A din in my head. Like scattered thoughts during a phone call. You try to keep within the frame of the conversation, but you keep forgetting what you want to say. While you try to remember, you forget what the other person said. You stop listening entirely. After the call, you feel confused. All that remains is muddle and an unpleasant feeling.

I have the same feeling after sleep. I try to pull myself together. It isn’t working yet. White noise is in my mind. It sounds like static. I can’t think straight. I lie there as if in zero gravity, not knowing what day or date it is. I can’t remember what happened yesterday or what I planned to do today. Instead of thoughts, there is fog. My state is the same, foggy and vague. I search for the slightest glimmer of common sense. I hear a faint voice. It seems I’m coming to my senses.

“I’ve been waiting for you! Waiting a long time,” the unfamiliar voice rejoices in my mind.

“Waiting?” I’m surprised, secretly worrying about my sanity.

“Of course, I’ve been waiting,” the stranger confirms with a hint of mockery. “Waiting since the day you were born. And now, finally, I’ve waited. You’re here and now.”

“And what were you waiting for?” I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would wait for someone their entire life.

“Look at your palms,” the voice suggests mysteriously.

“What’s wrong with my palms?” I look without much interest. I don’t notice anything unusual.

“Do you see the multitude of lines? Straight ones, crooked ones, long and short ones. They run parallel and intersect, stretch into the distance and disappear imperceptibly. All different.”

“So what? Simple lines,” over the years of my life, my palms have become so familiar that now I look at them, but I think about something else. “Why did you start talking about my hands?”

“Hidden in them is a detailed map of life, past and present.”

“Who needed to draw maps of fate on hands?”

“No one surely knows the skillful master who creates the maps of human destinies. Life simultaneously and continuously moves along each drawn line, as if an untamed, sparking flame runs along a thin, pre-measured segment of a fuse.”

“Why are you talking about some fuse? Why are you even talking to me?” I can’t seem to stop the strange conversation with the voice in my head. I have to continue the dialogue to find a way out of this strange conversation. Or a monologue. I don’t even know which is worse.

“The time has come to accept one truth,” the voice switches to a serious tone.

“The Earth isn’t flat?” the spontaneous, silly joke doesn’t cause much joy in the interlocutor.

“You must understand,” he insists. “The past, like a fuse, burns away irrevocably. Only a deep, scorched trail remains on your palm.”

“And what can I do about that?”

“Don’t look back; don’t waste precious time. You might not have time to look ahead. The short cord stubbornly burns and shrinks. Soon, the second part of the map, like the first, will forever remain in the past.”

“The second part?” the conversation with the unfamiliar voice gets more complicated with every word.

“Your past is written on your left hand, and your future is on your right.”

“The fire moves to the second hand, so what? The second half burns every day.”

“It’s simple. The fuse burns out, and life ends with an explosion.”

“An explosion? What kind of explosion?” this sounds more like a threat than a friendly chat.

“No, not an ordinary ball of smoke and flame, as you thought. And not as big as the creation of the universe. No one will even notice when your life ends.”

“Human life hasn’t been valued for a long time,” I voice an unpleasant thought I’ve avoided for many years.

“Correct. People have stopped valuing their own lives and the lives of others. And your world will inevitably burn up, falling to the ground as formless and meaningless dust.”

“And then what?” it gets eerie imagining such a bleak future.

“You will stand and watch, powerless to change anything. The segment of the fuse will burn down, and the allotted time will end with it. The map of your destiny will be sent to the archives.”

“If it all ends like that, why worry at all?” a slight feeling of hopelessness appears.

“Go to the open window and close your eyes,” he says calmly and quietly.

“Why?” I want to prepare myself mentally for the surprises the voice in my head has in store for me. I can’t expect anything good.

“Don’t be afraid. Trust me, just go, open the window, and close your eyes.”

“Fine,” I go to the windowsill and do what’s asked.

“Raise your head. Open your eyes. Look around. What do you see?”

“As always, angular, cold houses with lots of identical windows.”

“Yes, you see that every day. But somewhere, endless fields are blooming, strewn with wildflowers or a rich harvest. Thick forests hum with living creatures. Deep, quiet lakes full of graceful fish sparkling in the sun. Animals, so different on the outside, are similar within. Liberty-loving birds sing and fly.”

“And people. Thousands of people all around,” I add, remembering the reason I don’t leave the house.

“Don’t think about them now. But do you see the blue sky?” the voice continues. “It’s always up there, no matter what. Like the fateful lines on your palms.”

“What are you getting at this time?” the voice speaks smoothly and casually in riddles that are quite unsettling.

“Only a miniature map of life is in our hands. Life itself surrounds the living on all sides.”

“How banal the word ‘life’ sounds,” I only think about it now.

“People haven’t come up with another all-encompassing name yet,” he replies with a smile in his voice. “All that’s left is to silently be content with what we have. A short life, flammable like a fuse.”

“Be content,” I repeat thoughtfully. “How well chosen the word is.”

“Don’t you want to be content?” he clarifies mysteriously.

“Why do you ask?” that tone now makes me wary.

“Are you ready to live?” the risky enthusiasm is contagious.

“Live?” I ask again with suspicion.

“Yes. Right now! I see it in your eyes, you’re ready.”

“You see my eyes?” how can an inner voice see eyes?

“Don’t get distracted by trifles! Take what you need and set off!”

“Okay,” I grab my travel bag and pack my things.

“Why are you taking that junk?” he loudly protests.

“Why? You said to take what I need,” he doesn’t even know what he’s demanding.

“I didn’t say to take useless things, especially not for you.”

“Then what do I take? This is all I have,” I look with sad realization at two pairs of jeans, a sweater, and a few T-shirts.

“Take yourself, and your experience. You won’t need anything else,” I am being prepared for the journey by a carefree person who lives one day at a time with no concept of real life.

“I don’t really have any experience,” I feel poor in every sense of the word.

“Then you will!” he cries out excitedly. “Take a suitable vessel for it.”

“What kind of vessel?” that’s completely strange.

“Take yourself. Don’t make me repeat myself,” and he was right, he did say that. “There is no better vessel for experience than the mind that will then use it.”

“Okay. I’ve taken it,” I pull up my pants and adjust my T-shirt.

“Did you take only what’s necessary?” he makes sure the instructions are followed precisely.

“Yes. I’ve only taken myself,” I confirm the task is done. “I don’t have anything else I need.”

“Ready to go?” the invisible intonation is increasingly cheerful.

“Ready,” but I feel doubts.

“Open the door!” he commands, as if he himself is bursting to get out.

“Opening it,” I turn the lock and open the heavy door.

“Hurry up! Come on! What are you waiting for?” he urges with a forceful tone.

“I’m a little scared,” I confess honestly.

“You’re telling me about fear?!” he objects, ruling out the possibility of such a thing. “That’s not what you should be afraid of!”

“Then what?” what could be scarier than the unknown?

“Be afraid of becoming a stone at the bottom of a river,” more riddles. It’s starting to annoy me.

“In what sense?” it’s better to clarify everything right away so there are no surprises later.

“Life flows and it all passes by. The water of events takes even the greatest stone’s unwavering essence, turning it into a powerless grain of sand, forever sweeping it away into meaningless oblivion. With time, it dissolves it into the unknown. Trace-less and irreversible. There’s nothing worse than disappearing without ever living a real life.”

“I understand you,” the terrifying hopelessness noticeably increases. I don’t want to leave the apartment as much as I want to escape the despair.

“Excellent! Go now!” the invisible interlocutor urges even more persistently.

“I’m going,” I step out, looking back at the belongings left in the apartment, saying goodbye forever to every item.

“You’re on your own now,” the voice in my head grows quieter.

“On my own? What about you?” how incredibly cheeky. He drives me out of my cozy home into the unknown, but he’s not coming himself.

“And what about me?” the voice asks playfully. “I am you.”

“But we’re talking to each other,” I offer a questionable argument.

“It’s better not to tell anyone about that,” the interlocutor disappears with a fading echo in my dark thoughts.

“It’s all clear with me,” it seems I am finally and irrevocably losing my mind.

A step. Another one. Am I actually leaving the threshold of this apartment that’s become so utterly tiresome over the years? An uncertain start, but it’s begun. I should close the door. It feels like I’m never coming back. And I don’t want to. It’s long past time to leave this pile of life’s junk behind. I lock up, just in case. No one needs to know anything about me. I can’t let my apartment-prison become a trap for other unfortunates. Better for everything to vanish in an inhuman silence than to ruin even one more life.

“Who are you?” a woman from the apartment across the hall asks me. “A new tenant?” her expression tries to convey ownership of the entire building, implying I’m now indebted to her for life for the right to reside here.

“I’ve lived here longer than you have,” I reply irritably, unable to tolerate such arrogance. I close the door.

“You weren’t here before,” she says, softening her tone, realizing she isn’t exerting the necessary authoritative pressure on me.

“Or you didn’t see me,” I counter with the same artificially-induced sharpness.

“No one saw you. We thought the apartment was empty.”

“I hope you understand that’s not my problem,” I reply, growing less patient.

“Hey, why are you pestering the guy?” a man emerges behind his wife.

“Pestering? What do you mean pestering? I have a right to know who’s living in my building!” so, I guessed her proprietary tone correctly. Only, it brings no joy.

“Can’t you see the guy lives here? And you’re attacking him the first time you meet. Let’s go inside, or you’ll catch a chill again,” he steers his wife back into their apartment.

“But I have to!” the woman fruitlessly resists her husband’s firm push.

“All the best, young man,” the man says, bidding a good-natured farewell.

“You have a good day too,” I wish him wholeheartedly, grateful for the salvage of the remnants of my good mood.

The woman is right about some things, but why be so pushy and interfere in a neighbor’s life? It’s not like I’m barging into her home to count the cups in her coffee set. My mood has still soured considerably. Not that I had one to begin with—who am I trying to fool? It’s just gotten worse.

I haven’t seen the elevator in ages. It’s only two and a half meters from my door. I hadn’t even looked through the peephole. The cold aluminum button isn’t burned, like the ones throughout the stairwell, but it is dented. With a hammer, I guess. Instead of hammering a nail at home, they ruin public property. When it comes to causing harm, laziness vanishes; not a second, but a third wind awakens. Vandalism brings forth questionable talents. Words of the worst kind decorate the sliding doors of the stairwell workhorse. This “special“ creativity is intended for “true connoisseurs of free art.” I am definitely not one of them.

I don’t want to press the button. I know I have to. I push it, almost closing my eyes from reluctance. Silence. The lift room is quiet. The motor has been put to sleep by the local residents. I’ll have to walk. I pressed it for nothing. I overcame my reluctance for nothing. I approach the stairs. I remember from childhood—nine steps. I don’t need to count them now. And I don’t want to. I definitely won’t grab the railing. Better to fall than have to scrub my hands clean afterward. A step, another one. I could go faster. Legs, no! And falling hurts. Time strips away the ease of jumping steps, but it will never take away the desire to jump. My foot’s turned, I have a scrape on my hand. Good thing my head is intact. Though, what good is my head? I was an idiot, and I’m still an idiot. Little changes, even after skirting the edge between life and death.

I limp toward the building exit, fighting the urge to go back home. The only upside of being on the third floor. The intercom hasn’t worked for a long time. I know that for sure. The front door is right beneath my windows. I haven’t heard the irritating sharp sounds of the buttons and the door opening for ages. People. Dreadful. Everything makes me jump. There are far more of them outside than I’d like. It’s now or never. The dramatic phrase is motivating. I push the heavy black sheet of metal with the crooked handle. The horrible screech is deafening. I can still hear it. I heard it every day, sitting at home. I oiled it once, but it only helped for a short time. I had to tightly close the windows to muffle it. At night, I’d open them to air out the apartment, heated during the day.

I thought the bright sunlight would blind me, as they show in most films about escaping from a dungeon. The thick branches of the trees, leaning toward the entrance, don’t let a single ray through. The sweet scent of blooming perennial acacia makes the cool summer shade even more pleasant. Lilac bushes cover those narrow benches with wide leaves, the ones where we used to play cards as kids when I first came to this courtyard. I remember a girl from the next building used to bring a deck out in the evenings, until her parents found out. Everyone got in trouble then. Fair enough.

Dry bread crusts are scattered near the entrance. Naive pigeons dart back and forth, searching for the treats left by kind old ladies. I almost step on one. Sparrows nimbly hop among the puffed-up birds, waiting for the right moment to snatch up the precious crumbs they find. Eternal feathered rivals. I always take the side of the small, weak, and defenseless. But sparrows are so brazen, I’d better ignore them. I remain neutral. I walk past.

A black cat and a tortoiseshell cat attack the flock of pigeons. A sharp, simultaneous leap. Gray wings, beaks, paws, chaos. And I get hit in the face by a wing. The tailed hunters together catch a plump, lingering pigeon. They clearly agreed on this beforehand. It’s nice to have someone to agree with.

I walk past, disturbing no one. Nature has its own plans for every living creature. The curb is freshly whitewashed. I realize it too late. Someone made an effort to tidy up the yard. I feel guilty. I regret what happened. Nothing can be done. “My apologies,” I murmur into the void. It’s not so much to the workers as to my uneasy conscience. I’m ashamed. I really don’t want to see people. I wish I could keep my eyes closed. I’m lucky. The only people are children playing in an empty sandbox. Watching them, I remember my childhood warmly. There was always sand in our big red-brick courtyard sandbox—that’s why it was a sandbox. If I ever come back, I’ll be sure to bring a piece of a sandy riverbank here.

I like children. I can’t vouch for myself when they grow up. By then, I’ll most likely be a grumpy, perpetually displeased old man. If I’m not already. Cars without wheels, creatively trimmed dolls without arms or legs, a bent red plastic sword. Older children, about six years old. They’ll be starting school soon, maybe this September. I sympathize with the kids. They don’t know what awaits them next. But for me, that torment ended long ago. I smile, genuinely happy.

Left or right. I always went left; now I’ll go right. Changes in everything. It’s unsettling to change habits. Genuine discomfort. Just slightly disrupt the usual course of things, and the internal system breaks. I have to build a new one, based on the innovations. The courtyard road, broken up by thousands of wheels. What were once cracks in the asphalt now look more like bomb craters. If you look closely, the road surface has survived more than one furious bombing.

A car catches up to me. The road is very narrow. Lilac bushes hopelessly conceal the forgotten sidewalk. There’s nowhere to go. At the last moment, I step off the road. I press myself against the lush bushes. I narrowly avoid falling into the thicket. A cat bolts onto the road. I notice it in time, catch it before the car, and step back into the bushes. The rusty red piece of scrap metal smokes like a steam engine rushing through the taiga of the last century. The noise is not much quieter. The vibration from the rattling steel horse passes through my entire body with a gentle itch.

“Rushing to the grave?!” the guy driving the jalopy shouts viciously. “I can speed it up!”

“We’ll all end up there!” I reply neutrally, trying not to start a fight in the cramped space between the car and the bushes.

“You’ll be meeting me there too!” a brazen driver, this one.

“That’s not up to me,” I answer in a calm tone to the receding ball of anger.

I extricate myself from the captivating green embrace. I examine myself from head to toe. I run a hand through my hair. I look at my hand. A yellow-and-black spider, the size of my middle fingertip, is hastily descending from my fingers on a silken thread. I shudder. Not from fear. It’s horribly unpleasant, though not deadly. I can’t seem to shake it off. I only swing it like it’s on a carousel. It clings tightly to the web, just as some people cling to life.

I try to flick it off one more time. I succeed. The ‘test pilot’ certainly doesn’t appreciate the shake-up. It scrambles away, weaving in a ‘snake’. Well, it shouldn’t have been crawling on me. Although, I’m the one to blame for going into the bushes; those are definitely not my territory. I didn’t see any other options. Right. It’s decided. The car is to blame for everything. Sorry, little spider. I gently nudge the small creature back towards the bushes. I watch to ensure it reaches its living home safely.

What’s that drop? Did a bird mark me, or is it going to rain? I look up, catching a second drop in my palm. Not a bird. That’s good. Superstitions aside, I prefer this. Directly above me, a leaden storm cloud is releasing a downpour. The wind picks up. “Oh, no!” I cry playfully in a quiet, thin voice. I feel the joy of a child. It’s been ages since I walked in a warm summer rain. It’s not exactly warm, but you can get used to it. I don’t seek shelter. It’s just rain, not burning pitch. Watching the people around me, that’s exactly the thought that comes to mind. They scatter for cover like enemies attacking a fortress.

The wet T-shirt is translucent, showing my body to the street. I pass through an archway, leaving the courtyard surrounded by buildings. A car flies past, drenching me from head to toe with muddy water from a puddle. I won’t even look at what was once a light-colored T-shirt. I’ve always preferred black. The destructive influence of the outside world isn’t so noticeable on it. It’s easier to hide behind it. First and foremost, it hides emotions, and right now, that’s the most important thing in society. The less noticeable you are, the less you get bothered. “Hey! Where are you going!” I think, but I don’t shout after the pedestrian who’s rushing headlong. He’s shielded by his umbrella, walking without looking. You take a couple of steps out of the house, and immediately you’re knocked off your feet.

The wide main road is generously soaked with mud diluted by the rain. A torrent of depressing, overwhelming noise crashes down on the spectator like a heavy wave. I look at the apartment windows facing the road. Dust, settled during the dry period, streams down the glass with the mud. Constant noise penetrates the windows. I pity the residents.

The ‘eyes’ of my apartment look out onto the courtyard. I quietly rejoice. Now, more than ever, I realize my luck. Thanks to the thoughtful person who invented quiet, cozy courtyards, safely enclosed by buildings from the rest of the booming city. And special gratitude to the one who arranged for me to be in this specific apartment. I owe him everything. It’s a shame I can’t even mentally mention the name, which is reliably hidden from the world. I’m surprised that a different voice led me out onto the street. It’s strange altogether that my own thoughts are forcing me to do something my body and soul don’t want to.

“Why is it strange?” the same voice wonders with a smile.

“It absolutely wasn’t in my plans to leave the house anytime soon,” I reply, turning right again. No. I don’t want to! Now I turn left. The bright, washed signs of empty little shops break up the gray facades of the buildings, which are wet from the pouring rain.

“How long is ‘anytime soon'?” the stranger clarifies.

“I don’t know. I think I could have stayed indoors for a week without being seen by people.”

“Why do you feel that way about them?” the tone is calm and serious.

“You see for yourself. I’ve only met a few people, and I’ve picked up enough negativity for a whole day, maybe longer.”

“I see,” the voice agrees fairly. “Now tell me, why do you only notice the negativity?”

“What else should I notice?” I feel more and more dislike for people, recalling my experience with them.

“Remember the man who wished you well.”

“An exception to the majority,” I’m forced to admit that exceptions exist.

“Not an exception, but the rule,” the voice corrects.

“Why? There are more negative people than good ones. And what there is more of becomes the rule.”

“A rule is something that is right. And human negativity is the exception.”

“In that case, the exception outweighs the rule,” I conclude, closing the global topic of good and evil along with the unpleasant memories. I only keep the neighbor’s words in mind.

“Just notice the rules, and life will become more pleasant,” the voice continues to reason and suggest.

“What if I don’t like the rules?”

“Don’t pay attention to anything at all,” the voice makes a final conclusion.

“That option suits me,” how did I not think of that before? Although, it’ll be hard not to notice all the unpleasant things around me.

“Still, answer me, why don’t you like leaving the house?” the persistent voice insists.

“What’s so good about going out?”

“Don’t you like the rain?”

“I do,” I confess. “Look how the passers-by have become runners-by. Why is everyone so afraid of what they themselves are made of? They sit in cities as gloomy as they are, always dreaming of going to the sea. The water came to them, and people run away in a panic. Strange creatures.”

“Why do you think about them at all? They aren’t thinking about you, living their own lives, which, essentially, you have no business with,” the reasonable companion correctly observes.

“Fine, I’ll try not to think about them at all,” I splash through every puddle on my path. The speckled pants don’t care, and I certainly don’t. “The rain also has unpleasant consequences,” I point to the mud from the puddle under the car’s wheels.

“Everything has unpleasant consequences,” the voice confidently states. “Why do you persistently forget about the pleasant consequences?”

“For instance?” I skeptically inquire.

“When else will you see something like this?” in the sky, punctured plastic bags are flying past. Green, white, and pink, sometimes inflatable animals.

“It’s a shame they aren’t real animals,” I whisper sadly in my thoughts. “I would watch that spectacle.”

“Even better, you’d fly with them,” the voice adds, as if reading my mind.

“What do I care? Nothing holds me to the ground,” I look at the sky and see myself. I’m circling up there with a lion and a zebra. The elephant knocks them both out; it doesn’t touch me. “Ouch! What is it now!” I look down.

“What is it this time?” the voice expects another dose of negativity toward the world with a smile.

“I managed to find a pit on the new pavement. And quite a pit, too. My foot went underwater up to my ankle.”

“What’s so terrible about that?” the voice calmly asks.

“The edges are sharp, like jagged knives. I scratched myself and tore my favorite sneakers.”

“A hint to simplify the walk,” my mental companion suggests.

“You’re right,” I take off my shoes, roll up my pants to my knees. I take the wet footwear in my hands and walk on barefoot. “This is even better. I should have worn shorts and gone barefoot right away. The water is so soft.”

“See, you’ve learned to notice the positives.”

“Which can’t be said for the pebbles under the water, safely hidden in the muddy currents.”

“Think broader and deeper.”

“I feel like a powerful ship, steadily moving up the river against a raging current. Just like when I was a kid. Only now, no one will scold me. There’s simply no one to. If I get sick, I’ll heal myself. Or I won’t heal. Or I won’t get sick. We’ll see,” I walk down the street, looking at the puddles.

“Bubbles everywhere—the rain will be long,” the voice concludes under the pouring wall.

“That’s what I was told as a child,” I add, smiling. “But what’s actually true, I don’t know, I always forgot to mark the time. I only remembered the bubbles at the end of the downpour.”

“Be happy,” the voice says cheerfully.

“About what?” I prepare for another witty remark.

“There are no people around. Only cars of dirty colors flying back and forth on the highway,” my companion replies, indulging me. It seems people bring him not much more joy than they do me.

“It’s truly pleasant. Everyone needs to go somewhere, but why?”

“The answers are thousands, millions, billions,” I can envy the voice’s global thinking.

“That’s their business,” I look detachedly. I walk further away from the noisy, splashing road. I don’t want to get hit by a mud fountain again. I sing songs out loud. I can allow myself to. There’s no one to embarrass myself in front of.

“I see your mood has improved,” the voice accurately notes the small details, even though he advised against focusing on them. “Now look over there,” he playfully disappears toward the sidewalk on the other side of the road.

“Who is that? Is it just me?” I ask into the silence of my thoughts.

Where is the armor against the awful rain falling so fearfully from the sky? Where is the umbrella? No, not a person. An unusual person. Yes, that’s right, a girl without an umbrella. Definitely, something is wrong. I must find out what her spiritual ailment is. I approach the road. Darting my head, I look around. A continuous stream of cars. The nearest traffic light is half a block away. She’ll be gone by the time I run there and wait for the right light.

It’s now or never! I dash across the turbulent stream. Piercing horns, drivers’ shouts, insults, screeching brakes. I overcome the river of indignant metal. It’s a little awkward to behave like this. They’ll drive on and forget all about it. At worst, they’ll tell their families over dinner about the lunatic who threw himself under the wheels. But I have a life-or-death question to resolve. They can endure it this one time. I endure their noise and soot.

I have another fifteen meters to come up with a first sentence. Not a single thought in my rain-washed head. I’m far from being a seducer. First, I need to catch up. I run quietly. A green leaf on the wet asphalt gives me an acceleration boost. I barely manage to keep my footing. I would have sprawled out completely. I restore my breathing after the short but intense run. I catch up much faster than I expected. I didn’t need to rush that much. I intentionally accelerate the course of events so as not to miss the single chance. Interest and a burning desire push me from the other side all the way to the goal.

I take a deep breath for the special phrase I’m inventing on the fly. A muddy, cold wave from a three-meter puddle by a clogged drain soaks both of us. “Thank you, buddy!” I automatically shout at the receding dirty-white box on wheels. The spontaneous first phrase for an introduction is completely unappealing. I have no chance.

I look at the girl. She looks at me. A long second of silence. We examine each other. A fit of loud laughter. We stand and laugh, getting soaked. Now, rather, we are washing ourselves in the rain. We are definitely crazy. And, assuredly, we are happy about it. We laugh at ourselves, not forgetting to glance at our clothes. We are strange, certainly, there’s no denying it.

“Look, we haven’t even met yet, and we’re taking a shower together,” I say playfully, realizing things can’t get any worse and I have nothing to lose.

“Yes, you’re right,” we continue to laugh. “And where’s your soap?”

“Forgot it at home. Will you lend me yours?” I look serious.

“No, sorry, I traded mine,” she shrugs sadly. She spreads her wet, pale arms.

“Traded it?” I feign total surprise. “For what?”

“For the rain,” she looks at the sky, closing her eyes against the falling drops. “I had to choose: a summer shower or fragrant soap.”

“Why were you offered such a choice?” I am genuinely indignant. “Why soap, the most precious thing?”

“Out of spite,” she sighs, examining the water on the pavement. “You know yourself, you can’t have everything at once. It would be too good to get both rain and soap simultaneously. The system would break because of me.”

“Exactly. Cruel, but it makes sense,” I agree with a sad look at the sky. “Well, let’s go look for soap together,” I propose an interesting game to the young girl like a small boy.

“Let’s go!” we set off together in search.

“What kind of soap will we look for?” I seriously consult.

“Chocolate,” the enthusiastic girl replies, licking her lips.

“An interesting choice,” I gaze thoughtfully into the distance.

“And what do you like?” she looks into my eyes.

“Strawberry. Maybe raspberry,” I feel the taste of real berries in my mouth.

“Hmm, not a bad choice,” she agrees, nodding her head. “I’ll even admit it’s a good one.”

“Thank you for your approval,” I bow respectfully, smiling, without taking my eyes off her.

“Oh, don’t thank me. Your choice,” she coquettishly waves her hand in the air.

“Yes, mine. And, please note, a conscious one,” I raise my index finger for emphasis.

“It’s noticeable,” our serious faces can’t hide our smiles, which gradually turn into laughter.

“What ailment do you suffer from?” I ask the question that greatly interests me. The girl contemplates.

“I suppose,” she says drawn out as she thinks. “Liberty!” she’s happy to have defined it. “And what is your spiritual illness?” she inquires with no less interest about the important matter.

“Mine is Changes,” I answer without thinking, with a mournful exhale.

“Interesting,” a bright spark of curiosity appears in the girl’s eyes. “What are you changing?”

“Everything!” I answer firmly and confidently, vividly imagining the entire uncertain, at times intrusive and secretive, life, devoid of real happiness.

“Isn’t it a bit much, changing everything all at once?” she wonders, unable to restrain the smile at the left corner of her pinkish lips.

“I have practically nothing,” I turn out the pockets of my soaked trousers. We burst into cheerful laughter. “And what are you gaining liberty from? What are you running from? What are you leaving behind?”

“I’m getting rid of outdated prejudices,” now the girl’s voice sounds both lighter and heavier than at the beginning of the conversation.

“Allow me to ask, which ones? If it’s not a secret, of course.”

“The ones that say you can’t leave unloved and unpleasant people you don’t want to be near for a single second of your precious time, just because you’ve been together for many years. And everyone says it’s the done thing, it’s what you should do. And most importantly, he has strong feelings. He doesn’t want to let go.”

“Liberty is a beautiful illness,” I imagine how much she must have suffered in the company of an unwanted person over the long years if she finally dared to drop everything and go out into the street under a downpour.

“Oh!” she stops abruptly. She looks into the distance with an anxious gaze.

“What happened?” I involuntarily begin to worry about her.

“I think,” she whispers uncertainly. “I’m catching your ailment,” the girl, tired of everything, notices with confusion.

“That’s terrible! Changes are hard and complicated,” I put my hand on her slender forearm in sympathy. “They say in its severe form, it leads to another serious illness.”

“What awaits me?” she asks with mock concern.

“I can’t say the name,” I remove my hand, looking away. “I don’t want to scare you,” I add in a quiet voice.

“I realize everything. I’m ready to accept a difficult and bitter fate. My illnesses are terrible,” she shakes her head.

“My condolences, now you have two ailments. And it seems your illness settled in me a long time ago. I never lingered near unpleasant people. I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve heard there are a few more terrible spiritual diseases.”

“What are they? I’m scared,” she completely contracts and trembles. Her light hair twists on her wet, light dress with a small floral pattern. She acts so realistically that I start to believe in the reality of the game.

“You’re right to be afraid,” I look menacingly with a serious gaze.

“Tell me quickly, what are the scary names of the ailments? I need to know what to fear. I’m terribly curious!”

“Happiness, Joy, Delight, and Love are the strongest of them.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that horror. I’ve even read about it,” she whispers, looking around.

“Where is it written about them? I always thought they were only mentioned in oral legends and scary stories.”

“In encyclopedias of terrible ailments,” the serious girl replies.

“What kind of books are those?” I’m genuinely interested. “Tell me, please! I haven’t heard of such things.”

“People call them Fairy Tales!” she widens her eyes with a terrifying laugh.

“The horror!” I shout in panic across the street. There are no people around anyway. We fall silent. We look at each other seriously. We burst into laughter again.

Tears of a happy illness well up in my eyes, streaming down our faces with the raindrops. It’s good that there are no people around. No one to look at us like we’re idiots. Although, the drivers passing by occasionally glance at us with bewildered looks. For us, they don’t exist at all. We are completely alone. We’ve caught “Glee,” which is turning into a severe form of “Joy“ from our meeting. I missed genuine laughter. I haven’t laughed like this in ages. People wrongly underestimate the importance in their lives of those with whom they can laugh uncontrollably until they cry at any moment, regardless of the place, time, or surroundings.

“Liberty?” I look into her eyes through the remnants of the funny tears, offering my wet hand, which is as pale as hers.

“Liberty!” she offers her hand in return. “Changes?!” she looks with pure joy.

“Changes!” I answer confidently. We firmly clasp our cold hands. Our faces shine with happiness. We seem to warm up instantly with a single touch. It doesn’t matter how long the contact lasts; what matters is who you touch.

Our fingers fit together perfectly and intertwine smoothly, like lianas in a jungle. Liberty and Changes are together. Our eyes meet. A warm wave rushes through my body. My head spins slightly. We look ahead together. A shared step, a common smile. We squeeze our hands more gently and tightly. One air for two. It seems the pulse of our excited hearts miraculously coincides unnoticed.

A heavy rain is falling, but the sun is shining in our souls. One step, another, we run toward our ailments, crossing the muddy streams. Splashes fly in all directions, scattering joy. We don’t mind; we have an endless amount of it. The wind flows around our young and free bodies at speed. Our wet clothes transmit the coolness. We are not cold. A volcano of emotions warms us from within. With loud laughter, we jump through the puddles and rejoice in life.

We run to the park. The gates are unusually closed. Water streams in rivulets down the wrought-iron curves. We look around. No one. We exchange a glance. We smile. A moment of thought. We climb over to the other side. We giggle like children. We’ve almost reached the ground when a shout rings out: “What are you doing?! Where are you going? Can’t you see the park is closed!” the guard of this green patch amidst solid stone walls screams with such tone and anguish, it’s as if we’re stealing the gates themselves. I climb down first, catching Liberty. We run deep into the dark, mysterious, rainy city forest. The warden is elderly, but he runs fast. A lean old man. But we are still faster!

I look back. We seem to have shaken the chase. We slow to a walking pace, not letting go of our perfectly intertwined hands. Fast breathing mixed with laughter. Two hooligans. The rain stops. Remaining moisture drips from the trees that prop up the heavy gray sky. We walk through the empty park, breathing air rich with freshness. Birds emerge from their shelters, shake raindrops from their feathers, and continue the songs the weather had paused. Murky streams run in places, carrying particles of earth towards the river. I’m tired of walking on the hard paved path. Without consulting, we step onto the lawn. The green carpet, it turns out, is soft like rabbit fur. We walk between the immobile wooden trunks with their lush canopies. We are thinking about our own things, most likely about something shared. About Us. About Liberty and Changes.

“Look!” I stop, pointing a little to the right.

“What is it?” Liberty stops beside me. Interest sparkles in her eyes.

“A young sapling. A maple, I think. Clearly planted a couple of days ago.”

“How lovely,” she gazes tenderly at the thin stem.

“Let’s go to it.” Without waiting for an answer, I lead Liberty towards the park’s newest resident.

“Let’s go!” she agrees, walking with me. She is happy about the invitation.

“It was waiting for us.” We approach the little tree. I look at the girl’s damp, curling hair.

“Such delicate leaves,” she admires sweetly.

“Delicate?” I trace my fingers over the young, light-green leaves. With my other hand, closing my eyes, I stroke Liberty’s wet cheek. “Just like this,” I look at her with tenderness.

“Stop it,” the girl blushes.

“Liberty?” I take both of her hands.

“What is it, Changes?” a dreamy tenderness and affection appear in her voice.

“This will be our tree,” I take a coin from my pocket. I usually get rid of loose change, but this little round one had stuck around. I’ve grown used to it. The moment of magic is worth it. I bring the coin to my lips, whispering a wish. “Now you,” I hand the silver moon to Liberty with a smile. She closes her eyes and makes a wish. She winces, squeezing my hand.

“Done!” my Liberty reports happily. Her eyes are shining like a contented little girl who has been given the first, most beautiful doll in the world.

“Dangerous!” I look at the girl seriously.

“What’s wrong, Changes?” she becomes alarmed, like a rabbit that hears a approaching fox.

“I’ve noticed symptoms of yet another ailment in your eyes!”

“Oh, no! What’s wrong with me?! What else have I come down with?!” she presses her hands to her cheeks, opening her mouth in horror.

“The symptoms of a terrible disease are showing up even more prominently in you,” I place my hand on the forehead of the afflicted.

“Which one? Tell me, don’t drag it out! How badly am I sick?” Liberty asks impatiently.

“People call this dreadful disease ‘Happiness’!” I squeeze her pale hands, looking into her eyes with sympathy.

“A disaster! I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been sick before. You’re right. I feel the terrible symptoms. I’m definitely ill with happiness,” the doomed girl whispers.

“Yes, it’s awful. I’ve caught it too.” A pleasant and easy laugh rises naturally. I pull her closer by the hands and kiss her lips gently. Soft, warm, and most importantly, they fit mine perfectly. My eyes close on their own. We stand happily, looking up. Through the dense canopies of the trees, we can see almost white clouds floating by. The rain has depleted the gray, heavy masses.

“It feels so good,” Liberty whispers peacefully, pressing close. She rests her head on my shoulder.

“It feels good to me too,” I whisper back tenderly. We stand, smiling, enjoying the weather, the park, each other, us.

“Changes,” she lifts her head.

“What is it, Liberty?” I look into her frightened eyes.

“We’re sick again,” the sweet girl says sadly.

“With what, my dear Liberty?” every thought that arises in my close companion becomes interesting.

“‘Bliss’, my Changes, ‘Bliss’,” she smiles lightly, laying her head back on my shoulder.

“Oh, no, we are doomed to these diseases,” I look up at the sky with a pleading gaze.

“I guess you’re right,” she looks at me sadly.

“There’s no other way,” I hug Liberty and kiss her on the cheek. I feel her smile. I smile too. She smiles even more, sensing my smile. “Do you know what I was thinking?”

“What?” she asks, relaxing in my embrace.

“Are you hungry?” I realize how hungry I am myself.

“I am!” she looks at me like a hungry child in a grocery store.

“Then let’s go to my place! I’ll make your favorite scrambled eggs with tomatoes and herbs.”

“How did you know my favorite dish?” Liberty is surprised.

“I felt it,” I smile mysteriously, narrowing one eye.

“Is that true?” she is surprised by the answer.

“Actually, it’s a pure coincidence. We don’t have a choice. I only have a dozen eggs, tomatoes, and herbs at my place,” we laugh together.

“Well, that’s wonderful! Let’s run quickly!” Liberty pulls my hand towards the park exit. The girl is hungrier than me.

I don’t even think of resisting. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. We walk towards the gates. I’ve completely relaxed. I forgot about the wet grass. I slip. As I fall, I try to let go of Liberty’s hand so as not to drag her down. The girl doesn’t let me go alone. She squeezes my hand tightly. I fall onto my back. She lands on top of me. It’s a good thing there’s a lot of grass here, and the ground is so moist. We land softly. We laugh in the endless green sea. Clean, transparent drops fall from the trees. Countless waves of grass spread out from us.

Liberty covers me with the warmth of her body. Playful laughter smoothly turns into smiles. A serious look. Her pupils widen. Her breathing quickens, stopping for a moment. She leans down to me, closing her eyes. She kisses my lips gently. I welcome the kiss. A pleasant initiative. I admit, it’s the best fall of my life. We lie there for about a minute, embracing. Wet ground is not the best bed. I get up clumsily. I offer her my hand. I lift her easily, like a small feather. She is so light.

It’s good that a carpet of rain-washed grass covers the ground from above. We turn out to be completely clean. We cautiously run up to the gates. No one. On the count of three. “Three!” I boost her almost to the top. I climb the gates right after. The guard sees us, but it is too late for him. The trespassers are outside the gates. He doesn’t bother to shout anything, much less chase after us. Liberty makes faces through the gates. The guard is angry, mumbling something under his breath. But we are having fun. Young people are always hooligans in the eyes of older people. A cross-section of generations. The confrontation of eras.

We walk through the puddles toward the house. The sky is without a single cloud. In the distance, a faint, yet colorful, rainbow arches. Somber passersby appear. Children are splashing in the puddles just like us. They get scolded by their completely “healthy“ parents, who have forgotten how pleasant it is to walk through puddles. I’ve never understood why a child should be punished for something that brings them joy. Though, they are right to do it; it is a ‘disease’, after all.

Over time, adults develop a strong immunity to the terrible ailments that afflict children, and now, Liberty and me. They worry about things. Some rags. Just things. They’ll wear out and be thrown away soon anyway, but memories and vivid emotions live with a person their whole life. Especially the good ones that you always want to remember and tell your future children and grandchildren.

Again, I’m too lazy to walk all the way to the traffic light. Why didn’t they put one closer? We wait for the stream of cars to thin out. We run across the road. Just as we jump onto the sidewalk, a wave of dirty water from under a car’s wheels washes over us again. A dirty black SUV. Good thing it wasn’t a truck. Although, that doesn’t make it feel any better.

We glance at our filthy clothes, which we are used to by now. Laughing, we walk on. We pass through an archway between the buildings. It’s my courtyard again. I never thought I’d be back. Meeting Liberty brought me back. I need to feed and warm up this lovely girl. I promised—I’ll do it. I’ll call about the sand today. There are more children now. Parents have shown up, staring, but we don’t care. We approach the entrance. I quickly pull open the creaky door so the sound is quieter.

“Ladies first!” I usher my charming companion inside, placing my hand just above her waist.

“Thank you, you are so kind,” Liberty smiles coquettishly with a curtsey.

“Not at all, it’s my duty,” I reply with affected importance and a smile. I nod, putting my hand behind my back. I close the door as sharply as I opened it. The less noise, the more peaceful it is for everyone.

“Which floor?” she looks at me as if she’s been here a thousand times and keeps forgetting which floor my apartment is on.

“Third,” I remind her for the “umpteenth time,” without tiring of the question.

“Not very high,” Liberty remarks, climbing the steps. Her wet dress, just below the knees, clings to her slender legs. A fresh coolness wafts around her.

“No, I wish it were higher,” I sigh heavily, thinking of high floors.

“Don’t be upset, happiness isn’t in the floor!” she turns back, supporting me with a warm tone.

“Yes, you’re right,” and indeed, it’s not about the floor.

We reach the floor. I briefly glance at my neighbors' door. I can see the peephole closing. I insert the golden, almost new, key into the keyhole. I rarely use it. It turns stiffly; I’ll have to grease it. I didn’t notice it when I left; I had other things on my mind. And I still do. That’s how locks remain ungreased and eventually break because no one cares about them. It’s the same with people. With a little effort, I finally open the forgotten thing. We step into the small, bright, and cozy apartment. At least, that’s what it sometimes seems like to me.

“Make yourself at home,” I say, as if I had a penthouse in the world’s best hotel, not a one-room apartment in an old building far from the center.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Liberty suggests casually, immediately deciding where it’s coziest.

“Let’s,” I like that suggestion. I only sleep in the room; life happens in the kitchen. “Do you want tea?” I hold the kettle.

“Of course! I love drinking tea. Only after I eat, though,” she clarifies with a smile.

“Green?” I offer, as I would for myself.

“Yes, please.”

“How much sugar? One?” I ask, as I would for myself.

“Actually, green tea is drunk without sugar,” the slender girl, immune to the “sugary“ consequences, says seriously. “But yes, one,” she announces her decision cheerfully.

“I drink it with sugar too; it makes life sweeter,” I slowly pour the granulated sugar into the cups.

“I agree,” Liberty smiles, watching the sweet, sandy waterfall. “It’s nice here,” she looks around, sitting down. She leans against the refrigerator.

“It’s amazing how you immediately figured out my favorite spot?” I place the shiny kettle on the stove. It’s a good thing I checked it out of habit. There was no water left at all. I fill it halfway.

“The best spots are attractive,” she replies with a smile, watching me light the gas burner with matches. The cold blue flame flares up in sharp tongues, licking the flat stainless-steel bottom of the kettle.

“Not everyone feels that way,” I say a little louder. The water is rumbling, warming on the fire. And we warm up by looking at each other, absorbing the heat radiating from the flame.

“I'm lucky; I feel it,” the girl realizes happily.

“Tea won’t fill you up,” I take ripe tomatoes, eggs, and greens from the refrigerator.

“Did you grow them yourself?” she looks closely at the tomatoes and greens.

“A neighbor from the first floor gave them to me,” I confess honestly. “She got back after the weekend from her country house, not far from the city.”

“And she gave you everything?” there really are a lot of tomatoes.

“She lives alone. And the harvest is more than enough for one person. She shares with me.”

“Why does she grow so much if it’s too much? Is it for you?”

“What else is there to do in retirement?” I rinse the clean but dusty frying pan. “I haven’t cooked on this one in a while,” the old burner is acting up, so I put it on another. I light it.

“Do you need help?” she looks over my shoulder.

“I’ll manage myself. You need to protect those fragile little hands,” I walk over, kiss her hands, lips, and forehead. I return to the cutting board. I sauté the tomatoes. I whisk a dozen eggs and pour them in a few minutes later.

“That will be so much food!” she rejoices, not taking her eyes off the pan.

“To make sure we get completely full,” I don’t hide my own joy. After a while, I sprinkle in the greens. I cover it with a glass lid. I turn off the heat.

“The kettle has boiled,” the girl reminds me, pointing to the stove.

“Thank you, my helper,” I brew jasmine tea in a small ceramic teapot. I take my phone from the windowsill. Not a single missed call, not a single message. Not surprising at all. I call an acquaintance who drives a tractor. I order a full trailer of clean river sand for tomorrow. Meanwhile, everything is ready. “The special ones?” I show her the large white plates with a pattern.

“Of course! Aren’t you worried about them?” she asks carefully. The plates are beautiful, and sometimes I'm worried about using them myself.

“Not at all, for an occasion like this. In any case, they turned out to be the only clean ones.”

“Then I understand,” Liberty laughs, looking at the pan with hungry eyes.

“Just a couple more seconds,” I divide it equally to make everything fair. I sit down opposite her. We try it. “I don’t know about you, but it tastes good to me.”

“It’s delicious!” she eats with pleasure. I don’t know why I found the time to ask. Perhaps we are so hungry that we are ready to eat anything and will ask for seconds. “I wish I could always eat like this,” Liberty says with a satisfied smile, finishing her portion.

“I agree!” I haven’t eaten this well in a long time. I collect the plates and put them in the sink. “Forgive me, I’m too lazy to wash them right now,” I confess honestly.

“It’s a shame to spend life’s time washing dishes,” she supports me understandingly, looking at the dishes in the sink with a smile. “Let’s drink tea instead.”

“Excellent idea. There’s just enough room left for tea,” I pat my full stomach.

“Me too,” she giggles quietly, stroking her flat tummy.

“I have no energy left at all after eating,” I lean on the table.

“I know exactly how you feel,” she says with half-closed eyes after drinking the tea.

“Let’s go to the room,” I take Liberty by the hand and lead her after me.

“Let’s,” she trails after me sluggishly. We walk like two sloths. I desperately want to sleep. “It’s so nice that the sofa is unfolded.”

“It’s so nice that I was too lazy to fold it,” we laugh with our last ounce of strength. “Just a moment,” I grab a dry bath towel from the balcony. We take off all our wet clothes. Liberty wipes her graceful body, leaving a little rain for freshness. I don’t wipe myself completely either. We are both too lazy to go take a shower. And we definitely don’t want to wash away this wonderful day.

“I love it when there’s a lot of space,” she settles contentedly under the sheet.

“I chose it myself,” I carefully lie down on my back on the right side.

“What a good boy,” she lies down on the left, puts her head on my shoulder, and hugs me.

“I tried for you,” I smile and kiss her damp, fragrant hair. How do girls manage to do that?

“You know, I have a feeling all this isn’t leading to anything good,” she shares her worries anxiously, looking at me with sad eyes.

“Why do you think that?” I lean slightly toward her.

“We’ll soon get even sicker,” she puts her head back down.

“With what?” I ask with a smirk, guessing what I'm about to hear.

“The most terrifying and difficult disease on Earth!”

“And what is that?” I suddenly feel like playing along.

“'Love’. Have you heard of it?” she opens her eyes wide, looking into my heart.

“I've heard of it, but I haven’t had it,” my body sighs a little heavier than usual on its own.

“Me neither,” the girl confesses sadly, without a hint of regret. “What are we going to do then?” she presses against me in terror.

“Be sick,” we smile at each other. I gently kiss my Liberty and pull her close. We fall asleep peacefully.