impenetrable, but the girl was not going to give in. She grabbed the handle of her bag, hugging it tighter to herself, and said passionately:
"Help me figure this out! It's so hard for me without them now!" her voice trembled, but it sounded not only like a request, but also like despair.
Vladimir Eduardovich raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, continuing to listen. The girl took a step forward, leaning a little closer to him, and, almost in a whisper, with a light, barely noticeable smile, added:
She sat up straighter after these words, as if relieved to have said it. The prosecutor looked at her lazily, as if she had distracted him from more important, but not very interesting, thoughts. Boredom was evident in his every movement, as he said lazily:
"Hello, I will help you."
His tone sounded as if this was not help, but a formal duty from which he could not escape. He began to fiddle casually with a button on his jacket, but his gaze suddenly brightened as he added:
"How much did you say you would pay?"
The girl, as if anticipating this question, quickly, almost abruptly, said:
His face broke into a smug grin. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if assessing her words, and then shook his head lazily.
"I don't take much," he grinned, and, unbuttoning his jacket, added with visible pleasure: "All I need is, you understand, we are, hmm, male prosecutors!"
Then he began to rummage through his trouser pockets, looking as if he was looking for something extremely important, but he could not remember what it was.
"I don't accept money, so…" he paused meaningfully, as if he was about to say something else, but instead he suddenly straightened up and added with unexpected energy: "Well, what can I say? I'll help you find your brothers!"
He spun around, hands on hips, but didn't deign to look at the girl. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the cabinet in the corner of the office, as if the whole truth of the matter, or his own thoughts, were hidden there.
Suddenly the girl's face, which had previously expressed confusion and despair, changed. Her eyes began to shine with rage, and her hands, shaking with anger, clutched the white bag, as if trying to maintain the last of her control. She took a sharp step forward, her voice breaking into a scream, full of furious indignation:
"You bastard! I will never sell myself to you!"
The prosecutor instantly straightened up, his face hardening. He glanced quickly at the girl, and for a moment a malicious spark flashed in his eyes. He hissed through his teeth like an animal ready to attack:
"Damned wretch! You're not selling yourself to me! Here, take it!"
With these words, he suddenly stretched his hand forward, and some object flew towards her. It was so fast that the girl did not have time to react. She screamed when something sharp or heavy hit her, and the next moment she fell to the floor, and her bag flew out of her hands, leaving her defenseless.
"What have you done, prosecutor…" she muttered barely audibly, lying on the cold floor.
Her voice was full of despair and her eyes were clouded as she sighed, as if losing strength, and let her head hang limply. In that same second, her body relaxed and she, losing consciousness, fell into unconsciousness, barely touching the floor.
At this time, a young man with a leather folder in his hands calmly descended the escalator from the waiting room. His face remained unperturbed, his gaze confidently glided forward, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The station hummed around him: the dispatcher's announcements were heard, the voices of passengers called out to each other, the clatter of footsteps could be heard in the distance. But he moved as if this noise was somewhere very far away, as if only his own movement existed.
Reaching the exit of the station, he paused for a moment, looking at the lively rhythm of the city street. People hurried along the sidewalks, hurrying about their business, and buses and taxis, like humble guards, lined up at the curb, waiting for new passengers. He quickly looked around, checking the situation, and, having made sure that everything was calm, headed towards the bus stop. Several people had already gathered there: two girls were animatedly discussing something, laughing, and two elderly men were standing nearby, having a leisurely conversation. As the young man approached, everyone involuntarily glanced at him, but he, showing no interest, simply stood next to him.
Soon the bus pulled up, its brakes hissing softly as it approached. As soon as the doors opened, the young man stepped inside, beating the other passengers with lightning-fast precision. As he entered, he glanced around the interior with an attentive gaze, as if considering something, but instead of sitting down, he chose to remain standing, his hand clasped around the handrail in the center of the bus.
As the vehicle began to move, he suddenly grabbed the top handrail and, to everyone's surprise, began to pull himself up energetically, smoothly and rhythmically lifting his body. There was a moment's silence in the cabin, and then the whispers of surprised passengers could be heard. People were watching him furtively, as if deciding to what category of oddity to classify this.
"What are you doing?!" one of the girls standing at the door was indignant. "This is not a gym!"
The elderly man muttered discontentedly:
"The youth have gone completely crazy…"
But the young man continued, ignoring the swearing. His movements were precise and confident, as if he were performing a familiar exercise. The silence in the bus was now broken only by the creaking of the handrails and the indignant whispering of the passengers.
Soon the bus slowed smoothly, the brakes hissing as it stopped, and its doors swung open, letting out the cool morning air. At the bus stop, right in front of the entrance, stood an elderly woman and her granddaughter, a girl of about eight, with dark hair and a light brown dress. The girl held tightly to her grandmother's hand, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity, not taking their eyes off the bus, as if she were seeing it for the first time.
"Delia, stay close and don't move away," the old woman reminded quietly, carefully taking a step toward the door.
But before they could get up, the young man who had been hanging on the railing by the window suddenly jumped up with a spring. Without looking at anyone or showing the slightest attention to the passengers, he stepped towards the exit. As if not noticing those standing in front of the door, he silently stepped down to the ground and confidently walked away.
"What young people these days…" completely without a conscience, the old woman muttered irritably, raising her hand in his direction in displeasure, but she still didn't dare call out to him.
"Grandma, why is this ajussi so strange?" the girl asked curiously, looking up at her seriously.
The old woman sighed heavily and gently pushed her granddaughter closer to the bus. Meanwhile, the young man, as if nothing had happened, was already moving forward. His step was confident, but suddenly he slowed down, glanced around the street as if he was looking for something, and quietly chuckled, as if he was pleased with what he saw. A strange expression was reflected on his face - a mixture of tense concentration and hidden anticipation.
The entrance he was heading for was in the corner of the yard, overgrown with tree foliage. His steps were becoming slower and slower, and his gaze was becoming more intent. It was as if he sensed something that others could not sense. At that moment, he completely detached himself from the outside world, his thoughts were focused on only one thing - the entrance door, which was getting closer with every step he took.
The door slammed loudly in the corridor of the prosecutor's office, and Eduard, the father of that very girl in the brown down jacket, literally burst into the office. He was wearing a black sports jacket with white stripes on the sleeves, and his cap had slipped to the side, apparently due to his abrupt movements. His eyes were flashing lightning, and his steps were so fast that he almost flew inside, waving his arms. His voice cut through the silence like thunder:
The scene that unfolded before his eyes only added fuel to the fire. Standing by the TV stand was a man in a bright red jacket, an orange construction helmet on his head, askew, revealing tousled blond hair. He was diligently swinging a hammer, hammering away at the body of the equipment, scattering shards of plastic around as if a mini-explosion had just occurred.
Eduard froze on the threshold, looking at what was happening in bewilderment. The man in the helmet, hearing his loud cry, froze and raised his head, as if he had only just now noticed the guest. He met Eduard's gaze, and then, as if nothing strange had happened, glanced at his wristwatch.
"Boss, it looks like it's lunchtime already!" he said cheerfully, looking as if hammering on TVs was the most ordinary job of a TV technician.
Without waiting for Edward's reaction, the man nodded, shook the hammer with displeasure, and then threw it on the nearest table with obvious disdain. He dusted off his hands and resolutely headed for the exit.
"Okay, I'm going!" he threw over his shoulder, walking out as calmly as if he had just finished a routine shift.
Eduard froze in the doorway, his face filled with anger, and the veins on his neck bulged as if ready to burst. His lips pressed tightly into a thin line. His gaze fell on the body sprawled face down on the floor. The prosecutor lay motionless, his arms spread out to the sides, resembling an inverted cross. There was something symbolic in this pose, as if he had fallen not only in body but also in spirit. Eduard, staring at the lying man, hissed with such malice that his voice sounded almost inhuman:
"You bastard, you got what you deserved!"
His rage was still simmering, but after a few moments he stepped forward. Leaning over the body, he began to rummage through the pockets of the prosecutor's jacket with quick, almost jerky movements. Finally, his fingers found the passport. Eduard abruptly opened the document, and his face instantly changed. Anger gave way to shock, his eyes widened.
"What?" he breathed out, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.
His gaze clung to the lines of the passport, as if he did not believe what he saw. His hands began to tremble, and the document almost slipped from his fingers.
"Are you my son?" he whispered, not taking his eyes off the paper.
Eduard looked down at the prosecutor, as if expecting an answer, but he remained motionless, cold and silent. That look, that silence seemed to hit Eduard harder than any words. His breathing became ragged, and then his face distorted in pain. He clutched his chest, as if something had burned out his heart.
"What a story… How is it possible - brother kills sister, brother kills brother…" he croaked, his voice almost breaking, and his body began to sink down.
His knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and his strength finally left him. Eduard collapsed next to the prosecutor, as if some invisible force had brought them to their common end. His eyes closed, and his face froze in a grimace of pain and bewilderment.
Now both bodies lay on the floor, silent and motionless. The office was once again plunged into an oppressive silence, thick and viscous, as if not only sounds but history itself, full of tragedy and unsolved mysteries, hung in the air.
At this point, the young man with the leather folder approached the intercom and, frowning, began to quickly dial the code he had memorized. His fingers quickly pressed the buttons until a click was heard, indicating that the door was open. Before entering, he looked around once more, as if checking that no one was watching him.
Inside, the entrance greeted him with a dim light coming from a single bulb flickering under the ceiling. The walls were dirty and peeling, the air was filled with a faint smell of dampness and dust.
The young man closed the door behind him, when suddenly a man came out from the depths of the entrance to meet him. He was wearing a beige jacket with a black stripe, and a construction helmet was on his head. The man walked calmly, unhurriedly, but he and the young man accidentally bumped shoulders.
Both turned around at once, casting careful glances at each other. The man frowned slightly, and the young man narrowed his eyes, as if assessing what kind of person he was. But neither of them said anything, and a second later they went their separate ways.
The young man began to climb the stairs, heading for the fifth floor. His steps sounded hollow, echoing in the empty entryway, while the man in the construction helmet headed for the exit. He opened the door and walked out into the courtyard as if nothing had happened.
Reaching the last flight of stairs, the young man slowed and stopped, taking a deep breath. He crouched down, placing his leather folder on the steps. Opening it, he began to check the contents.
Inside, neatly laid out, was an orange glasses case, a silver pistol, a bunch of keys, and a badge with black writing on a white background: "Key." The young man looked closely at all the items, as if he was weighing something or considering a plan of action.
His fingers curled into fists and he held his breath for a moment. Then, with concentration and confidence, he picked up his badge and pinned it to his chest. It gave him an air of officialdom that seemed to underscore his seriousness.
After that, he opened the orange case and took out the sunglasses. Putting them on, he instantly transformed - now his look was really cool: the glasses emphasized the severity of his facial expression, adding a touch of mystery.
Finally, he picked up the silver pistol. His hand wrapped around the weapon deftly and he quickly pulled the trigger, hearing a short, sharp click. Now he was fully prepared to carry out his mission. The old stairs behind him seemed to be the perfect backdrop for this preparation, and he stood up, ready for further action.
The young man, holding an empty folder in one hand and a pistol and a bunch of keys in the other, confidently approached the door. His steps were quiet, almost noiseless, despite the creaking of the old parquet under his feet. Bringing the key to the lock, he opened the door and went inside.
The hallway was paneled in dark wood, the walls covered in antique lacquered paneling. By the door stood a large mirror in a heavy wooden frame, reflecting a slightly distorted image of the young man. Without thinking, he threw the folder onto the frame of the mirror, freeing his hand, and now held the pistol in both hands, clutching it tightly and confidently.
It was quiet inside, but suddenly a muffled cry came from behind one of the closed doors:
The young man frowned and turned his head in the direction of the sound. Without wasting any time, he raised his pistol sharply and fired straight at the peephole of that door. The wooden covering of the door shattered into pieces around the peephole, and the smell of gunpowder hung in the air.
Then he turned to the other door, the one he needed. His movements became even more determined. Reloading the gun with a quick movement, he deftly turned the key in the lock, and the door opened with a slight creak. Without wasting a second, he burst into the apartment, holding the gun in both hands. His voice, loud and harsh, echoed throughout the room:
"Jack, you've got me! I'm Agent Clue! Quickly!"
His face expressed a mixture of determination and tension, but the next second he seemed to stumble for a moment in his thoughts. Remembering something, the young man grabbed the badge on his chest with one hand, as if adjusting it, and added in an unexpected tone that sounded almost like an excuse:
"Hooray, I'll just take off my boots, check out!"
His voice was loud and harsh, but at the same time there was a sense of haste in his words. He immediately squatted down and, concentrating, began to unlace his shoes. When he finished, standing in his socks, he jumped over the threshold of the apartment with a sharp movement.
Once inside, as if in a theatrical impulse, he spun around his axis, his glasses flashing in the lamplight. His face took on an angry expression, and his hand with the pistol confidently rose. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, and the air was torn apart by the sound of a shot that decided everything.
After a while, heavy, lazy steps were heard in the entryway. A guy in a green cap pulled low over his eyes and a black sports uniform was slowly climbing the stairs. His gait was unsteady, he swayed from foot to foot, as if he was drunk or simply exhausted. His every movement radiated fatigue and indifference to everything happening around him.
The guy reached the right floor and stopped in front of the door. He stood there for a second, as if collecting his thoughts, then lazily reached for the keys. Having unlocked the lock, he pushed the door, which swung open with a slight creak.
The guy walked inside, not suspecting anything, not even bothering to look around the hallway. His thoughts were far away, filled with only one desire - to get to the sofa in the living room and get a good night's sleep.
He yawned, casually throwing the keys onto the nearest surface, and, swaying slightly, headed deeper into the apartment, dreaming only of how he would finally collapse into a cozy corner and forget about everything.
The guy in the green cap lazily stepped into the dark corridor that led to the living room. The floor creaked quietly under his feet, and the light from the half-open door of the room barely illuminated his path. Having reached the entrance to the living room, he stopped and, seeing what was lying on the floor, suddenly froze.
On the floor, unconscious, in his underwear, lay a young man, his body motionless. The guy in the cap squeezed out in horror:
In a panic, he ran to his brother and fell to his knees next to him. With trembling hands, he shook his brother's shoulder, but to no avail. The young man did not move. Then the boy tore his cap off his head and began to desperately slap it across the face of the man lying on the ground.
"Brother!" he screamed, almost hysterically. "Bro-o-o-other!!!"
But all his efforts were in vain. He slowly realized that his brother was dead. The boy's face was distorted with fear and despair, he dropped his cap to the floor and covered his face with his hands.
A moment later, as if he had caught himself in thought, he stood up and walked over to the switched-on computer that stood on the table. The monitor glowed with a dim bluish light, and something was open on the screen, but the guy hadn't yet managed to make out what exactly.
Suddenly the silence of the apartment was broken by the sound of footsteps. Someone came inside. Hearing this sound, the guy turned sharply to the living room door, his eyes widened in fear.
A gangster walked into the apartment with a swagger. He had a hood over his head and a black bandage covering his mouth. He walked barefoot, with obvious indifference to his surroundings. His steps were heavy, and his gaze was cold and mocking.
Slamming the door shut with a bang, the gangster shouted loudly:
The guy in the green cap backed away in fear, tripping over a chair. Panic overwhelmed him, he darted his eyes around the room, as if looking for salvation, but then, as if he had found courage, he tore off his black sports jacket. His torso turned out to be strong, muscular, and, straining his muscles, he cried out in despair:
"What do you want? You killed my brother? Kill me!"
The gangster, coming closer, chuckled mockingly, his eyes narrowed, and his voice sounded mocking and contemptuous:
"You want it? Here, take it, you moron!"
With these words, he pulled a thin rope out of his pocket, deftly threw it around the guy's neck and pulled it tight. The guy tried to break free, but it was too late - the noose had closed with an iron grip. His hands convulsively jerked towards his throat, but his strength was quickly leaving him.
A moment later, the boy collapsed on the floor, his body going limp. The gangster stood over him, grinning softly, and looked at the motionless body for a moment with an expression of complete indifference. He chuckled softly, as if reacting to a sight that did not arouse in him either pity or remorse. His gaze was full of hatred and contempt.
He pulled the hood off his head, took the bandage off his face, throwing it on the floor. His face was revealed - cruel, cold eyes and a grin that did not bode well. He walked past, looking at the rooms of the apartment for the last time, and said with contempt, looking at the bodies:
He went to the exit, but on the threshold, as if remembering something important, he stopped abruptly. Turning around, he waved his arms and, as if pronouncing a sentence, he shouted with fury:
"The fact is, I curse your family!"
With these words he slammed the door loudly, leaving only silence, complete darkness and tension in the apartment. The sound of his footsteps could be heard behind the door, quickly moving away down the corridor.
At this time, silence reigned in the room with yellow wallpaper, broken only by the light crackling of old radiators. On the green sofa lay a guy with short black hair, dressed only in blue shorts. He was sleeping, his head on a white pillow, and seemed to be immersed in some deep, restless sleep.
A strange, calm voice broke through this dream.
"This is a man, he must fulfill a mission, the voice sounded measured, almost monotonous, but inexorable.
The guy, without opening his eyes, grabbed his face in irritation, made a facepalm gesture and grumbled loudly. However, the voice continued, not paying attention to his displeasure:
"This is a mission almost impossible. He must save the elf…"
The word "elf" made the sleeper sigh convulsively. He waved his hand, as if shooing away a persistent fly, and muttered something unintelligible, similar to "leave me alone already", but the voice did not subside:
"…and must open a portal, enter it and kill everyone there."
This phrase finally drove him crazy. The guy made an indignant sound, reminiscent of the offended mooing of an angry cow, then suddenly shook himself and sat up on the couch. His eyes were wide open, but he was staring ahead into space, as if he saw something that no one else could notice.
He sat like that for a few moments, tense and stunned, until the fog of sleep gradually cleared from his mind.
The young man, still sitting on the couch, suddenly felt that his sleepy state was being replaced by something strange, almost unreal. He looked up and froze. Right in front of him, in the middle of the room, stood a long-haired blond man in a black jacket. His hair fell on his shoulders, and his face combined something mystical and familiar at the same time.
"Is this Walter Sullivan? Or Alyosha Karamazov from some postmodern universe?" flashed through the young man's mind. His brain clung to these strange associations, trying to understand what was happening in front of him.
"The shaggy boy," he mentally dubbed this uninvited guest with unexpected cynicism.
The same one, with a majestic look, looking down at the young man, inspired calm but unshakable confidence. The blond's lips moved, and the same voice that the guy had just imagined in his dream rang out:
"I came to you with a mission."
As he spoke, he raised his hand, his movements unhurried, as if ritualistic. Then he pointed directly at the boy, as if he were a priest proclaiming the will of a deity:
"You must save the elf. You must enter the portal. I will give you the key."
The young man felt a wave of tension squeeze his chest. He looked away, as if ashamed, as if he had done something wrong that he did not yet understand. He urgently needed something to calm the feeling of helplessness that had overwhelmed him. He grabbed a pillow, hugged it to himself, as if it were an anti-stress, his only friend at that moment.
The long-haired boy looked at the young man with a slight squint, his gaze reminiscent of a teacher trying to explain to his student how serious the situation was. He stepped a little closer, leaned over and, looking straight into the boy's eyes, said:
2The elf will be grateful to you. Are you ready?"
The guy on the couch looked away, trying not to meet his eyes. He began rocking back and forth, clutching a pillow to his chest as if it was helping him cope with the tension. However, the long-haired boy did not let him get lost in his thoughts. He said loudly, but still calmly:
These words made the boy stop and look up. The long-haired boy was handing him a strange object. It looked like an ordinary wooden comb - nothing special and certainly not like a key.
The young man frowned, but without thinking twice, he grabbed the object and mechanically ran it through his hair. Then he looked at the long-haired man with a silent question, as if to say: "What kind of nonsense is this?"
The blond did not change his majestic expression and said:
"This is the key. You must open the portal with it."
The young man twirled the object in his hands, grinned and said with poorly concealed irritation:
The tone of his voice betrayed how ridiculous he found the whole thing. However, the long-haired boy did not move. He also frowned slightly and, with a visible dose of displeasure, replied:
"This is the only way you can save the elf."
The guy sighed heavily, his eyes closed from fatigue.
"Yes, okay, I'll come down," he said tiredly, waving his hand. Then he fell back onto the sofa, hugging the pillow tightly to himself.
It seemed like all he wanted was to continue sleeping, but the long-haired boy didn't disappear. He remained standing nearby, motionless, like a ghost, keeping his strange mission.
The long-haired boy frowned even more, his face expressing a mixture of indignation and disappointment. He stretched out his hand towards the young man, as if he wanted to pull him out of his sleep, and loudly, with a deep sense of reproach, said:
"You must get up immediately!"
The guy on the couch barely moved, only hugged the pillow tighter, not wanting to react. This drove the long-haired guy crazy. He started waving his arms like an impassioned orator, addressing the entire room.
"Why are you lying down? You have to save the elf!" His voice grew louder, echoing off the walls. "I came to you with a mission!"
The young man slightly opened one eye, but immediately closed it, muttering something unintelligible, clearly in no hurry to perceive the guest's pompous words.
The long-haired man, as if exhausted by his own ardor, lowered his hands. His voice became quieter, but acquired a strange sadness, as if he was talking about the most precious thing in his life, while harshly reproaching the guy.
"If you don't save the elf, he will die. Is that really what you want?"
For a moment, the room was silent. The blond stared at the lying boy, as if hoping to get to his heart. The boy suddenly stood up abruptly. He was still holding the pillow in one hand, as if it were his talisman or a shield from reality. With his other hand, he clutched the wooden comb-key, as if at that moment he finally believed in its power.
Without a word, he walked up to the doorway, his gaze blank but determined. He held out his hand with the key and waved it near the door. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a flash of bright white light illuminated the room. The light was so strong that it momentarily obscured everything around it. When it dissipated, the young man was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone.
The long-haired boy, who had been silently watching all this, did not move until the light disappeared. But then his face instantly changed - a satisfied, almost triumphant smile played on it. He raised his head, as if addressing someone invisible, and with a shade of satisfied superiority said:
"Okay, he entered the portal. I'll go after him!"
With that, he lifted the key gracefully, like an actor finishing a monologue. Then, before repeating the boy's action, he theatrically waved his hands, as if creating a magical aura around himself. Placing the key on the same spot where the boy had passed it earlier, he too disappeared in a similar flash of white light.
The room was empty again, as if none of this had ever happened. Only a slight aftertaste of mystery and strangeness hung in the air.
The boy flew into the brightly lit room as if he had been thrust out of another world. He landed on the floor, first on his knees, then on both feet, looking around with a confused expression. The walls of the room were bright yellow, so that the light seemed to come from them. The floor was parquet, sparkling with impeccable cleanliness. In the center of the room stood a door, and around it were mirrors, reflecting every detail.
Right in front of the young man stood a strange character - an elf. It was a young man in blue shorts, with a white pillow on his head like a crown. Black socks hung from his long, pointed ears, giving him a comical and mysterious look at the same time. Next to him stood a closet with a huge mirror, but the mirror reflected something different from what it should have. Instead of an elf and a young man, there was a long-haired boy - the same one who had given the young man the "key. The boy had an angry face, and in his hands he held a silver video camera, as if he was filming what was happening.
The young man blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. He pointed his finger at the elf and asked, with surprise in his voice:
The elf turned his head lazily, his strange voice coming through as if through a bad audio system:
He casually pointed his finger down at the parquet floor. The young man looked at his pointing gesture, but saw nothing strange there. Instead, he made a sharp wave with both hands, as if he wanted to drive away incomprehensible thoughts, and with fervor in his voice, he blurted out:
"I have a mission to save you!"
The elf, without changing his lazy expression, put his hands on his hips and said with bewilderment, drawing out the words:
"What mission? I'm fine here."
The young man slumped. His shoulders drooped, his face became thoughtful. He scratched his head, sighed hesitantly, and muttered:
At that moment, in the mirror where the long-haired boy was, his reflection turned towards the young man, and the camera seemed to focus on him. This gave the young man a strange feeling, as if he was in some kind of show or recording. But before he could realize what was happening, his body was engulfed in white light.
The next moment he was in his room. The young man landed on the sofa, the same one where he had just slept. His pillow was lying next to him, and he immediately grabbed it, hugging it tightly, as if it were a life preserver after some nightmare.
And at that moment the long-haired boy stood in the doorway, thoughtfully leaning his shoulder against the frame. Opposite him, on the wall, hung a landscape with a view of the mountains and a foggy forest, but he looked past the picture, as if not noticing it. His face showed discontent, bordering on disappointment. He slowly looked around the room, as if hoping to find something that could change the situation.
"Yes, he couldn't complete the mission," he said quietly, his voice sounding tired, almost resigned.
The long-haired boy raised his hand and brought it to his chin, thoughtfully tapping his finger. His gaze became clouded, as if he was looking not at reality, but at something far away, at some picture in his imagination.
"The elf will die," he said, as if voicing an inevitable fact that weighed heavily on his soul.
He looked down, and a barely perceptible tremor appeared in his posture. It was not fear, but disappointment, the weight of an unfulfilled task, as if he were reproaching himself for the failure of someone else's mission.
In the brightly lit room, where the walls glowed with yellow warmth and the parquet floor reflected the light, the elf was left standing alone. His thin figure froze, as if waiting for something, but nothing happened. With a white pillow on his head and black socks hanging awkwardly from his ears, he suddenly froze, his eyes wide.
"A-a-a…" the elf whispered, as if he had suddenly realized something.
His legs trembled and he swayed, dropping sharply to one knee.
"Ouch!" he cried, clutching the pillow on his head with both hands, as if trying to hold it or remove it, but his fingers only squeezed the fabric tighter.
Another second and the elf collapsed to the floor, as if all the strength had left his body. His voice echoed through the room in a loud, drawn-out cry:
He shifted slightly, clutching the pillow to his head, and then went still. There was no tension or life left in his posture. The room sank into a strange silence, where the echo of his last words hung in the air for a long time.
In the room with yellow wallpaper, where a young man had recently been sleeping on the sofa, the door suddenly opened. The creaking of hinges cut through the silence, and another young man appeared in the doorway - in a red T-shirt, with a shiny knife in his hand. His eyes blazed with hatred, his lips twisted into a furious scream.
"What have you done, you bastard?!" he screamed, taking a step forward.
The young man on the sofa started, sat up instantly, and then, noticing the knife, grabbed another knife from the nightstand next to him. Squeezing it so hard that his knuckles turned white, he raised his head and, his eyes flashing, threw back:
"What are you, you scum?!"
But the young man in the red T-shirt, as if in a fit of rage, had already raised his hand with the knife. His movements were fast and furious - the blade flashed in the air. Before he could even understand what had happened, the young man on the sofa collapsed to the floor, as if his life had left his body in an instant.
The young man in the red T-shirt stopped, trembling. He looked at the young man lying in front of him, the knife still clutched tightly in his hand. But then, as if realizing what he had done, he abruptly threw the knife to the floor.
His face was distorted with a mixture of horror and despair, and he clutched his head with both hands. His mouth was slightly open, but there was no sound - only a silent scream. His posture was strangely reminiscent of the figure in the painting "The Scream", and his gaze darted between the door and the lifeless body on the floor.
The young man in the red T-shirt suddenly stopped his mad thrashing and seemed to fall into a stupor. His breathing slowed and his face acquired a strange, almost detached calm. He looked down at the floor and noticed a blue towel thrown down near the sofa.
The rage that had been hidden flared up again. He bent down sharply, grabbed the towel, squeezed it in his hands and, waving it in the air like a banner, shouted loudly:
"The fact is, I curse your family!"
His voice was ringing, filled with cold hatred, as if each word was striking the space with incredible force. Clenching the towel in his fist, the young man resolutely moved towards the exit. His steps were slow but firm, as if he was leaving the battlefield in the image of a triumphant.
Without looking back, he crossed the threshold of the room, leaving the door open, as if on purpose - as a symbol of contempt or the final gesture of an insulted winner. The quiet echo of his footsteps disappeared into the distance, leaving behind only an empty, motionless silence.
At that time, many miles away, in the semi-darkness of a dark room, lit only by the faint blue glow of an old CRT monitor, a man whose appearance seemed to embody the image of a Byronic hero sat at an ancient computer from the early 2000s. His wavy but short black hair with a light fringe emphasized his face, on which the expression of a complex, almost insoluble internal struggle was frozen.
He was wearing a blue jacket that stood out from the general picture, and bright yellow trousers that seemed to challenge the entire surrounding world with their screaming color. But the man didn't seem to notice. All his attention was focused on the computer screen. This old device, with its characteristic hum of coolers, was running the Windows 95 operating system - archaic, but reliable in its imperfections.
Notepad was open on the screen in front of him. A plain white page, and on it were the lines he was typing with almost mechanical concentration. His fingers slid over the keys of the cracked keyboard, making dull clicks. The room was silent, broken only by that sound and the barely perceptible crackle of the monitor.
The light from the screen highlighted every feature of his face. It was the face of a man not experiencing sadness, but something deeper - a subtle balance between suppressed despair and a stubborn drive forward. Sometimes his gaze would freeze, as if he were trying to catch an elusive thought. He would wrinkle his brow, purse his lips, and then type again with a sudden abruptness, as if breaking through invisible resistance.
"Windows 95" on the screen looked like a strange anachronism, but for the man it was everything. He knew this machine like the back of his hand. He created something important on it, although sometimes he himself could not explain what exactly.
Suddenly he froze, as if something had startled him. The thing was that the table lamp standing on his left hand side had started to flicker. Its light was flashing on and off, as if giving some kind of alarm signal. The man noticed this, but at first he only cast an irritated glance in its direction, without stopping typing. But the flickering became more and more chaotic, and soon he turned his head, staring intently at the lamp, as if it was to blame for his troubles.
His fingers paused for a moment, and he poked at the buttons on the base of the lamp, trying to stabilize the light. Click, and the lamp went out. Click, and it flickered again, but weaker. The man pressed the button again, but in response, the lamp flickered even more intensely, as if offended.
Returning to the keyboard, he began typing with ten times the force, as if hoping that the rhythm of the keystrokes would soothe his irritation. The clicks of the keys grew louder, as if measuring the time until some inevitable event.
And then suddenly the monitor screen went dark. The lamp flickered one last time and went out too, leaving the room in complete darkness. The man froze for a second, as if hoping that this was just a glitch that would correct itself. But the light did not return.
"Oh no…" he said, leaning back in his chair. "The lights went out."
He ran his hand over his face, brushing away invisible fatigue, and added with resentment:
"I have to work… What is…"
The darkness around him seemed thick, almost tangible. The soft hum of the computer had died down, and now the silence was complete. Suddenly the room was lit by an eerie yellow glow coming from the doorway. The light was so harsh that the man instinctively closed his eyes, shielding them with his hand. When he opened them again, a tall figure in a long cloak stood before him, her face hidden by a deep hood, and a golden halo bursting from behind her, casting strange, shimmering shadows on the walls.
The figure moved silently toward the center of the room, its steps soundless, but each step seemed to echo in the space. Stopping directly in front of the man, it towered over him like a statue. Then a voice, deep and commanding, rang out, filling the air:
"Your time is up. Come with me."
The man, still sitting at his now-dead computer, slowly turned his head towards the intruder, his face a mixture of surprise and irritation.
"What are you talking about?" he responded, raising his eyebrows. "Where can I go with you?"
The figure did not answer, continuing to silently gaze at him from under the hood. The man, finally leaning back in his chair, extended his hand towards the guest, as if pointing out the obvious, and added with even greater bewilderment:
He waved his hand towards the dark monitor.
"And turn on the light finally!" he said impatiently.
The figure tilted its head slightly, as if confused. The yellow glow behind it suddenly began to tremble like a candle flame, and then a strange sound was heard - either a sigh or the crackling of electric wires. The man, resting his elbows on the table, continued to look at the guest, as if waiting for an answer.
The cloaked figure stood motionless in the center of the room, its yellow glow seeming even brighter in the sudden silence. The man's voice came again, low and even, but now with a hint of inflexibility:
"You can't continue working. You have to come with me."
As if pausing for dramatic effect, he added, emphasizing each word:
The man, still seated at the table, turned sharply towards the stranger. His face darkened with irritation, and he raised his hands, gesturing as if in a desperate attempt to reach the logic of this strange guest.
"You don't understand!" he said indignantly, offended, and there were notes of barely restrained irritation in his voice. "How can I go with you?"
He pointed his finger towards the monitor, which, of course, was turned off, but for the man it seemed completely unimportant.
"I have a pressing matter here! My boss is torturing me!"
He sighed heavily, as if he had just run his entire exhausting week through his mind. Taking off his glasses and wiping them with his palm, the man looked at the stranger with the expression of a man who had already given up, but still wanted to be understood.
"I have to hand it over to him!" he muttered, and then, as if trying to soften the situation, he added with a tired smile, in which a bit of despair could be read: "I just can't!"
Then he exhaled, leaning forward slightly, and stared at the figure, as if waiting for some kind of reaction, perhaps a hint of understanding. The room became so quiet that the man could hear the old wooden floor creaking under the weight of the strange guest. The stranger, still illuminated by the golden glow, listened to the man's stormy tirade in silence, seemingly completely unperturbed. But the next moment, he slowly bowed his head, as if about to share some secret, and said in a low voice:
"You know, in Hell we also have a boss who is too strict."
The man in the blue jacket looked up sharply, surprise mixed with a bit of bewilderment frozen on his face. Meanwhile, the stranger took a step forward, and his voice became noticeably softer, like that of a man who suddenly decides to pour out his soul:
"How he drives me… It's a nightmare!"
The light around the figure dimmed slightly, as if even the glow was tired of the harsh conditions they were talking about. The man sitting at the table automatically leaned back in his chair, still clutching his glasses in his hand. Something like sympathy flashed across his face, but he tried not to show it, probably afraid of being considered a weakling.
"Do you think I wanted to come to you?" the stranger continued, shaking his head. "Nothing of the sort."
The words sounded almost casual, but there was a hint of bitterness in the stranger's voice, as if he really wasn't happy with his lot. The man at the computer raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for the stranger to finish his sentence.
He seemed to really need support, because he paused, sighed, then clicked his tongue and said in an almost pleading tone:
"Eh-oh! Come on, don't torment me, okay? Get ready, let's go!"
He spread his hands, as if trying to add weight to his words. At the same time, the golden glow around him seemed to spread softer, no longer blinding the eyes, but creating a strange illusion of comfort. The man at the computer looked at the stranger for a long time, as if trying to read something on his impassive face. Finally, his gaze softened, and the tension in his shoulders disappeared. He exhaled, pressed his lips into a thin line, then suddenly waved his hand, as if driving away his doubts.
"Come on…" he began conciliatorily, his voice became softer and the notes of hysteria disappeared.
The man paused for a second, as if collecting his thoughts, and then, as if having come to an important decision, continued:
"Bro, if that's the case, then our bosses…"
He made a vague gesture with his hand, as if to say, "To hell with them all." A small, clear smile lit up his face as he leaned forward slightly and added humorously:
"Let's forget about them, relax there, go have a drink?"
He extended his hand towards the stranger, a gesture that said, "I don't hold a grudge against you, do you?" His face now expressed an almost childish openness, like that of a man who had suddenly decided that everything in this world could be solved with a friendly conversation.
The stranger froze, his head raised, looking at the man with an expression that was both surprised and thoughtful. The golden glow behind him became faint, almost extinguished, as if this unexpected turn of events had knocked the dramatic spirit out of him.
The stranger suddenly broke into a wide, almost boyish smile, his yellow glow finally fading, replaced by a warmer, more human appearance. He slapped his thigh, as if summing up:
"You know, you're damn right!" he declared with an enthusiasm that was inappropriate for someone who had just threatened to take a man to the next world.
He raised his head as if he were addressing not only the man at the computer, but the entire universe:
"Hmm, such an offer once in a thousand years!"
There was pure, genuine joy in his voice, as if he had allowed himself to relax a little for the first time. He winked at the owner of the room and, bending slightly, added with a cheeky half-smile:
"Let's go have a smoke, shall we?"
With these words he reached for the clasp of his gloomy black cloak. With a swing he threw it off his shoulders with great effect, as if it were not a symbol of darkness but a stage costume, and casually threw the cloak on the bed standing by the wall.
Under the cloak was a blond man with long hair, wearing another, shorter black robe, from under which peeked out dark jeans and boots. His appearance was unexpectedly ordinary, but at the same time, distinctive, as if he were a rock musician who had wandered into a friendly party.
He walked confidently toward the door, then turned into the kitchen, as if he belonged there. The man, the owner of the apartment, paused for a moment, watching this performance, and then, still smiling, stood up from his old computer and followed, silently, but with the expression of a man who had finally allowed himself to relax.
In the small kitchen, lit by a dim light bulb under the ceiling, there was a green bottle with a yellow label on the table - Cahors, the favorite red fortified wine of the owner of the apartment, who had just sat down on a creaky wooden chair, and his guest - a blond man with long hair, now without a coat - sat opposite, leaning his elbows on the table. The stranger poured the wine with some kind of casual grace, while casting lazy glances at the owner, as if their meeting was ordinary.
Then they took the glasses in their hands, preparing to clink them. But before that, the man suddenly rubbed his face with his palm, and his movements showed fatigue. It seemed that all the enthusiasm of the last few minutes had evaporated somewhere. He looked at his drinking companion over the glass, his gaze became focused and slightly detached:
"So, how are things there… in hell?"
The stranger sighed, as if this question was painfully boring to him, and answered without much enthusiasm:
"The foreman is chasing me like a dog, he's already tired me out."
The man smiled at the corner of his lips, but it was more of a nervous reaction than genuine amusement. The stranger, seeing that the topic had not gone anywhere, changed his tone, as if remembering something important. His voice sounded softer, almost cheerful:
"You know, in honor of our acquaintance…"
The man suddenly perked up. His eyes sparkled with cunning, and a smile flickered at the corners of his lips. He looked at the blond as if he had been preparing himself for something unexpected. The stranger smiled slightly, and a barely noticeable theatricality appeared in his movements:
"Let's not stand on ceremony, come on, set it up!"
The glasses met with a light clink. The man was in no hurry to drink, he clenched his fist, raised it to his lips and cast a glance at his drinking companion, in which it was clear that he would never have thought that drinking as brothers with Death could be so pleasant.
Then they both drained their glasses. The wine burned, spread warmly down the throat, leaving behind an aftertaste of tartness and something almost festive. The man, leaning his elbows on the table, put down his empty glass and looked thoughtfully at his drinking companion. The stranger smiled softly, but with a slight shadow on his face, as if he saw something that could not be said.
"You know," the man suddenly said, leaning his palm on the table, "they say there's truth in wine. What do you think?"
The stranger looked down at the bottle and shook his head slightly, as if he did not agree, but answered willingly:
"Truth? Perhaps. But there is more to wine than truth, my friend…"
He paused, looking at the man as if he could see right through him:
"There is death in wine."
The man wanted to laugh, but he felt something strange. Everything around him seemed to be dissolving: the edges of the table were blurring, and the light from the dim bulb was trembling, as if the air around him was becoming thick. He tried to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat.
His vision became clouded and everything went dark.
When the man woke up, he found himself in his apartment. At first glance, everything was as before: the walls of a peeling corridor, the familiar smell of dust and time, a dimly lit space. But something was wrong. The light was on only in the corridor, and its reflection lazily penetrated into the dark corners. There was a viscous, unfamiliar silence in the air.
He stood in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, looking down. The light from the hallway cast a faint glow on his face, making his reflection in the mirror look dark and blurry. The man lowered his head, looking down at his hands, which were shaking as if from a severe cold. Then he raised his eyes and looked at his reflection. The face in the mirror looked exactly the same, but there was something new in his eyes, a feeling he had not known before.
"Mary…" he whispered, addressing either the mirror or himself. "Can you really be in my home?"
The seconds dragged on, but there was no answer. Only his own reflection, dim and lonely, looked back at him from the mirror. The man stood there for a while, as if trying to hear or feel something. Finally, he sighed heavily, lowered his head, and walked out of the bathroom.
His footsteps echoed in the empty apartment. Everything looked the same, but it felt different. He walked into a room with a turned-off computer-the same one he had just been working on, before… before everything changed.
The man stopped at the threshold and looked around the room. The computer was switched off, the monitor was grimly silent, as if confirming that the connection with his former life had been severed. He stood in silence for a long time until he finally gathered the strength to take a step. One after another, slowly and almost uncertainly, his feet led him to the window. The man's gaze clung to trifles - a crack in the parquet, the frozen shadow of a closet, the barely noticeable trembling of a curtain in a weak draft. This movement, like himself, seemed alien and slow in this house, which recreated reality with frightening accuracy.
He walked up to the window and stopped, leaning both hands on the windowsill. Outside the window, everything looked like it had in his previous life: the lights of car headlights cut through the darkness, moved, reflected on the wet asphalt. People, invisible from his height, continued their business, life went on as if nothing had happened.
But the man knew it was a deception.
It was a Home at the End of the World, a place that recreated reality so skillfully that it might seem to the deceased that he had not died at all. But the man did not succumb to the illusion. He knew the truth.
Looking at the lights of the cars, he swallowed hard and, in a hoarse voice, as if it was painful to speak, said:
"I…" he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. Then he squeezed out: "Lost Mary."
These words sounded like an admission of guilt, and as if justifying himself, he added:
"But I have to find her."
He continued to look ahead, as if trying to make out something in the endless series of lights, and spoke again, this time in a tone as if he were explaining something to someone:
"She said that she would wait for me in this home."
The words hung in the air like an invisible promise. The man lowered his head, his eyes filled with despair. He ran his hand through his hair, and then quietly, barely audibly, as if he was afraid to admit it even to himself, he whispered:
"But she died three years ago…"
And then his shoulders sagged, as if the weight of memory and realization had finally crushed him. He slowly removed his hands from the windowsill, as if they had become too heavy to hold any longer. He slowly turned away from the window, his gaze tired and empty, as if the lights outside had burned away the last remnants of his thoughts.
He scratched his chin, lowered his hand, stood for a moment, as if he did not know what to do next. Then his steps, uncertain, almost shuffling, led him to the bed.
"Where should I look for her…" he muttered quietly, his voice sounding as if it belonged not to an adult man, but to a child who had lost his favorite toy.
Stopping by the bed, he froze, as if in anticipation, but this anticipation was empty, helpless. After a few seconds, he took another step, came closer, and, reluctantly dropping to one knee, looked under the bed.
The darkness beneath her was as empty and endless as his thoughts. No trace. No Mary.
With annoyance, but not surprise, he slowly rose from his knees. His back was slightly bent, and his face expressed only resignation. As if he had not expected to find anything, but still felt a faint hope, which now faded again.
And suddenly he froze. Something, barely perceptible, like the breath of a ghost, made him turn his head toward the pillow.
As if by instinct, he reached out and picked it up. Beneath it was a wad of bills, tied with a thin rubber band. The bills gleamed softly in the dim light, as if they were announcing their importance.
The man froze for a moment, and then suddenly burst into laughter - loudly, almost madly.
"Ha! Stash!" he exhaled, shaking the pack.
A smile blossomed on his face - cheeky, carefree, even triumphant. Everything that had weighed on him before seemed to dissolve in this laughter. He threw the money into the air and caught it deftly.
"Well, screw this Mary!" he added, almost dancing on the spot.
He pocketed the money and turned to the door, where a warm light shone, inviting and promising. His steps grew firmer, his smile grew wider.
"I'll go get drunk!" he said with the ease of a man who has decided to throw off all his burdens.
He stepped over the threshold, and the light gently embraced him like a warm wave, erasing the boundaries between body and space. First his legs disappeared, then his arms - the movement was smooth, as if an invisible brush was carefully erasing him from this world, stroke by stroke, leaving no trace, no shadow. Another moment - and he completely melted, absorbed by the boundless radiance, which continued to flicker quietly but confidently, like the distant pulse of an unknown life.
When the last glimmer of light faded, the room froze, drowning in stillness. Everything seemed to remain the same: the same walls, the same floor, the same bed. But now there was something strange in this space - the silence was thicker, the air heavier, and the room itself seemed to have lost its essence. It was filled with something that could neither be seen nor touched - namely, absolute void.
