Henry does not open his whiskey-drugged eyes after the minute he had closed them, unaware that those sixty seconds would be his last. The Willow pulls the birthday boy underground with strong roots, leaving no trace of him. Henry was right about the connection to the Willow. He just hadn’t expected to meet it earlier than anticipated. Julius Odell gains a new neighbor, who was illegally laid to rest beside him a minute ago. No headstone with a name and dates of life means no identifying document. Try proving now that you existed and had a name.

The Willow carefully drives away the worms and beetles that instantly scent the smell of death. Experience and knowledge of the specific odor are passed down from the first days of evolution. Man does not know how he appeared, but the little gravediggers are certainly created by nature to devour flesh. They absolutely do not care who created and prepared the food for them. They do not think about anything at all. They do not need to. Hunger guides instinct. Essentially, all life is built around the desire to fill one’s belly. If they do not eat now, they will soon become food for their brethren. Then, along with them, their potential future offspring will also perish. Food plays a decisive role.

Henry no longer needs to sustain a body that was absorbing oxygen and alcohol with a cheap chocolate bar just a minute ago. Now he has only one concern. He must open his eyes. How does he do that if a layer of earth presses down from above? He did not foresee such an important moment. He should have died with his eyes open.

Now it is too late to regret an improper death. He does not want to lie for an eternity, staring through dead eyelids. He feels a slap. At first, he does not understand what it was. He guesses, but does not believe it. A second slap follows immediately after the first. Outraged by the third blow, Henry looks at the outright rogue who dares to be so familiar with him.

“Well, how are you? Alive?” a contemporary with a bald spot and a mustache that flows into a beard whispers, smiling playfully.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Henry answers, bewildered, suppressing his indignation.

“You’re talking, so you’re alive!” the bearded man lifts the deceased birthday boy.

“Do we know each other?” Henry asks, trying to get a look at the insolent man who permitted himself to hit him in the face. Three times, no less.

“We’re practically friends already,” the stranger smiles contentedly.

“How so?” the recently deceased is surprised.

“Come on, you really don’t remember!” Henry feels a clap on his back. “We drank a bottle of whiskey together tonight, and you don’t recognize me? Must have really hit your brain,” he scrutinizes his new friend’s lost gaze.

“Julius Odell?” the birthday boy guesses uncertainly, struggling to recall the evening, not believing the reality of what is happening.

“Finally! You remembered!” Julius rejoices. “I only have one favor to ask you,” he whispers with a smile.

“What is it?” Henry asks, rubbing his sleepy and whiskey-dazed eyes.

“I’m not particularly fond of my name. Can you just call me Odell?”

“Of course, no problem,” Henry immediately agrees not to torment his new friend with his own name. He doesn’t like the name Henry much himself. He’s quite sick of it after sixty years. And he can’t change it now.

“Thank you! You’re a true friend!” Odell exclaims happily.

“Can I ask a question?” Henry asks tentatively.

“Ask away!” Julius reacts with interest.

“How did I end up here?” he slowly looks around, not giving in to panic.

“You died!” Odell answers cheerfully. “How else could you end up underground?” the bearded friend is surprised by the question.

“Died?” Henry utters the intensely dark word with difficulty.

“Well, yes,” Julius confirms simply.

“And why did I die?” the birthday boy clarifies all the circumstances, hoping to uncover a mistake in the situation.

“Why, you ask? You made a wish,” Odell explains with a smile.

“What wish?” Henry is surprised.

“Exactly at nineteen hundred hours, fifteen minutes, and zero seconds, you thought that life was over and you blew out the candles on the celebratory cake. So it ended.”

“But I didn’t mean it that way!” Henry exclaims in a panic.

“What difference does it make now?” Julius smiles. “Your wish came true and you can’t take it back.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Henry admits. Over so many years, he has learned to recognize and accept the irreversibility of words, thoughts, and time.

“Don’t worry so much, buddy,” Odell reassures him, patting his shoulder.

“I also have a small favor to ask you. Can you stop clapping me on the shoulder every time you say something?” Henry asks, a little irritated.

“Yes, of course,” Julius takes his hand off Henry’s shoulder. “Sorry, it’s a habit from life,” he smiles timidly.

“It’s nothing, it happens,” Henry calmly adjusts his jacket.

“This is so interesting,” Julius whispers mysteriously.

“What’s interesting to you?” the underground novice looks at him in surprise.

“You died on the day of my death. Just a few years later,” Odell explains cheerfully.

“I’m incredibly happy about that,” Henry says caustically. “Tell me instead, where are we?”

“In the ground, for now,” Julius answers without his former enthusiasm.

“And where should we be?” Henry is surprised that other options exist.

“Wherever we wish,” Julius offers a new smile.

“Then why are you here?” Henry is puzzled.

“Why, you ask? You came to visit me, how could I not stay with you for a bottle of whiskey.”

“What do you mean?” Henry clarifies.

“When people come to the grave of the deceased, the soul comes out to meet them.”

“But we weren’t acquainted.”

“I was surprised when I saw you, too. But I decided to stay to keep you company. Especially since you’re celebrating your birthday. Happy birthday, by the way!”

“Thank you,” the birthday boy smiles tensely.

“You’re not a bad guy,” Odell continues. “It was even interesting to be with you. And you brought good whiskey, but you could have gotten better chocolate,” he shakes his head with dissatisfaction.

“Sorry, I didn’t have any other kind,” Henry throws his hands up.

“It’s not bad, of course, but I prefer milk chocolate,” the bearded companion confesses in a childlike manner.

“Fine, the next time I come here to die at your place, I’ll bring a bar of milk chocolate. Just for you,” Henry sneers.

“I see you’re starting to settle in,” Odell barely restrains himself from clapping Henry on the shoulder. “Your sense of humor is waking up.”

“If I took this unexpected burial on my birthday seriously, I’d go crazy right now. Not even whiskey would help me keep my sanity,” the birthday boy describes his condition.

“That’s true. It didn’t help me,” Julius jokes, rolling his eyes.

“Maybe we should leave now, it’s kind of damp and uncomfortable,” Henry eyes the niche in the ground with suspicion.

“It’s high time to leave the basements of life,” Julius agrees.

“Wait,” Henry says heavily.

“What is it?” Odell turns around.

“Something’s holding me,” he tries to see what exactly.

“Ah, that’s the Willow,” he calmly examines his new friend. “She’s wrapped her roots around your body. She likes you. A strong woman never lets go of a man she likes for no reason, even if the feeling isn’t mutual,” Julius acknowledges with respect.

“Is there any point to that?” Henry is surprised.

“To what?” his new friend doesn’t understand.

“Holding onto someone who doesn’t want to stay?” he clarifies his thought for better understanding.

“Strength often clouds the mind while simultaneously intensifying desires. Then the desires become so strong that they seem to have come true. That’s how a strong person fancies a mutual feeling, and hence the overconfident actions.”

“And what should I do now?” Henry asks for advice, bewildered.

“Throw the sand of reality in her eyes,” Julius answers seriously and sadly.

Odell plunges his hand into the birthday boy’s chest and, with a sharp movement, pulls the living soul out of the dead body. The Willow stirs, creaking horribly. The sixty-year-old guys disappear from her into the depths of the earth, riddled with plant roots, carnivorous insects, and the graves of those who no longer care about anything. Right now, there is not a soul here.

Normal people do not visit cemeteries at night. It is not that Henry is somehow abnormal, it is just that few people would think of going for an evening walk in a cemetery and drinking whiskey with a headstone on their birthday. The tired man simply does not care, just like the local dead. You do not necessarily have to die to become indifferent to everything.

An unfamiliar sound like the cracking of bones interrupts the flow of strange thoughts in my head. Not yet master of these new sensations, I try without haste to focus and find the source of the noise. I look down again. Wolves eat my body with appetite. They found their meal so soon. It is strange to see such an unusual sight. I managed to grow accustomed and attached to my own body. We were inseparable friends from the first day of our lives.

Yes, there were disagreements. Certain things about each other dissatisfied us. Often, we could not reach an agreement. The body was able and willing to work, but a wild laziness gripped the soul. And when the desire to move mountains appeared, the body complained of fatigue. And so, everything was postponed until “later.” When that “later“ comes, no one knows. It seems it never arrived. Happy moments happened in plenty, too. All sorts of things occurred. Alone, we would not have managed. But now, the friend of a lifetime gradually disappears right before my eyes. I never thought I would witness such an unexpected spectacle.

Actually, it is sweet. A she-wolf and three cubs eat an old friend. Looking at them, my soul feels warm. All of me does. For all that remains of me is a weightless soul, forgotten by everyone. It is pleasant that even after death I help animals survive. Yes, fierce predators. But they are not terrifying; they are endearing. With a smile, I watch the clumsy struggle with the first prey in the lives of the fluffy little ones.

The body is dead, but for the soul, everything continues. I feel like a small, inexperienced child. No one taught me anything; no one told me what to do, where to go, what to think about, or what not to think about. And so, my new life begins with a clean slate. The dream of those who grew tired of a depressive, dreary existence in the world of the living—those who found it boring to live an ordinary, bleakly difficult life—has come true. Or perhaps the luxury became stale, and one grew weary of the benefits of society. The constant waste of time on the excessive consumption of food, wine, carnal pleasures, and empty chatter with people who amount to nothing, who try with all their might to create an image of personas adored by everyone. If only they knew what it is actually like to stand at the final point of a past life and the absolute beginning of a new existence without a single notion of the future.

The fear of the unknown takes hold of the consciousness. A steady panic creeps in. It seems that at any moment, something bad will happen. It is unlikely that those who desire a new life think about the impending horror. A true optimist will rejoice at the chance to reset life and head toward distant, shining horizons; a picture of inevitable happiness will settle in their mind. Unfortunately, I realize the depth of the pessimistic reality. And I doubt an optimist would ever end up in such a situation. My past and present are the result of a foul character and an attitude toward life. To be honest, I do not regret it one bit. It seems a slight, devious smile appears on my face.

A gunshot erases the first dead smile. A bullet flies through me, biting into the stiffened body behind which one frightened wolf cub managed to hide. Once again, dead flesh saves a life that has barely begun. The hunter missed. I look closer and understand the reason. A powerful wolf with eyes burning with rage has sunk his teeth into the man’s throat. Thick, ruffled fur reflects the radiance of the night sun. The blood of the heartless killer spreads in a crimson stream, consuming the snowy whiteness. In the shadow of the trees, it looks almost black. Yet another proof of the well-known truth: “Survival of the fittest.” People who disagree with the cruel reality rarely get the life of a winner.

His family makes the wolf invincible. A rare person is capable of loving as deeply as a wild beast who is ready, without a second thought, to give his life. A wolf has no right to death; he lives for the sake of the family. Having ensured their safety, he returns. The fierce, bloodthirsty predator turns into a gentle and caring parent. With his mighty body, he shields the family from the unpredictable reality. Their life continues. And I must understand what to do with a new life in the role of a disembodied spirit.

Looking around, I see only perennial pines and snow reflecting the light of the moon, which resembles a saucer on the black-blue tablecloth of the sky. White with dark patches. As a child, I loved drinking tea. Especially before heading off to that much-hated school early in the morning. Tea time belonged to me. I savored every sip of freshly brewed, sweet black tea with lemon. The whole world would vanish; everything grew quiet, stopped, and lost all significance. I remained alone with my thoughts. One had to call my name at least three times to bring me back to reality from the world of my mind. Having finished the cooled tea, I would reluctantly take up my battered rucksack of coarse leather, which took quite a beating on the way to school and back. I walked toward the light of knowledge. I never quite reached it, though I tried.

The shadows of trees, bowing to the ground under the weight of icy, snow-covered branches, gradually soak into the snowy tablecloth. The hollow cry of an owl brings a chill of dread. Having eaten my old friend, my new friends disappeared into the forest thicket, dragging away the hunter’s body. Alone again. A question repeats in my head: “What is a dead man without a body supposed to do in the forest?” the intrusive thought, combined with the uncertainty, begins to irritate me. All my life, I thought about how to act, where to go, what to do, and what to say to whom for the desired result. How to earn money, what to occupy myself with, and much more. I hoped that after death, similar questions would not haunt me. How deeply I was mistaken.

I have no experience being a ghost at all. And simply standing still won’t do. I must move on. New ideas should come along the way. Right now, there is a noticeable lack of them. Some say everything is predestined—that life suggests the path and throws up opportunities, while we have no choice as such at all. Others claim a person creates their own destiny. To be honest, my reflections always ended without definite conclusions. I retreated from tangled thoughts, finding no answers. I never did choose a life strategy. No strategy, no life; it’s that simple.

I leave the choice to chance. I look for a landmark. In the distance, a towering tree peeks out, twice as tall as the others. Thick smoke rises there, illuminated by a campfire. I head that way. In any case, nothing can happen to me, for as far as I know, one does not die twice in a row. Though, personally, I believe there are exceptions to everything. Even parallelism can be disproven. Just because you don’t know how doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

Finally, time has appeared to enjoy the wonders of the night forest and simply think. I never considered before that spirits leave no tracks in the snow. After “living“ habits, the discovery of the soul-body’s weightlessness comes as a pleasant surprise. I noticed it when I failed to hear the crunch of snow in the frost. Branches pass through my new body the way you run a hand through water. Only now, I am the water.

Deepening into the motionless forest, I distance myself more and more from my worldly past. With the body torn apart by wolves, my past life departs. It pleases me that it is all behind me. I take with me only a few memories. The brightest and warmest ones. My treasure. A wind in the sails, not an anchor like the memories that hindered me in life and would surely hinder me after death. What is the point of treating a wound for a long time, only to plunge an old knife in once it heals to check if it has or not? People simply like pain. I’ve had enough. Perhaps I’ll start living.

Along the way, cheerful scenes from childhood and youth come to mind. I didn’t manage to live much of an adult life. Every summer, my parents sent me to my grandparents, my mother’s parents. A small woods had grown there over the decades since the settlement’s founding. In the middle of the clearing, an abandoned treehouse sat lost. I imagine how happy the children were when it first appeared. And now, the glass is shattered by unkind hands. Maybe the wind did its part. The roof lies unsteadily, preparing to fall. The door barely hangs on a single hinge. The wooden walls have darkened and grown over with moss. It looks more like the dwelling of an old, wicked witch from a fairy tale.

But we saw a real medieval castle. In our kingdom, there were knights, ladies of the heart, tournaments, battles, and hunts. And we washed like real knights. We jumped into the nearby river right in our armor. It was a good thing the armor was made of tree bark and boards rather than scraps of metal. Around the impregnable fortress, we tried to dig a deep defensive moat and fill it with water from the river. We wanted to release crocodiles. We dug a large pit, or so it seemed then. All that remained was to fill it with water and release the green guardians. We carried water in a leaky bucket from the treehouse. No matter how hard we tried, the water soaked into the earth. Our young bodies grew tired by evening from hauling the sieve of water, most of which spilled along the way. It turned into a swamp. Instead of crocodiles, frogs moved in—they are green too, after all, and some people are even afraid of them. Crocodiles of a sort.

Once, a fire-breathing dragon flew to the castle. It swiftly attacked the kingdom from the air, burning everything in its path with its fiery breath. Huge black wings destroyed the castle towers, clipping them in flight. The dragon’s eyes frightened us from the pitch darkness. The sight of the magical beast struck terror into our ladies of the heart. Valiant knights bravely rushed into battle. Brave attacks followed one after another. We stood to the last, ready to give our lives for our beautiful princesses. The fire-breathing enemy caused serious damage as it flew throughout the castle. It destroyed several structures and wounded some of the knights.

After long hours of battle, we managed through our combined efforts. We caught it, bound it, and dealt with it like valiant knights. And it didn’t matter that our dragon was just an ordinary black raven. It had accidentally flown into the treehouse. It scattered the dusty structures made of broken chairs, rags, and other junk. We spent about an hour catching it. We found an old, torn net. On the thousandth attempt, we managed to catch the feathered beast. We didn’t kill the dragon, and putting it in a cage felt cruel. We released it far from the castle.

Some were left with battle wounds after the fight. The black horror, the uninvited guest, left scratches on the faces and hands of the valiant knights. Our bodies were protected by armor, but we hadn’t thought of helmets or guards. The bloody marks became scars over time. All summer long, they gave a fierce look to the brave ones who proudly wore the evidence of their valor and courage. After the intense struggle, we gained respect among our peers. They began to see us not as a bunch of strange children with overactive imaginations, but as brave guys ready to fight any enemy. And the local bullies didn’t risk picking on us.

Youthful memories are entirely different. Most are tied to my three years at the institute. After long semesters of testing the patience of the professors and the dean, I was expelled for poor academic performance. The consequence of a turbulent romance. Julia. A French girl who spoke perfect English. She moved to London with her parents as a child. The girl had to learn a new, unloved language. The whole family relocated when her father’s firm went bankrupt. France could not offer a more favorable option than England. After a few years, Julia’s family felt the charms of a successful business.

It all started in Building J. We attended a course on the history of ancient civilizations. It was of absolutely no interest to me. Julia was the sole reason for my presence at those boring lectures. Two months had passed since the start of the semester, and the girl still hadn’t noticed me. Her first look fell upon me when I succumbed to an irresistible urge to get some good sleep during the monotonous lecture. As soon as I sank into a deep, healthy slumber, my head slipped from my hand. The sound of my forehead hitting the desk rolled through the auditorium like thunder. It seemed they heard it in the neighboring classrooms as well.

Most students reacted to the situation with questioning looks: “What, exactly, is happening?” they were also sleeping sweetly. They woke up from the sharp sound along with me. Some simply looked on with understanding and smiled. Others laughed until they cried. The professor paid no attention. He calmly continued. He had grown used to it over years of teaching. Among all the gazes, I noticed the shining eyes of the girl. I turned red with shame and joy. Julia looked at me.

About five minutes later, a note was placed on my desk: “An original way to attract attention. After the lecture, at the building exit.” I couldn’t believe it. It felt like the pleasant dream was continuing. After all, I had been dreaming of Julia. I pinched myself. I felt a bit disappointed by the pain. Then I felt wildly happy. It was all happening for real. My patience was slowly running out, and the lecture lasted forever.

The long-awaited end of the lecture arrived. Without showing how agitated I was, I headed toward the exit of the auditorium without haste, joining the flow of fellow students. Once outside, I scanned everything around me. I caught several sunbeams. The sun ruled the clear sky alone. The air filled with the scent of blooming cherry trees. The singing of birds and lungs full of spring calmed my anxieties.

“Hi! I’m Julia,” the very same girl suddenly broke the tranquility.

“Aidan,” I replied, feeling a bit lost.

“Decided to be the center of attention?” the girl smirked.

“Did I succeed?” the faint flush on my cheeks returned.

“You can be sure of it!” Julia laughed brightly with a curious laugh. So sincere, so childlike. I wasn’t embarrassed in the least.

“It’s hard to resist a star-studded nature,” I joked, not losing my nerve in front of the girl. I didn’t want to miss the long-awaited moment.

“And you are self-confident and funny,” the laughter gave way to a mysterious smile.

“My artificial confidence hides modesty and shyness so diligently that it borders on overconfidence and a slight madness. And it manifests as strange humor and a bit of sarcasm,” one says the strangest things when nervous.

“Ooh, how complicated everything is,” the girl shakes her head thoughtfully. “Well, time will tell which side of your soul wins.”

I’ll tell you a secret: after three months, shyness won. We spent practically all our free time together. Like everyone else, we went to the cinema, to concerts, to parties. On the day we met, I tried alcohol and “special“ tobacco for the first time. Before that, I had only heard of such things. She changed me. She revealed a long-standing desire to change, to try new things, to know the unknown. I met the girl’s unusual friends, gifted creative personalities. In the creative club, everyone did what they liked. My circle of acquaintances expanded to include artists, architects, poets, musicians, writers, choreographers, dancers, and sculptors. I remember a couple of fans of art forms I had never heard of. I never did memorize the names.

The group often went to the ocean. We sunbathed and swam. At night, we went skinny-dipping. In the evening, we lit a fire and prepared special dishes. Our taste buds celebrated. We were lucky to have a friend who was an artist of culinary arts. The guy took true pleasure in the very process of cooking. And we enjoyed the fruits of his creativity. After eating, we threw on more wood. Smoldering particles of ash left the flames, drifting into the night sky to keep company with billions of stars.

Having drunk quite a bit, we jumped over the fire. Once, I didn’t make the jump. My foot sank into the burning embers. The sensation was not pleasant. Whiskey in large quantities dulls the pain. In such a state, the burns looked as if they were painted on. Amid the music, laughter, and cheerful shouts, I did not feel the pain. Julia and I watched the sunrise at the very edge of the shore. Beyond lay only the mighty ocean, washing bodily wounds and rinsing away those of the soul. The sun rose smoothly in Apollo’s golden chariot, its rays scattering warm light. Apollo is the patron of creative people. That means we are all children of the sun god, bright rays cutting through the darkness of a gray world.

I enjoyed my time with Julia and her friends. We became close. With them, everything teemed with bright colors. It seemed that pleasure could not be washed off the canvas of a new life by a solvent called “Reality.” Time, a freedom-loving nature, and ambition took their toll. Julia is a dominant and strong-willed girl. Psychologically, she proved a bit stronger. Matriarchy in a family is worse than equality. I decided to take a break from the intrusive role of an inadequate man.

I got lucky. The timing of the breakup coincided with a quarantine at the institute. Exactly three weeks. For my rest, I chose a picturesque area. I lived in my grandparents’ house. Unfortunately, it was already without them. The house breathed with my loved ones. It felt as if they were nearby, talking to me, hugging me as before; Grandma bringing golden pies, and Grandpa telling a story from his youth. They stayed in my memory forever. More realistic and more pleasant than actuality.

Just before I left the city, an artist named Eileen found me. She was a mutual friend of mine and Julia’s. we talked a lot and pleasantly. Our childhood stories were so similar that at times it felt as if we had grown up together. Kindred spirits. In a past life, we were clearly close. It’s so interesting—now I doubt other lives altogether.

“I heard you and Julia broke up,” Eileen whispered, catching me near the apartment when I had brought my things out and was closing the door.

“Yes, it’s true,” I admitted, getting lost in my feelings.

“I might be wrong,” the girl spoke hesitantly.

“I like it when others are wrong. Speak boldly,” I encouraged her with a smile.

“I think your breakup is for the best,” Eileen said, overcoming her shyness.

“You are absolutely right about that,” I smiled so she wouldn’t be nervous.

“I hope so. I will miss our conversations and your inner warmth. The depth of your eyes, in which a whole world is hidden,” she added, looking intently into my soul.

“Our world,” I gently stroked the girl’s forearm. “You know, the time spent with you is a precious treasure. I will keep it in my memory forever.”

“And you are forever in my heart,” Eileen handed me a painting, back-side up.

“Me?” I was a bit surprised to see myself on the front side.

“I put all of myself into your portrait,” the girl confessed boldly.

“So it turns out we are together here. Even though only I am depicted,” I smiled with joy.

“Do you like it?” Eileen asked uncertainly, losing her composure.

“I can’t find the words to convey my delight!” I couldn’t move from the emotion. “An unsurpassed masterpiece!”

“Just like you,” the girl added, smiling shyly.

“My dear!” I hugged her tightly and gently. “Thank you so much!”

“Thank you, my dear,” Eileen pressed against me pleasantly and softly, closing her eyes.

We hugged for a long time. I almost missed the bus. Every second was worth the worry. Memories of Eileen are among the most precious in my entire, relatively short life. The next time we saw each other was on a sunny spring day. I was going to a record store for a new album by a famous band. The trees smelled stronger and more pleasant than any imported perfume. I habitually watched the passing people. In the rays of the warm, gentle spring sun, I saw a magical beauty. I fell in love at first sight.

When she passed by, our fingers intertwined perfectly. Our hands were made to always hold together. When I turned so the sun wouldn’t blind me, I recognized Eileen in the beautiful girl. She smiled so sweetly and familiarly. We continued walking in different directions. The girl’s hand smoothly left mine. Then the lovely silhouette disappeared forever, leaving only memories. In joyfully sad feelings, I woke up from the spring sun outside the window, which had woken me with warm rays. The portrait of Eileen, so dear to my heart, still hangs in the house of my beloved grandparents. In the treasury of memories.

At the moment, memories are unlikely to help a lost soul find its way through the night forest. I only hope they keep me from losing my mind. A pleasant memory of life is a welcome distraction from thoughts of death. I suppose I shall continue my journey toward the massive, ancient tree beckoning with its fiery smoke. From a distance, it resembles a tribal elder. All the other trees bow out of respect and green inexperience. There is always someone special among the majority.

The closer I approach, the stranger the sensations become. Branches pierce through my ethereal body. The silence and the total lack of wildlife make me wonder about the reality of the forest’s existence. Am I actually in it, and do I exist at all? All the knowledge gathered during my life is useless now. I rely on unfamiliar senses. A blazing bonfire eclipses the radiance of the moon, seizing supremacy over this mysterious place. Tongues of flame sear the very heavens. The height of the fire’s power is striking in its confident reach toward the starry abyss. The branches on the surrounding trees are scorched, yet they do not burn. It is strange, for the fire envelops their vulnerable flesh.

The blood-yellow flame shifts smoothly into black-blue and back again. The pulsating fire commands my attention so completely that I do not immediately notice the appearance of silhouettes. Out of nowhere, a stately man emerged in a long black cloak with unusual patterns embroidered in red thread. Eight others appeared in similar attire. It looks like a gathering of formidable individuals. Their faces are hidden in the shadows of their hoods. They are all united by the dark tones of their garments, intricate patterns, and canes the color of venous blood, crafted from the finest wood I have ever seen. The hand of a master is instantly visible. No cane is like another. I creep closer, wanting to examine the handles. The leader of the assembly takes his place upon the stump of a massive tree, the elder brother of the living giant.

The participants of the secret meeting extend their canes toward the flame. The leader closes the circle. Everyone bows their heads respectfully. The host of the evening pronounces: “Nostra est.” Translated: “The time is ours.” For the first time, the Latin from my ancient civilizations course proves useful. The gentlemen take their seats in wooden chairs that have risen from beneath the earth. An exquisite throne receives the stately host, towering over the others. The flame shines, reflecting off gold inlaid with precious gems. Every line is so elegant that I want to run my hand along every curve, as if caressing the refined forms of a woman’s body.

Rays from the majestic throne create a web of reflected light with the streams from the handles. The canes greet the assembly. I manage to get a look at some of them. Atop one cane, an inverted, deep-yellow sapphire crescent reflects the flame, creating a sense of danger.

On the second handle, a cobra spreads its hood. Emeralds sparkle in its eyes. A symbol of wise rest within rage. On the third handle is a silver skull, resembling the skull of a small human. A pentagram is etched on the back of the head. I understand what kind of gathering I am seeing. The empty eye sockets lend an effect of macabre mystery to the owner of the cane. I still cannot make out the rest.

The conversation begins calmly, with respectful tones. It sounds like a discussion of the order’s progress in spreading its influence throughout the world. It reminds me of a corporate meeting at a firm where I once interned. Eight important men report to a superior executive on affairs in their respective fields. And, of course, the leader is dissatisfied.

One by one, moving counter-clockwise, each approaches the fire. Bowing his head respectfully, he extends his cane. The head of the order reciprocates. The reports are delivered in broken English with accents of various languages. I can clearly distinguish German, Spanish, Italian, Arabic, and, I think, Chinese, though I am not certain. I suspect other languages hide beneath the English words here as well. Haywood—as everyone calls the head of the order—is outwardly impassive. Only his eyes betray his dissatisfaction with the progress. He seems to be fighting an urge to incinerate the first person he sees with a mere glance.

In this tense atmosphere, an unexpected touch both surprises and frightens me. I slowly turn my head halfway. On my shoulder, I see a hand, as misty as my own shoulder. At first, I am frightened of a ghost. Then I remember that I am a ghost myself. The fear vanishes. I smile, realizing the situation. I turn more boldly. It is pleasant to see a pretty girl with a kind face beside me in such a difficult moment. An urge to hug her arises.

“Why are you here?” the girl whispers, looking truly surprised. She looks around.

“I don’t know myself. I’m just watching,” I admit simply.

“Why?” she is almost indignant.

“What else is a lonely ghost supposed to do in an unfamiliar forest?” I smile ironically.

“Oh, right. I didn’t think of that,” she whispers, smiling sweetly. “So, you’re here of your own accord?”

“Of course. And what about you? Come for the meeting?” I tease her slightly.

“Do you see the gentleman third from the left?” she indicates with her eyes. “The one with the dragon head on his cane. Rubies for the eyes and the flame in its maw.”

“I see him. You’re acquainted?” the joke turned out to be the truth. “And what does the handle signify?”

“Appius is my master,” the lovely girl explains sadly. “The dragon breathes fire upon the master’s enemies. A terrible handle,” she furrows her brow.

“Master?” I cannot hide my surprise. “A ghost has a master?”

“Do you see the man beside him with the cane, the head in the helmet of an ancient, invincible samurai warrior?” she prompts mournfully.

“A ghost can’t have two masters,” I won’t believe it if she says such a thing.

“Terrance, my husband, made a deal with his brother—my master,” she says seriously.

“What deal?” I interrupt, not understanding where this tense explanation is going.

“In exchange for a seat among the eight greats, my husband gave my soul to his brother.”

“How? Why? Is that even possible?” Every turn of the story outrages me.

“Everything is possible here,” the sad girl whispers.

“A soul is free,” I protest the restriction. “It cannot have masters!”

“Think about it. A soul was created. It doesn’t just appear on its own,” she smirks slightly.

“Well, yes,” I agree, waiting for more.

“So, a soul is like a work of art, right?” she follows a logical line of reasoning.

“I suppose,” I agree uncertainly, wanting to know what she means.

“And what do they do with works of art?” she smirks more confidently.

“They give them as gifts, sell them, buy them,” I list, thinking of paintings.

“Exactly! But you forgot one thing. Sometimes they are destroyed,” she reminds me seriously.

“How? A soul is immortal! Can that really happen?” an evening of surprises.

“It can. With a patron like that, anything can happen—especially something bad,” she looks at Appius with distrust.

“What do you mean ‘like that’? Who is the patron of the assembly?” I ask directly.

“What are you, a child? Did you see the inverted pentagram on the skull?” she points with her eyes toward the cane.

“I saw it,” I look at the familiar handle.

“And you haven’t guessed?” she rolls her eyes, surprised by my slow wit.

“I guessed. I just couldn’t believe it was all so serious,” I have to admit.

“You’ll have to believe it. Reality is multifaceted and unpredictable. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be to decide on your future. Before they decide it for you,” she warns me gravely.

“In what sense?” I am wary of this vague prospect.

“You are in total confusion, you don’t know where to go or what to do, right?” she lists the primary feelings I’ve had since the moment of my death.

“Yes, exactly,” I say nothing of the other feelings. “But how do you know?”

“Everyone goes through the confusion,” she replies, remembering.

“Everyone?” I ask, clarifying the number.

“Yes, everyone I’ve met while following my master. There were always deaths. Sometimes we managed to talk. And sometimes Appius destroyed the souls immediately upon meeting them,” she looks heavily at her master.

“Did you go through that too?” I try to be supportive in every way.

“With me, it was different,” she recalls sadly.

“How different? How did you become a ghost?” Interest outweighs sensitivity.

“One evening—if I’m not mistaken, it was a Friday, I don’t remember the date, though it doesn’t matter. Our daughter finished the school year with honors. We decided to have a celebratory dinner. I baked Elaya’s favorite cake. I roasted a goose with apples and lemon. I prepared all sorts of treats. We talked, joked, laughed, had fun. Perhaps too much, but we wanted so much to please our daughter. We bought her a bicycle. Elaya had dreamed of one for a long time. She saw her new two-wheeled friend and immediately started riding around the house. I never saw my daughter so happy. After dinner, I took her to the bedroom, tucked her into bed, straightened the blanket, and read a fairy tale. The girl soon fell asleep. I kissed her sweet little face. I turned off the light and left quietly. My husband poured himself a glass of whiskey, sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace, lit a cigar, and stared at the fire. Exhausted, I kissed him and went to our bedroom on the second floor. I went in, stood by the open window, and enjoyed the magical view. Our house stood in the middle of the forest by a small lake. A huge full moon—like the one now—was reflected on the mirror-like surface. It seemed to lie in the lake before the house. A light, cool breeze smoothly caressed my body. My husband entered the room. He came up behind me, gently hugged me with his left arm, pressed me to him, and whispered with difficulty: ‘I love you’,” the girl loses a couple of misty tears at the final phrase.

“What happened next?” my relentless interest won’t let the memories stop.

“With a sudden movement, he plunged a knife into my heart, hugging me with his right arm over my shoulder,” she recalls, breathless. “His hot tear rolled down my cheek. My husband’s heart was beating so hard in his tense body. Our last embrace,” her smile is full of love and sorrow.

“Terrible,” is all I can say. Words cannot convey the outrage.

“You know, it wasn’t the most terrible death,” she smiles more cheerfully. “I am glad I died in the arms of a beloved and loving person. On a wonderful evening, in a warm and cozy family circle. I saw joy and true childhood happiness in Elaya’s eyes. That is how I remembered my daughter. And my last gaze fell upon a marvelous nocturnal landscape. My husband held my lifeless body tightly for a long time, standing by the window.”

“Tell me, did it hurt?” I inquire about the distant sensations.

“Did it hurt?” she smiles, almost laughing. “Pain was the least of my concerns. I was thinking about how my loved ones would live without me, and I without them,” the girl gazes into the blue flame.

“And did the daughter hear nothing?” I worry for the child, imagining the whole situation.

“Even if I could have screamed, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t want to ruin a wonderful day. And besides, what’s the point of screaming at all if I knew it would be this way?”

“Wait, you knew? And why do you say he loved you if he killed you for a place in the order?” There is more indignation in my questions than a desire to know everything. “How complicated it all is.”

“It only seems that way to you,” the girl smiles. “In reality, it’s simple. Appius had been in the order for nine years and wanted my husband to join them. But Terrance refused flatly. After long, fruitless attempts at persuasion, the brother came to my husband at night while my daughter and I were sleeping. He said: ‘You will be in the order! You have a choice. Either I destroy your family and you remain a nobody, all alone. Or you kill your wife; then, with her blood on your hands, you will become an honored member of the order and receive everything you desire. Then your daughter will remain alive. And I will receive your wife’s soul and your love in return. The choice is yours, brother’. With a vile smile, he patted him on the shoulder, turned, and left. My husband told me everything. We loved each other and valued our relationship. But we loved our daughter most of all in the world. So we decided to save Elaya’s life at the cost of my soul. And no one can take our love away from us,” she declares confidently, as if making the choice all over again.

“Horrible and tragic!” I almost shout, incensed. “Did he keep his word? Is the girl alright?” I worry more with every word of the story.

“Fortunately, yes,” she smiles, rejoicing. “Our little princess lives with my sister. She thinks we both died during a hurricane. It’s better for Elaya to be angry at the elements than to be completely disillusioned with people and hate everyone from childhood.”

“Did Elaya believe the hurricane story?” I am surprised by the girl’s trust.

“On the day of Terrance’s initiation into the order, a massive hurricane struck the area. A lot happened then. And Elaya is unlikely to believe in our death. She’s clever,” she recalls her beloved daughter with pride.

“And what about your house?” I am interested in the fate of a house in such a prime location.

“Terrance sold everything. He put the money into our daughter’s savings account. Elaya will receive a fortune when she comes of age,” she thinks calmly of the girl’s future.

“And how old is Elaya now?” I see how pleasant it is for the girl to remember her daughter.

“Our Elaya is already grown up,” the girl says proudly. “She turned eleven last month.”

“Yes, grown up,” I smile slightly. “Tell me, please, what is happening here?”

“A meeting of the Order of Times. They consider themselves the chosen ones,” she smirks quietly.

“Chosen by whom? For what?” I ask back with a smirk.

“By the Universe, as they see it,” she whispers, looking back at her master.

“And I see you don’t think so?” I notice the girl’s gaze.

“I just doubt the Universe cares about another batch of black souls. They strive to seize a tiny and practically invisible planet that the Universe has surely forgotten long ago,” she looks into the starry sky with a smile.

“Probably,” for a second, I pity Terrance. It’s not easy to be among such people. If they are people. “Why take over the world?”

“Why do people help the poor? They believe they were born to bring good into the world, so they feed the light energy. Just so, the evil ones feed the dark side of the world. The larger the scale of evil, the darker the energy. It’s not about the world takeover or the fed hungry. It’s about the process itself. As long as evil is being done, good must also be done,” she explains calmly and indifferently.

“What do the handles mean?” I cannot take my eyes off the shiny figures.

“The handle is the higher essence of the cane’s owner. A hidden demonic entity,” the tense girl says more seriously.

“Is everyone in the order a demon?” the conclusion suggests itself.

“You could say that,” she replies uncertainly, looking at her husband.

“Why does Terrance have a samurai in an ancient helmet?” I liked him better than the others.

“He went through a war as a true warrior. He always observed the military and human codes of honor. That’s how he remains—loyal to country, family, honor, and the work he does. The general on the cane made a pact with the dark forces. He blackened his soul to protect his army from a shameful death.”

“Doesn’t Terrance realize he’s doing evil?” I admire the man’s coolness and composure within the order.

“He understands perfectly well. For him, it doesn’t matter if a deed is evil or good. If he does it for certain reasons, he does it thoroughly,” she defends her husband’s honor.

“Why doesn’t he stop?” I am interested in his attitude toward higher categories.

“Have you forgotten? We have a daughter growing up who could suffer at the hands of Appius,” the girl reminds me seriously, looking at her master with hatred.

“Why doesn’t Terrance kill his brother?” I ask the question that interests me most.

“Appius is under strong protection,” the girl regrets, wishing her master’s death.

“Under what protection?” I clarify for sure.

“Everyone in the order serves the Lord of Darkness himself. Just more servants, property. And what master wants to lose his property? Everyone has a handler. Openly or veiled. Only a few manage to take control of their lives and dispose of them freely. The members of the order are protected by black magic. Anyone desiring to kill a mage will die a horrific death themselves. The life force will pass to the new owner, and the soul of the slain will become the master’s property,” the girl rejoices even more in her pleasant death.

“I thought such things only happened in fairy tales,” I look at the gathering by the fire with horror.

“Do you think fairy tales come from nowhere?” the girl smiles.

“And where are the other souls subordinate to Appius? Why are you alone?” I look into the forest.

“Appius gets rid of all the souls. Only a few have survived. He keeps them locked away just in case. He destroys good, pure souls on the spot so they cannot ascend to heaven. Sinful ones he sends into hellish eternal slavery. As a reward, he receives power and honor among dark beings.”

“Why didn’t he destroy you or send you to hell?” I am not surprised by the exception.

“I am the guarantee of Terrance’s loyalty,” she looks guiltily at her husband.

“That’s all clear. How do they intend to seize the world?” Pure interest.

“Black magic and the greed of human souls,” she looks maliciously at the whole order.

“What’s the connection?” I need to know if it affects me. It’s all clear and a bit foggy.

“Listen, for a ghost, you ask too many questions! What do you need it for?”

“Right, I am a ghost. And I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m looking for my purpose. If I ended up here, it means destiny has plans for me. If destiny exists, of course.”

“And you doubt it?” the girl is surprised.

“I doubt everything now,” I answer honestly, even though I see her reaction.

“Don’t worry. You’re not the only one. Black magic subordinates the souls of heads of state, politicians, high-ranking officials, heads of intelligence agencies worldwide, and sometimes useful ordinary people. Those whom sorcery doesn’t take are simply bought. And there are quite a few of those. Corrupt souls are darker than magic. Judging by their actions, one gets the impression they have no souls at all,” she smirks, looking at the mage’s report.

“Nine people do these things?” they do not inspire grand respect.

“Nothing human is left in them,” she looks at them like nobodies. “They are powerful, but not omnipotent or omnipresent. Each has many subordinates.”

“From where? Who would want to serve such people? Or are you talking about subordinate souls?”

“Since ancient times, the lord of the underworld has had many followers. And now even more. Everyone is ready to give their life for a dark cause. Especially if it benefits them. And most think it does,” the girl smirks.

“And can they subordinate pure souls?” I worry for my questionable soul.

“Completely pure souls practically do not exist,” a pleasant answer. “A black drop in a white ocean can be turned into a black swamp. So, they can subordinate almost any soul they want.”

“What does a person feel when their soul is subordinated?” I prepare for trouble.

“The body feels nothing. Soul-suffering begins,” she sympathizes with everyone.

“Why suffering?” I am openly surprised. “Subordination isn’t hell.”

“A soul’s life in captivity is worse than hell,” the girl says with pain in her voice. “Every day the suffering intensifies. Then comes a moment when the soul is exhausted and goes out, having lost hope of finding freedom and peace again.”

“And can a captive soul be saved?” I think about options for the girl’s future.

“Only by killing the master. You remember the consequences,” she hints at the hopelessness.

“Yes, it turns out to be a vicious circle. There must be a way,” I think, reaching a dead end. “Any vicious circle can be broken.”

“You have plenty of time now to find a way,” the girl smirks.

I seriously ponder what I’ve heard while observing the situation. One by one, the reports to Haywood sound out. Buds on the trees release leaves despite the cold winter. Flowers grow from the snow. Only the leaves and flowers are black with a bloody tint. During the reports, slightly blurred images of events appear in the flame. The members of the order only convey the content. They dare not draw conclusions. It is the exclusive right of the head of the order.

The owner of the handle shaped like a spider with eight ruby eyes takes the floor. Glowing red-hot spiders crawl out of the bonfire. When they reach the snow, they cool and turn into black stones. He is replaced by the gentleman with the dragon head on his cane. A huge fire-breathing dragon with an unprecedented wingspan and a long comet-like tail flies out of the fire. It circles over the gathering, breathing flames while the master reports. The gentleman falls silent, and the dragon releases a fiery whirlwind, vanishing into the burning ruby eyes of the handle. This sort of thing does not happen every time.

“Why don’t all the stories come with fiery entities?” I voice my observation.

“Entities appear only with the strongest mages,” she says seriously.

“Aren’t the mages equal? At least eight of the nine,” I am surprised, looking at the assembly. “They all look ghastly.”

“Of course not!” the girl smirks. “There are always strong and weak ones everywhere. Such is life.”

“On what does a sorcerer’s power depend?” the questions grow more complex.

“The more ancient, larger, and more powerful the family tree, the stronger the descendants.”

“What’s the point of wasting power on trifles like fiery images?” though I have to admit, they look impressive.

“Images are a small, spontaneous manifestation of power. The essence of magical power is free. The mage simply has an illusion of ownership. Power belongs to someone as long as it sees fit.”

“If that’s so, many would have lost their powers long ago,” unbelievable news.

“Why do you think so?” she looks suspiciously.

“The powers are used on the side of evil,” I offer the main argument. “The power must understand what is happening and what it’s being used for.”

“Power is pure energy. It can be positively charged or have a negative charge. It depends on the temporary owner,” how everything is getting complicated.

“How does the energy leave a temporary owner it no longer wants to serve?” I move to the next question, not understanding the previous answer.

“Magical power is a part of the Universe. When the moment comes for the connection to break, the Universe receives an energy impulse and creates suitable conditions.”

“What conditions? For what? How does it all happen?” I begin to realize how many questions I am asking. It becomes awkward.

“Everything is interconnected. The Universe builds a chain of events that leads to the desired result and the power is free,” she answers with a smile.

“What could be the final link in such a chain?”

“The death of the owner or the renunciation of power.”

“Do they renounce power?” I look at the proud members of the order with a smirk.

“Voluntarily or by force. The Universe has a vivid imagination.”

“I already figured that out,” it gets a bit creepy, knowing how the Universe acts.

“I am being summoned,” the girl is disappointed, realizing it’s time to go.

“Who is summoning?” I try to hold the captive soul with my gaze.

“My master,” she whispers sadly, leaving.

“What is your name?!” I ask after her. I never did find out in all this time.

I hear no answer. My companion has vanished. The participants of the night meeting rise. They raise their handles and bow. Haywood raises his cane. I managed to examine the handle. In a demonic hand with sharp claws and protruding veins lies a globe, exactly matching the outlines of the planet. Through the continental and island openings, a black diamond is visible within. The dark core of the world.

Haywood fully extends the cane. The rays of the bonfire penetrate the planet, refract, and burst out, illuminating everything around with a somber light. One by one, the black mages disappear, leaving only dark images of magical entities. When the eight gentlemen have left the gathering, the head of the order himself disappears. Everything vanishes without a trace: chairs, flowers, leaves, and even the massive bonfire. A heavy snowfall begins. The snow hides all traces of the night meeting. Silence reigns in the forest of the full moon night.

Alone again. Only a few minutes ago, I was talking to a friend. Circumstances do not like it when all is well. They took the girl away. I wonder why it always happens this way. What is it that prevents us from spending time with those we desire? Desires drive us, and circumstances direct us. A person can have everything they want. Often, one desire erases a second. If a third does not appear, free from the rest, everything remains as before. Dreams are forgotten. Sometimes the desires of one interfere with the desires of another. It is hard to give up on a cherished dream. And when it comes to realizing the dream of a loved one, you forget about yourself for a time. Some never remember themselves again after that.

Loneliness fills the restless soul. Around me, there is not a hint of life. I begin to doubt whether I actually saw it all. I peer into the darkness of somber thoughts. I am almost poisoned by toxic injections. The hoot of an owl echoes hollowly in my consciousness. I return to a questionable reality. I look around, getting used to the terrain. Old trees are strewn with snow. Tracks of animals that ran past earlier remain. The snowdrifts resemble the figures of sleeping forest dwellers.

I do not know where to go or what to do. Simply put, there is nowhere I need to be. I owe nothing to anyone, and no one owes anything to me. Only now do I realize that I am not lonely, but rather left to my own devices. Perhaps this is my long-awaited and hard-won freedom. And freedom is meant to be enjoyed. I have nothing. Но that does not mean I cannot enjoy everything.

I listen to the whisper of water from afar. I have loved water since childhood. The best times in my life were always accompanied by seas, oceans, rivers, and lakes. And now, I am drawn to that nimble gurgling. I go toward the sound. With every step, the water grows louder. I did not expect to see a waterfall in the forest. The torrent throws itself headlong from the cliff. It is as if a dreamer tried to learn to fly. The attempt failed. Now it is condemned to fall endlessly in waves from the precipice.

I always wanted to learn to fly. And I never tried to take flight. I did not believe in such a possibility. I wonder, can I allow myself that now? Doubts habitually fill my mind. I take a few steps back, get a little bit of a running start, and push off from the rock. And a moment later, I glide weightlessly through the vast expanses of the sky. Yes! It worked! I scream with joy. I have nothing to be ashamed of. The sensations cannot be conveyed with simple words. Such a thing must be felt.

It is like death. First, a confused fear of the unknown. And then, in a single instant, an extraordinary lightness and freedom. Omnipotence without limits. My worries remained back on the cliff. Just as after death, the pain remained in the body. The boundless expanses enchant with their extraordinary beauty. Nature is the best artist in the world. No combination of colors and talent will ever surpass this primary masterpiece. Life is in everything: in every needle, every snowflake, in the miniature heart of a small bird, in the mighty trunk of a hundred-year-old oak. The pinnacle of beauty is everywhere.

Winter creates an appearance of soullessness and death. But life continues. It waits patiently for its time, striving to fill everything to the brim, to penetrate every corner, to be reborn. Life is eternal, while creations are fleeting. At a certain moment, it leaves the past and brings the future to life. It teaches the world anew to feel all the charms and sorrows.

Flight is calming. Not a single thought dares to spoil the free enjoyment. The waterfall drops into the ocean like watery stones. The curved and jagged coastline of cliffs holds back the expanses of the almighty element, preventing it from seizing the remaining scraps of land on the planet. I always loved the ocean. Even after death, the majesty of the sky on earth with its fickle character fascinates me. It costs the ocean nothing to swallow a huge ship, covering it with a deadly rogue wave. And yet, it might leave a single person alive. The elements favor some, generously granting a second chance.

I notice a shadow on the water. I look up. An eagle flies there with interest. I rise. Its wings shimmer under the rays of the morning sun. Its gaze is directed simultaneously at a goal and at nothing. It looks for food for its offspring. I realize this as I notice a nest nearby atop a cliff. Four chicks, predators in the making, await the return of the provider. The lives of the offspring depend on the hunt. The bird has no right to return without prey.

Having found a victim, it dives, releasing sharp talons. It snatches a defenseless little bird. And yet, that bird, perhaps, was also seeking food for its own doomed chicks. There is nothing to be done; it is the survival of the fittest. The rays gradually touch the vastness. Even the icy cliffs cannot hold back the advance of the light. Everything is transformed, glowing with the frosty-fresh morning air. The snow on the trees shimmers like precious gems, sometimes creating a rainbow.

Having flown over the sites of my night walk, I feel a strong desire to visit unexplored horizons. Invisible wings carry me toward the flat line of the horizon. Flying over the ocean, I look down as if into an aquarium. In the clear water above dark stones, the outlines of large fish swim by. Scales glint, reflecting the sun’s rays. The shine attracts birds. Unable to manage such heavy prey, they are forced to look for smaller glints.

From the shore, you see a flat surface. Occasionally, a frolicking dolphin might leap out. But from above, you realize how rich and diverse the underwater world is. It is the same with people. When we look at a stranger from the side, we see a flat model of a soul. Rarely, a lonely emotion leaps out like a dolphin, leaving its enclosed element. But when you get to know a person, an inner world hidden from strangers opens up.

Not everyone will discern the depth of an open world. It is a huge risk. You may be uneducated, unattractive, or withdrawn, yet in your soul lies an immense universe, shining with a rich variety, closed off to all. It is so beautiful, in contrast to the surrounding reality, that you want to stay there forever. When you begin to enjoy your own world, euphoria consumes you. It seems your world is ideal for everyone. A desire to share it appears. When you find someone with whom you want to share joy, pleasure, and happiness, the doors shielding the secret world from others swing open.

Unfortunately, it is extremely rare for a long-awaited guest to become a part of your world. Far more often, failing to appreciate the beauty and uniqueness of what is sacred, they trample the beautiful flowers of sincerity, chop down the trees of trust, and litter the crystal-clear lakes of love with the refuse of base actions. The creator of the cozy place is left only to watch as the precious world is destroyed. When everything is ruined, the guest leaves, leaving only an abyss of sadness and disappointment. Therefore, people withdraw into themselves, letting no one into their world. The more they opened up and endured, the tighter they close.

But if you are lucky enough to find the right person, the inner world comes to life and is enriched by the spiritual gifts of a found kindred soul. Your sacred world becomes a heaven on earth. Such a thing rarely happens. The main thing is not to despair, but to keep searching. Not everyone makes it into the heavenly paradise, either.

I fly toward the rising sun. I have every chance of repeating the experience of Icarus. Death stopped that boy. I have no limits. And I do not intend to stop. I accelerate. At speed, everything merges into a single blue-and-white canvas, without clear images. I seem to have broken the speed of sound. The joy of flight overwhelms me. A massive impact! At great speed, I slam into an invisible barrier. A discharge throws me back a great distance. Somersaulting, I fly back thirty meters.

I do not dare to repeat the unpleasant experience. I cautiously fly up to the point of contact. I extend my hand. I feel out the invisible barrier. Under my fingers, discharges similar to lightning run to and fro. I realize the most unpleasant thing of all. Even after death, there are limits. My mood drops sharply. It turns out that if a soul does not leave the world at the right moment, it is tied to the place of death. The illusion of freedom hurts more than the restrictions themselves. When the whole world closes off, the available expanses seem tiny and insignificant. My thoughts turn toward achieving the unachievable. I must think of a way to break out of this invisible cage. I smile, suddenly remembering. Мой parrot flew away on the way home from the pet store. Lucky for him, he didn’t suffer. Right now, my conscience would have tormented me to death. What a brave act for a freedom-loving parrot. Of course, the door had to be opened; he couldn’t manage it himself.