The bright spring sun had already risen over the cities stretching for miles. Its warm rays quickly drove away the morning chill from the bustling quarters, leaving only barely noticeable drops of dew on the well-kept flowerbeds. Countless people scurried through the streets, paying no attention to one another. Some opened their stalls, displaying their goods for all to see. Others hurried to work, trying to make it before the morning bell that usually rang at nine o'clock. Children ran through the slowly thickening crowd, waiting to be called by their parents.
— Attention! Attention! — a blond boy wearing a white shirt and a brown vest shouted down the street. — Don't miss it! The colonial exhibition on Freedom Square has new additions! Rarest exhibits from the farthest corners of the empire have arrived! Don't miss your chance to see them! — he waved a newspaper energetically; on its front page the exhibition's image was emblazoned.
A black fiacre stopped in front of the boy. A young man of about twenty-six stepped out. He wore a light-gray single-breasted suit; his light-blond hair was hidden beneath a tasteful fedora perfectly matched to his attire. Brown eyes, gentle facial features, a straight nose — outwardly a very pleasant young man. Holding an ivory-inlaid cane, he approached the boy.
— Good morning, young man. How much for that paper? — the man tapped his cane on the cobbles, patiently waiting for an answer.
The boy quickly appraised him. — Three linns, sir, no change, — he said, barely hiding a small stain on his shirt with his vest.
— Very well, — the man smirked. He pulled a fairly thick wallet from his inner pocket and took out a bronze note for six linns. It bore the portrait of a mustached man of about fifty. — Three linns for the tip.
The man took the paper. The carriage set off as soon as he sat inside.
*
A lone male silhouette stood, leaning on the railing that separated him from the rocky cliff. Below, an endless blue expanse spread out to the very horizon.
He stood almost motionless. Closing his eyes, he silently enjoyed the scent of the sea, the breeze that brought with it a feeling of unprecedented freedom.
The settled idyll was broken by the slow, almost inaudible click of heels. A female figure in a light, snowy dress approached the man. With incredible tenderness and affection she wrapped him in soft arms, as if afraid to harm the dearest thing in the world. A gentle scent of hyacinth perfume filled the air, plunging the man into such cherished memories.
— You're here again... — she whispered. Her voice, full of warmth and futilely hidden longing, pulled the man from the captivity of the past.
He nodded... but did not turn.
— You must let go... Move on.
— But... I don't want to... I don't want to let go, I don't want to wake up.
She still gently reached out, carefully smoothing the man's disheveled hair. After hugging him once more, she reluctantly let him go.
— Wake up, Elian.
He felt the ground fall away beneath his feet. The once-beautiful world vanished, replaced by the familiar clear chime of bells.
The man painfully pried open his crusted eyes. The familiar ceiling of a dark curtained room, covered with cobwebs. The air, stale and lifeless, made each breath feel even more suffocating.
Reluctantly, Elian tore himself from the pillow and slowly sat up. His back straightened gradually, his gaze drifting into nowhere: his thoughts still sank in the dream. His head felt split; his throat was dry. He rubbed his temples, exhaled slowly, and, fighting the headache, rose from the sofa.
Empty bottles lay everywhere. From expensive spirits now dust-covered to cheap swill bought very recently. Two glasses stood on the coffee table. One was cracked and overturned; the other was half-empty, filled with a high-proof liquid.
There was a click. A gas lamp flared, illuminating the washroom. Elian stood, leaning on a brass sink. In the dirty mirror a tired face was reflected. Long dirty-black hair covered sleepy eyes, the whites reddened by burst capillaries. Gray-blue hollows under the eyes showed bruises standing out sharply against his pale skin. He slowly ran his thumb over his stubble and clicked his tongue softly.
After washing his face, Elian trudged back into the room. He found an unfinished bottle near the sofa, pulled the cork — a dull pop sounded in the silence. The vile swill that even the most hardened drunkard would refuse flowed into the glass.
Elian was about to drain it when the doorbell rang. Setting the drink down with a thud, he went weakly to the door.
The bell rang again; Elian peered through the peephole: on the threshold stood the man in the light-gray suit. Holding a cane in one hand and a newspaper in the other, he waited leisurely for the apartment's owner to appear.
— Gregory... — Elian muttered under his breath and stepped away from the door. He had neither the desire nor the strength for conversation with an old acquaintance. That earnest zeal to sympathize always made things worse.
Elian had already moved away when the third ring sounded — long and irritating. Gritting his teeth, he went to the door. He clicked the latch. The door opened just enough to reveal the unwanted guest.
— Get out, — Elian said with no trace of emotion.
— And good morning to you, Elian, — Gregory replied without a hint of malice. — I thought maybe you'd like to talk.
Elian pulled the handle. A blow — the door would not close. Gregory had managed to wedge his cane in the gap.
— Remove it, or I'll throw you out myself.
— Perfect. Since I'm already on the threshold, you'll need only do half the job, — Gregory smiled, pushing the cane further in.
Elian sighed wearily in response: — Why did you come here?
— If memory serves, I've already announced the reason for my visit, have I not?
— You came here just for that? — Elian raised an eyebrow in question.
— Can't a friend drop by? And judging by your appearance, I was not mistaken in deciding to do so, — Gregory withdrew the cane, marking his victory in the dispute.
Silence followed.
— You have five minutes.
The door creaked open slightly. Gregory stepped inside. Walking down the corridor, he noticed a small table with a thick layer of dust on it.
Entering the sitting room, Gregory first went to the window, which was tightly curtained. One motion and the morning sun burst into the room.
— Why are you acting like the landlord? — Elian reproached him.
— Is it acceptable to receive guests in darkness, and in such a mess?
— Uninvited guests are allowed. Say what you came to say and leave, — Elian snorted, seating himself on the sofa.
— Not a trace of the old gentleman left... — Gregory sat in the armchair beside the sofa.
— Stop babbling and get to the point, — Elian echoed.
— Fine... How to begin... You know, this isn't the first time I've come, — Gregory sighed heavily. — I've come up here twice this month alone. Both times you didn't open the door. I'm not one to meddle in other people's lives, but... — he looked Elian straight in the eyes. — Inessa insisted that I check on you. Judging by what I see — she was right.
— Tell Inessa her worry is unnecessary. I'm fine.
I don't think so. How long do you intend to keep living like this? — Gregory leaned forward a little, clearly troubled by the subject.
— Live how?
— Don't play the fool, Elian. I mean how long will you hide in a shell? Stay locked in the flat, never go out into the light, drown in that lousy alcohol. Every day pitying yourself and pouring another dose of that filth down your throat! — he pointed at the full glass.
— I don't pity myself...
— You do... A lot. And you know full well that self-flagellation won't help you! What would Lillian say seeing you like this?!
— Shut up, damn you! I know, I know, all right!? — he upended the bottle. I know alcohol won't help! I know that damn self-flagellation gives nothing, all right?! But I... can't... without her, — Elian hunched and covered his face with his hands.
— Sorry... I didn't mean to press. I understand — it's hard for you. You know... — Gregory glanced at the newspaper. — You need to get out. They say new exhibits have arrived at the colonial exhibition. Let's go there tomorrow, — He put the newspaper on the table. — I'll pick you up at five in the evening. — Gregory patted Elian on the shoulder and headed for the apartment door, leaving the man alone.
A stifling silence settled, as if soaked in poison, ordinary yet disgustingly unwelcome, interrupted only by the previously inaudible ticking of the wall clock.
Finally coming to himself, Elian reached for the glass. The smell of spirits. His reflection froze on the surface of the yellowish liquid. An exhausted face with traces of tears spilled.
He froze. Elian froze, looking at himself — at what he had become. There was a knock — the glass returned to the table. Wishing to finally break free from the vicious circle, he rose and left the room. Elian climbed to the second floor, but stopped at the locked door. That room was Lillian's study. Once so cozy — now a hated place.
With a trembling hand he touched the handle; his fingers refused to clench. A deep breath — the door opened with a prolonged creak.
A familiar scent — so dear and homely, carrying him into a happy past. On the table by the window — stacks of papers. The wall clock still ran, but was five minutes slow. A crystal vase on the windowsill held roses dried to a crisp, once white.
He entered. But after one step he stopped. A silver hairpin lay on the floor.
"Look, it always falls! Hey! Elian, do you hear?"
Elian picked it up. He put it on the table. Not in the right place, of course. She would have rearranged it... Or taken it away entirely.
He looked up. The carved chandelier, like a work of art — its fixture was almost torn out.
— Why...? — his eyes filled with moisture again. — If only I had then... — bitter memories flared like a storm of fire.
With slow steps Elian approached the desk; beneath it — a small safe. He entered the code — the date of their first meeting. Melancholy curling his lips, he drew out a small notebook — Lillian's diary.
"November twenty-eighth. Today Elian and I went to a restaurant. He grumbled all the way about how awful the weather was. Why does he dislike the rain so much?"
— And why do I dislike it? — his lips softened into a melancholy smile.
His gaze involuntarily slid to the bookcase opposite and stopped at a purple cover. Her favorite novel.
Elian carefully placed the diary on the table. Almost silently he moved to the shelf and took the book.
— Lullaby of the Moon...
He looked at the spot where the novel had stood. Instead of the expected spine he noticed a single-tone, blending-in-with-the-shelf spine. With difficulty squeezing his hand between the books, Elian pulled out a small notebook with a red bookmark inside.
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, he opened to the marked page. Elian froze.
"You must act quickly, they are watching Elian".