Бесплатный фрагмент - Through the world’s mirror

Author’s Preface

Do you know what it’s like to live in a world of reflections? I’m not talking about literal reflections in mirrors or shop windows, but about that elusive reality in which we all exist. A world where first impressions are often deceiving, where a beautiful facade can conceal emptiness, and behind a mask of indifference lies a deep wound. A world where we constantly search for our own reflection in other people, in their opinions, in their gaze.

As a writer, I constantly face this problem of reflections. When creating characters, I try to find something of myself in them, yet at the same time, endow them with their own uniqueness. I strive to show the reader not only the external side of life but also the inner world of the heroes, their thoughts, their feelings, their fears and hopes.

Michael’s story began with a simple question: how does one find oneself in a world that is constantly changing, a world that offers us many paths but does not guarantee we will choose the right one? Michael is a photographer, and he is used to seeing the world through the lens of his camera. He believes that photography can capture the truth, freeze a moment, preserve memories. But at some point, he realizes that a photograph is merely a reflection of reality, not reality itself.

He embarks on a journey across Europe to find something real, something that will not vanish with time. He seeks inspiration, he seeks beauty, he seeks meaning. He visits Paris, Rome, Venice — cities full of history, art, and culture. He meets different people, each of whom leaves their mark on his soul.

But most importantly, he is searching for his own reflection. He is trying to understand who he is, what he wants, where he is going. He is searching for answers to the questions that torment him: what is freedom, what is love, what is happiness?

This book is not a travel guide to Europe. It is a journey into oneself. It is an attempt to understand how the reflections we see around us help us find our identity, our place in the world. It is a conversation about the importance of remaining true to oneself, no matter what.

I invite you to embark on this journey with Michael. I do not know if he will find the answers to his questions. But I hope that his story will inspire you to your own searches, your own discoveries. And I believe that after reading this book, you will be able to see the world and yourself in it in a new way.

Prologue

The Rainy Bridge

The raindrops fell quietly and monotonously, with a doomed regularity, as if counting down the last seconds of the departing day, the final moments of hope. They slid over the rough surface of the concrete, leaving behind fleeting dark streaks that immediately vanished, like memories slipping from the mind, like words spoken in vain.

The wind, usually so insistent and sharp, was surprisingly restrained today. It was as if it sensed the prevailing atmosphere of melancholy and hopelessness and did not want to disturb it. It merely gently stirred the flaps of the coat belonging to the man standing at the railing and lightly tousled his hair, which had escaped from under his old, worn-out hat.

The man stood motionless, like a statue, his gaze fixed on the murky water of the river.

The river flowed slowly and restlessly, as if reflecting the turmoil reigning in his soul. In its dark waters floated fragments of branches, fallen leaves, crumpled pieces of paper, and other debris discarded by the city’s careless inhabitants. It all seemed like a symbol of the frailty and transience of human life, a reminder that everything passes, everything disappears, everything turns to dust.

He was mute. Not from birth. He once knew how to speak, laugh, argue, express his thoughts and feelings with words. But then something happened. Something that forever changed his life. Something that forced him to fall silent. And now he understood that words were no longer needed. That they only hindered seeing the true picture of the world, distorting it, clouding it.

He looked at the city’s reflection in the river. At the blurred lights of the lanterns, trembling in the water, at the ghostly silhouettes of houses reflected on the dark surface, at the lonely boats gliding along the river like shadows of the past. And in this reflection, he saw something more than just an image. He saw the souls of people, their hidden fears, their secret hopes, their unfulfilled dreams. He took his old, worn camera out of his bag.

He only photographed reflections. It had become his obsession, his passion, his reason for living. He believed that the true essence of a person was hidden in reflections, that one could see in them what was impossible to discern in real life. As if a reflection was a mirror of the soul, showing its true face, without embellishment or masks.

He froze, waiting, and suddenly…

In the reflection, over the blurred city lights and trembling silhouettes of houses, a face appeared.

It wasn’t just a face; it was a portrait. The face of an old man with deep wrinkles that scarred his skin like a map of a life lived. His eyes, deep-set and surrounded by dark shadows, looked directly at him, as if penetrating into his very soul.

There was something unusual in this face, something both attractive and repulsive at the same time.

There was wisdom accumulated through years of suffering and reflection, but there was also a kind of mad, all-consuming anguish.

The old man looked at him in silence, and Michael felt his heart begin to beat faster. He didn’t know who this man was or why he had appeared in the reflection. But he felt it was no accident.

Suddenly, the old man smiled.

It was a strange, crooked smile, more like a grimace of pain than an expression of joy. But in that smile, there was something… liberating. As if the old man was offering to share his pain, yet at the same time showing that even in the deepest darkness, one can find light.

And then Michael noticed that the old man was silent. He was opening and closing his mouth but not uttering a word. As if he, too, was mute.

Michael felt a strange connection with this stranger. As if they were both prisoners of silence, captives of their own muteness.

And suddenly the old man raised his hand and pointed to the sky.

Or rather, to the reflection of the sky in the river.

Michael looked where the old man was pointing.

And he saw… a bird.

A lone bird flying over the city. It soared in the air, free and independent, as if mocking everyone who was chained to the earth.

And then Michael understood.

He understood what the old man was trying to tell him.

Freedom is not in words. Freedom is within us.

And he, the mute photographer, must find this freedom within himself.

The old man in the reflection smiled once more, then slowly disappeared, dissolving into the murky water of the river.

Michael was left alone.

But he no longer felt lonely.

He knew what he had to do.

He had to find this old man.

He had to learn his story.

He had to understand what it means to be free.

He tore himself away from the camera and looked up at the sky.

The rain continued to fall.

But now it didn’t seem so gloomy to him.

He smiled.

And took the shot.

Part 1

The Beginning of the Path

Chapter 1

The Mirror of Childhood

The town he grew up in was gray. Not in terms of color, although that too, but rather in terms of its soul. Gray houses, gray streets, gray faces. Even the sky above the town seemed faded, like an old photograph. The only bright spot was the circus that came once a year. But even it, with its clowns and acrobats, seemed like a kind of fake, strained joy.

He lived in a small house on the outskirts of town with his parents. His father worked at a factory, his mother in a library. They were quiet, inconspicuous people, as if afraid to attract attention. They loved him, of course, but somehow silently, reservedly. Hugs and kisses were a rarity. Their love was expressed through care: feeding, clothing, checking his homework.

There was a large mirror in the hallway at home. He often looked into it, studying his reflection. It seemed to him that in the mirror he saw not only his face but also his soul. Especially his eyes. In them, he saw a longing and a vague, undefined fear.

Once, when he was seven years old, he witnessed an accident. He was walking home from school when he heard the screech of brakes and a dull thud. Running closer, he saw a mangled car and a bloodied man lying on the asphalt. People crowded around, screaming, crying. He stood paralyzed, unable to move.

At that moment, he saw the reflection of the scene in a puddle on the road. Distorted, grotesque, but because of that, even more terrible. In that reflection, he saw not just the accident, but all the pain, all the fear, all the meaninglessness of human existence.

Something broke inside him. His voice disappeared. He tried to scream, but only a rasp came from his throat. The doctors shrugged. No physical damage. Just silence.

For a long time, he tried to get his voice back. He went to doctors, psychologists, psychics, shamans, and healers. He tried every known and unknown treatment method, from traditional medicine to folk remedies. He read prayers, meditated, fasted, and did everything he was advised. But nothing helped. His voice remained locked in his throat, like a bird in a cage.

Eventually, he resigned himself.

He understood that silence was his fate, his cross to bear until the end of his days. That he had to learn to live without a voice, that he had to find a way to express his thoughts and feelings by other means.

The photograph lay on the old wooden table, covered in a network of fine cracks like a map of a life lived. It seemed like a foreign object in his small, cluttered room, like a fragment from another world that had accidentally ended up here from a distant past. He stared at it, unblinking, as if mesmerized, as if trying to discern in the faded and yellowed image the answers to the questions that had tormented him for as long as he could remember.

In the photograph, he saw himself, a small, skinny boy of six or seven, with large, frightened eyes and disheveled hair. Next to him stood a girl, about his age, holding his hand with her small, warm palm. They were both smiling, looking directly into the camera lens, as if trying to capture this moment of happiness and carefree joy forever.

Behind them stretched an endless field, strewn with colorful wildflowers like a bright carpet spread out by nature itself. And above them stretched an endless blue sky with rare, fluffy white clouds, like huge pieces of cotton wool floating into infinity.

It was a photograph from his childhood. A photograph that under normal circumstances should have evoked bright and joyful memories of a carefree time, of playing in the field, of friends, and of a first experience of love. But instead, it only evoked a heavy feeling of loss, an unbearable pain in his chest, and a sharp desire to go back, to the past, to change what had happened. He didn’t remember who had taken that photograph.

He didn’t even remember the smell of the wildflowers that had surrounded them that day. He didn’t remember what they had said to each other, what they had dreamed about, or what they had planned for the future.

All that remained in his memory was a foggy, blurred image. The image of a girl with long, light, almost white hair, braided into a thick plait that fell almost to her waist.

The image of a girl with large, naive blue eyes, in which the whole world was reflected, with all its joys and sorrows, with all its mysteries and secrets. The image of a girl who had been his best friend, his only friend, his kindred spirit, his guardian angel.

He remembered how they loved to spend time together, escaping the boredom and grayness of the town in that endless field, where they could play, run, jump, shout at the top of their lungs, and do whatever they pleased. He remembered how they read books together, sitting under the shade of an old oak tree, and how the girl told him stories about distant countries, brave heroes, and magical creatures. He remembered how they drew pictures together, using charcoal found on the ground and colored chalk, and how the girl always praised his work, even if it wasn’t very good.

But most of all, he remembered their games with reflections.

They loved to find puddles after the rain, big and small, deep and shallow, and look at their reflection in the water. They said that in the reflection, the world seemed different, more beautiful, more mysterious, more interesting. That in the reflection, you could see what was impossible to see in real life, what was hidden from prying eyes.

The girl especially loved to look at her reflection. She could stand by a puddle for hours, admiring her face, her hair, her eyes, as if trying to solve some mystery hidden in the depths of her soul.

She said that in her reflection, she saw her true essence, her real «self,» which she couldn’t show to other people.

Once, when they were standing by a large puddle reflecting the blue sky and fluffy clouds, the girl said to him: «You should become an artist, Michael. You must learn to draw reflections. You must show the world what it could be like if you look at it from a different side, if you see it not as it really is, but as it could be.»

He had just smiled back then, embarrassed and a little confused. He didn’t know how to respond to those words. He was too young, too naive, too inexperienced to understand such things.

Despite all his efforts, he never managed to find his true essence, his real «self.»

He had lost it along with the girl from his childhood.

He didn’t know what had happened to her. He didn’t know where she had disappeared to. He didn’t know what had become of her. He didn’t know where she had gone. He only knew that one day she had simply vanished, as if dissolved into thin air, leaving him alone in this cruel and unjust world, full of pain and suffering.

He continued to look at the photograph lying on the table, as if trying to squeeze the last drops of memory from it. It seemed to him that if he looked long enough, if he concentrated hard enough, he could break through the thickness of time and return to that place, that time, to that self — the small, carefree boy who did not yet know what pain and fear were.

And suddenly…

His gaze caught on a detail he had never noticed before. Or rather, he had noticed it, but had never paid it much attention, considering it just an insignificant part of the landscape.

In the background of the photograph, behind their backs, between the sprawling branches of the trees, was visible…

A lake.

A small, quiet, mirror-like lake, as if lost in a green oasis. In the photograph, it seemed just a dark spot on the horizon, barely visible against the blue sky and fluffy clouds.

He had never thought about that lake before. It was just there, part of the landscape, a backdrop for their happy childhood games.

But now…

Now he saw something else in it.

Now he felt its pull, its alluring force, its hidden danger.

Now he remembered.

He remembered how he and her, his friend, his only friend, loved to go to that lake. They spent whole days there, enjoying the silence and peace, admiring the beauty of the surrounding nature. They loved to sit on the shore, dangling their feet in the cool water, and look at their reflection. They said that in the reflection, the world seemed different, more interesting and mysterious. That in the reflection, you could see what was impossible to see in real life.

They loved to tell each other stories, sharing their dreams and their fears. They felt free and happy, as if the whole world belonged to them.

He remembered her words: «You know, Michael, I think our reflection in the water is our true essence. It’s who we really are, without masks and pretense. It’s what we hide from other people, afraid they won’t understand or will judge us.»

Back then, he didn’t fully understand what she meant. He was too young and naive to understand such complex things.

But now, years later, looking at the photograph, he suddenly realized the full depth of her words.

He remembered what happened next.

They were at the lake again, enjoying the last warm days of the fading summer. They were sitting on the shore, looking at their reflection in the water and talking about their plans for the future.

A small, mute boy, standing on the shore of a dark, ominous lake. The water was black and still, like a mirror reflecting his own fear.

He already knew then that he was «different.» He couldn’t speak like the other children. Words got stuck in his throat like lumps of clay, refusing to come out. He was mute.

And suddenly…

They appeared.

Three bullies, older and stronger. Their faces were twisted with malice and contempt. Hatred burned in their eyes.

They emerged from behind the trees, as if deciding it was time for another «entertainment.» They walked straight towards him, clenching their fists, and he could see from their faces that he was in for trouble again. He couldn’t hear the words they were shouting, but even without words, he knew they were taunts and mockery, familiar as a morning nightmare.

They didn’t just insult him. They mocked his muteness. They made faces, pointing at his throat, as if trying to tear out what was never there.

They pushed him, kicked him, spat on him. They laughed at him, as if at a freak, a mistake of nature.

He tried to run away, but they intercepted him, roughly grabbing his arms. One of them, the tallest and meanest, spat at his feet and hissed: «Where do you think you’re going, mute? Think you can run from us?»

He tried to fight back, struggling and scratching, but they were too strong. They twisted his arms behind his back and dragged him towards the lake like a rag doll. «Let’s see if you’ll sing when you’ve swallowed some water,» another smirked, shoving him in the back.

«Maybe the fish will teach you to talk,» laughed the third, yanking his hair.

He understood what they were going to do.

They were going to drown him.

They were going to show him his place.

They were going to rid the world of the «mute trash,» as they called him.

He resisted as best he could, but they were stronger. They easily overpowered him and threw him into the cold water.

He flailed, choking and gasping for air. The water burned with cold, numbing his movements.

He felt his lungs filling with water, his body weakening, his consciousness fading.

He understood he was drowning.

And at that moment…

He saw his reflection. It was distorted, blurred, monstrous. He saw in it not only fear and pain but also… disgust.

Disgust for himself.

Disgust for his muteness that made him defenseless.

Disgust for his weakness that prevented him from fighting back.

He felt worthless, useless, deserving only of contempt.

He realized they were right.

He realized he deserved this.

He deserved to die.

He closed his eyes and stopped resisting.

He decided to drown.

He let himself go into the embrace of the dark, cold water, hoping it would be the end of his suffering.

But suddenly…

Something happened.

Someone’s hand touched him. Some force pulled him upward.

He felt himself being pulled out of the water, able to breathe again.

He opened his eyes and saw…

The sky.

A gray, joyless sky, as if reflecting his own state.

He lay on the shore, trembling all over and coughing up water.

He coughed, trying to catch his breath, and saw her. She was on her knees beside him, her face pale with fear, tears welling in her eyes. She was trembling as much as he was. She had pulled him out of the water.

He didn’t understand how she had managed it. She was small and fragile, while he — though not by much — was still bigger and stronger than her. But she had done it. She had saved him.

The bullies had disappeared. They had apparently gotten scared when they saw him drowning and had run away, leaving them alone.

She silently hugged him, holding him so tightly he could hardly breathe. But he didn’t pull away. He felt her warmth, her care, her love. And in that moment, he understood that she was all he had.

They sat on the shore for a long time, in silence, until the sun began to set. She warmed him with her body, and he warmed her with his gratitude.

When they returned home, he didn’t tell his parents what had happened. He was afraid they would scold him for going to the lake alone, or that they would try to shield him from the outside world. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be with her.

Chapter 2

The First Shot

From that day on, they became even closer. They spent all their free time together, as if afraid to miss a single moment. They walked around the town, discussing the books they had read, arguing heatedly about the meaning of life, and dreaming of a future where they would surely conquer the world. She, as always, was bursting with ideas, and he, silent and thoughtful, listened carefully, absorbing every word like a breath of fresh air.

She loved to tell him about the stars, about space, about black holes and the theory of relativity. She said that the cosmos was a reflection of our soul, that every person was a small universe, full of mysteries and secrets. «You know, Michael,» she would say, «I think if we could see the cosmos through God’s eyes, we would see our reflections there.»

She was a real treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom, despite her young age. She knew the verses of her favorite poets by heart, quoted philosophers, and pondered the meaning of existence with such a serious look that it sometimes made him laugh. But he never laughed at her. He respected her mind and her passion for knowledge.

Once, walking in the park, they came across an old chess player playing against himself. She suggested a game, and he, surprised by her boldness, agreed. She played like a real grandmaster, thinking several moves ahead and baffling him with complex combinations. He was amazed by her talent, and after the game, he told her: «Girl, you have a gift! You could become a world champion!» She just smiled and said: «Chess is just a reflection of life. You have to be able to see beyond the pieces on the board.»

They often went to the library where his mother worked. She was always happy to see them together and always found interesting books for them. She knew they loved to read and tried to encourage their interest in knowledge. «Books are mirrors, my children,» she would tell them, «they reflect our thoughts, our feelings, our dreams. Read more, and you will see the world from a different side.»

They read everything: novels, poetry, scientific treatises, historical chronicles. They discussed what they read, argued, agreed and disagreed with each other. They learned to think, analyze, doubt, and seek the truth.

And, of course, they went to the lake. They sat on the shore, looked at their reflection in the water, and talked about their plans for the future.

But something had changed.

He no longer saw disgust in his reflection. He saw gratitude. Gratitude for being alive, for having her, for being able to see this world.

School remained a place of torment for him. After the incident at the lake, the physical violence stopped, but the psychological terror continued. The bullies, like a pack of hyenas, sensed his weakness and continued to torment him, inventing new, more sophisticated ways to humiliate him.

They could put a dead mouse in his backpack, stain his clothes with paint, or simply lock him in the toilet, mocking his helplessness. The whisper of «Mute!» and the contemptuous looks followed him like an obsessive melody. He felt like an invisible man, a ghost, existing outside their world. He found solace only in her company, in her understanding eyes, in her quiet support.

Home wasn’t much easier. His parents, simple working-class people who were at the factory from morning till night, didn’t understand his love for books and his thirst for knowledge. They lived in a world where hard physical labor was valued, not «useless» reading. They thought he was wasting his time on trifles instead of helping them with the household.

«What are you always reading for?» his mother would grumble, wiping her greasy hands on her apron. «You’d be better off chopping wood or weeding the garden, that would be more useful. Instead, you sit there like a lord, flipping through books.»

His father, a man of few words and stern, would silently nod in agreement, occasionally muttering: «Learning is light, of course, but you need to have practical skills too.»

They didn’t understand his world, a world full of dreams, fantasies, and philosophical reflections. They wanted him to be «like everyone else,» not to stand out from the crowd, to be «normal.» They didn’t understand that he was «different,» that his silence was not a curse but rather a gift that allowed him to see the world more deeply and acutely.

He tried to explain to them that reading and reflection helped him understand the world, that this was his way of speaking, that he couldn’t express his thoughts in words but could express them through understanding. But they wouldn’t listen.

«You need to speak with your mouth, not with books,» his father would cut him off, banging his fist on the table. «And if your mouth doesn’t work, then at least work with your hands!»

His mother would add reproachfully: «You should have become a mechanic, like your father, you’d be priceless. But instead, you sit there, as if you’re not of this world.»

He felt lonely and misunderstood in his own home. It seemed to him that there was an insurmountable wall between him and his parents, built from misunderstanding, prejudice, and ignorance. He dreamed that they would try just once to understand him, to look at the world through his eyes just once. But he knew it was impossible.

His only refuge was her. She accepted him for who he was, with all his quirks and flaws. She saw in him what others did not — his intelligence, his kindness, his talent. She was his friend, his mentor, his muse. She inspired him, supported him, and made him believe in himself.

She often told him: «Michael, you must learn to love yourself for who you are. You must accept your silence as a part of yourself. You must understand that your strength is not in words, but in your eyes, in your heart, in your soul. You see the world differently than others, and you must show this to the world.»

She made him feel special, needed, valuable.

She taught him sign language so he could communicate with other people. At first, he was shy and awkward, but she patiently explained the signs, encouraged him, and praised him for every success. She turned learning sign language into a fun game, and soon he began to communicate freely with her and with other people who knew sign language.

She taught him to express his thoughts and feelings through drawings and poetry. She noticed he had a talent for drawing and gave him a set of paints and brushes. He started drawing everything he saw around him: landscapes, portraits, still lifes. His drawings were unusual and expressive, with a sense of depth and sincerity. She helped him unlock his creative potential.

But even her love and support couldn’t completely free him from feelings of inadequacy and fear of the future. He knew that one day he would have to leave this small town to find his place in the world. But he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to handle the difficulties, that his silence would become an insurmountable obstacle. It seemed to him that the world was too cruel and unfair for someone like him.

He began to notice beauty in simple things: in the sunbeams breaking through the foliage, in the dewdrops on the grass, in the smiles of passersby. He began to understand that the world wasn’t as cruel as he had thought before. But he also understood that this beauty was fragile and fleeting, and that it needed to be cherished and protected. He wanted to learn to capture this beauty, to preserve it for himself and for others.

It was then, as he was trying to find a way to express himself and preserve the beauty of the world around him, that he saw an old camera in a shop window. It beckoned him with its mysterious appearance, as if inviting him on an unknown journey.

She stopped next to him and, following his gaze, smiled softly. She always knew how to read his thoughts without words. «Do you like it?» she asked, and he just nodded, unable to take his eyes off the vintage apparatus.

They entered the shop and were immediately enveloped by the smell of antiquity and forgotten stories. Dusty shelves were crammed with all sorts of curiosities: old books, yellowed photographs, broken clocks, and other treasures of the past. Behind the counter, as if stepped out of an old photograph, stood the shopkeeper — a gray, wrinkled old man with thick-lensed glasses.

He smiled warmly and, adjusting his glasses, asked: «See something you like, young folks?»

She pointed to the camera in the window. The old man followed her gaze and, nodding, carefully took the camera out of the display.

«Ah, this Zenit…» he murmured, as if talking to an old friend. «A legendary device. Reliable as a Swiss watch, and capable of taking amazing shots. But it requires skill and patience. This isn’t a modern digital point-and-shoot; you have to think, adjust, feel the light.»

The old man started telling them about the camera, its mechanism, types of film, shutter speed, and aperture. He spoke with such passion that Michael was captivated, forgetting everything else. He realized that photography wasn’t just about pressing a button; it was an art that required knowledge, skill, and, most importantly, soul.

The old man handed the camera to Michael. «Try it,» he said.

Michael took the camera in his hands. It was heavy and cool, but he felt something resonate in his soul. He looked through the viewfinder and saw the world as if for the first time. Everything around became sharper, brighter, more interesting.

He raised the camera to his eye and began to focus. His hands trembled slightly with excitement. He felt like an artist who had been given a brush.

He understood that this was what he had been looking for. A tool with which he could speak without words, a tool with which he could express his thoughts and feelings, a tool with which he could capture the beauty of the world and share it with others.

He looked at her, and she understood everything without words. In her eyes, he saw support, understanding, and love. She smiled and nodded, as if blessing him on this new path.

«We’ll take it,» she told the old man.

The old man smiled back. «I’m glad. I feel this camera has found good hands. Remember, young folks, a real photograph isn’t just a snapshot; it’s a story. Tell your stories, show the world your soul.»

They left the shop, and Michael held the camera tightly to his chest. He felt happy and inspired, as if he had received a key to a door leading to a new, unexplored world. He couldn’t wait to start shooting, to capture the world around him, but he felt a little confused, like a child who had been given a complex toy.

She noticed this and, smiling, took his hand. «Don’t worry,» she said. «It’ll be fine. The main thing is not to be afraid to experiment and to trust your intuition.» She always knew how to find the right words to support him and give him confidence.

He looked at her and asked with his eyes: «What next?»

She thought for a moment, then with a sly smile replied: «Next, we go to the park and take your first shot. But not just any shot — a shot that will tell about you, about us, about our life.» It was as if she was challenging him, suggesting he not just capture a moment but create a work of art.

And they went to the park, where the trees whispered their secrets, the birds sang their songs, and the sun played in the leaves, creating intricate patterns of light and shadow. The park was their sanctuary, a place where they could hide from the cruelty of the world and feel safe.

They wandered through the park for a long time, looking for a suitable subject to photograph. She watched him carefully, trying to understand what attracted him, what moved him. She knew the first shot had to be special; it had to reflect his soul.

Finally, they stopped by an old pond overgrown with water lilies. On the surface of the water, as if in a mirror, the sky, trees, and clouds were reflected. The scene was mesmerizing and peaceful.

«There!» she exclaimed, and he knew she felt the same as he did.

She ran to an old, rickety bridge spanning the pond and, turning to him, gestured for him to come closer.

He approached the bridge, and she stood next to him, pressing her shoulder against his. «Take a picture of us,» she said. «Take a picture of us in the reflection of the pond. This will be our first photo together, a symbol of our friendship, a symbol of our love.»

He was a little taken aback. He had never photographed people before, especially in a reflection. But he trusted her, and he knew she wouldn’t advise anything bad.

He raised the camera, adjusted the focus, and put it to his eye. In the viewfinder, he saw their reflections in the pond: their faces, their hair, their eyes. He saw their souls reflected in the water, as if in a mirror.

He pressed the shutter button. The click of the shutter sounded loud and clear, like a shot. The moment was captured forever.

Chapter 3

The Voice of Reflections

He photographed the reflections of people, animals, buildings, trees. He photographed tirelessly, as if trying to fill some inner void, to quench an insatiable thirst. He believed that the truth, elusive to the eyes of ordinary people, was hidden in these reflections.

He caught reflections in puddles, turning gray streets into surreal canvases. He photographed shop windows, where reality mixed with illusion, and people reflected in the glass seemed like ghosts of their own desires. He photographed mirrors, capturing fleeting smiles, sad glances, and hidden emotions.

Day and night, in sun and rain, summer and winter — the camera was an extension of himself. He became the «reflection man,» an inconspicuous but ever-present witness to life.

But what did he feel? What went through his head when he saw the world, distorted, refracted, yet seemingly more real because of it?

Silence still reigned in his soul, but it was no longer the suffocating silence that had tormented him before. Now it was more like a deep breath before a leap, a silence filled with anticipation and the awareness of a great power hidden within him.

He often remembered the words she had said to him when they were seven: «The world is a mirror, Michael. And people only see in it what they want to see.» Her words were imprinted in his memory.

He understood: he had to see the world not as it seemed, but as it really was. He had to learn to «read» reflections like a book full of secrets.

One day, wandering the city streets, he saw a man sitting on a park bench, intently studying his reflection in his polished shoes. Michael couldn’t resist and took a few shots. When he developed the film, he was amazed: in the photograph, the man seemed deeply unhappy, his eyes full of sorrow, his face etched with despair. He realized he had seen not just a reflection, but the man’s soul.

He felt like a conduit, seeing what was hidden from others. He felt like a surgeon dissecting reality, revealing hidden layers and true feelings.

He wondered: what is truth? Does it even exist? Or is everything around just a play of shadows, an illusion we create for ourselves?

He read philosophy books, trying to find answers. He loved to quote: «Truth is what stands the test of experience.» — Albert Einstein.

And yet, the answers eluded him. He kept shooting, believing that with each new shot he would be one step closer to the solution.

Once, sitting in a cafe, he saw the reflection of a young couple in the mirror above the bar. They were laughing, hugging, and it seemed the whole world belonged to them. He took a picture, and when he developed it, their happiness seemed to have faded. He realized that behind this showy joy lay a fear of loneliness, uncertainty about the future. And then he concluded: «Reflections are like dreams: they show us what we hide even from ourselves.»

He continued on his path, tirelessly seeking the «voice of reflections.» His silence was no longer a curse; it had become his weapon. He saw the world differently than others, and he had to tell about it, to show what was hidden behind the glossy wrapper of reality.

One day, passing by an old cinema, he saw an announcement for a local photo exhibition. «The City in the Mirror: Reflections of Everyday Life» read the inscription. Smiling to himself, he thought this was his chance to make a name for himself.

Selecting a dozen of his best works, he went to the House of Culture where the exhibition was to be held. He was met by a plump woman in a strict suit and a sour expression.

«Hello, I’d like to submit an application for your exhibition,» he wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

The woman, giving him a contemptuous look, took his photographs and started looking through them. «What is this?» she sneered. «Gloomy, depressive, no color. We need something more positive, something that will please the eye.»

Michael tried to explain that his photographs weren’t just pretty pictures, that they had deep meaning, that they reflected reality as it is. But the woman interrupted him: «Young man, this isn’t a club for alcoholics; we need good photographs.»

Unable to bear it, he snatched his works from her hands and was about to leave, but then a young guy standing next to the woman intervened. «Wait,» he said. «I think there’s something in these works. They’re unusual, they make you think.»

The woman snorted disapprovingly, but the guy, ignoring her, turned to Michael: «I’m the curator of this exhibition. Leave your works; I’ll look at them. If I like them, I’ll definitely include them.»

Michael, hesitating a little, agreed. The guy smiled and shook his hand.

On the day of the opening, Michael, nervous, approached the House of Culture. There were many people, music was playing, everyone was talking animatedly. He went inside and started looking for his photographs.

They weren’t there.

He walked around the entire exhibition but couldn’t find his works. Disappointed and angry, he went to the curator to find out what had happened.

He found him in a corner of the hall, arguing animatedly with the same woman. «I told you these photographs were no good!» she shouted. «They ruin the whole exhibition!»

Michael, unable to contain himself, ran up to them and tried to explain what had happened. But the woman, seeing him, laughed: «Ah, it’s you, young man! What did you expect? Did you think anyone would be interested in your gloomy pictures? You’re mistaken!»

He tried to answer her, but she cut him off: «Get out of here before I call the police!»

The curator intervened: «Please, no quarrels. I think we can find a compromise.»

«What compromise?» the woman shrieked. «I won’t allow these works to hang in my exhibition!»

Unexpectedly, a drunk visitor interrupted the conversation. «What’s all the yelling about?» he grumbled. «Let people enjoy the art!»

The woman, outraged by his insolence, pushed him, and he, losing his balance, fell to the floor. A scuffle broke out.

In the chaos, Michael decided he didn’t belong there. He left, feeling humiliated and insulted.

But, stepping outside, he looked at his reflection in a shop window and saw not defeat but strength. He realized he didn’t need this exhibition, that his photographs spoke for themselves. And he would continue his path, no matter what.

He left the exhibition, a lump of resentment and disappointment in his throat. The thought pulsed in his head: «Am I really worth nothing?» The smell of the cheap perfume the woman had been doused in seemed especially repulsive now. He wanted to wash, to wash off all the falseness and hypocrisy.

He walked down the street, head down, trying not to look at anyone. The city, which had once seemed a source of inspiration, now pressed down on him with its gray walls and the indifferent faces of passersby. He wanted to run, to hide, to disappear.

He remembered his grandmother’s words: «The world is cruel, grandson, but don’t let it break you. Be like a river — flow around obstacles but don’t change your course.» But now he felt not like a river, but like a small pebble thrown to the mercy of fate.

Suddenly, his attention was drawn by noise from a sports ground. A group of teenagers, dressed in bright tracksuits, were playing basketball enthusiastically. Their laughter, shouts, and the sound of the ball echoed through the area, creating an atmosphere of carefree fun.

Michael stopped and watched them. He remembered how he himself had loved playing basketball, how he had dreamed of becoming a famous athlete. But then he lost his voice, and with it, his dream.

He imagined approaching them now, offering to play a game. But he knew his silence would be an insurmountable barrier. He was «mute,» «different,» he didn’t fit into their world.

At that moment, the ball, as if released by the hand of fate, flew out of bounds and rolled right to his feet. He picked up the ball, feeling its rough surface in his palms, and was about to throw it back, but one of the teenagers, a tall, self-confident guy with a bold look, ran up to him and snatched the ball from his hands.

«What are you staring at, like a sheep at a new gate?» he asked rudely, reeking of sweat and cheap cologne. «Never seen a ball before?»

Michael tried to explain with gestures that he just wanted to help, but the guy, curling his lip contemptuously, interrupted him: «Oh, you’re mute. What’s the point of talking to you. Get out of here, don’t bother us.»

He pushed Michael on the shoulder, and Michael, losing his balance, almost fell. He felt anger boiling inside him, a wave of hurt and humiliation rising.

He tried to leave, but the guy, as if sensing his weakness, blocked his path. «What’s that you’ve got there?» he smirked, pointing to his camera. «Let me see.»

He tried to snatch the camera from his hands, but Michael, mustering all his strength, pushed him away. The camera, slipping from his hands, fell to the asphalt with a dull thud. The lens shattered into tiny pieces, glittering in the sun like tears.

The world seemed to freeze. Smells, sounds, colors — all disappeared. Only pain remained, sharp, burning pain of loss. The camera was his voice, his means of expression. Now he was mute again, helpless again.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, mixing with dirt and dust. He felt broken, destroyed.

The teenagers, seeing his tears, burst out laughing. «Look, the mute is crying!» one of them yelled, pointing at him. «What, sorry about your toy?»

At that moment, something in him snapped. Forgetting his fear, his muteness, his helplessness, he rushed at the teenagers with his fists. He hit them fiercely and desperately, pouring out all his pain, all his rage, all his hatred.

But there were more of them, and they quickly pinned him down. They threw him to the ground and started kicking him, shouting insults and curses. Pain pierced his body, but he didn’t give up, continuing to resist, continuing to fight.

He lay on the ground, his back against the cold, rough asphalt. The taste of blood in his mouth, mixed with tears, reminded him of spilled milk and the futility of regret. Pain pierced his body, but worse was the feeling of his own worthlessness and humiliation. The thought pulsed in his head: «Why does this always happen to me?»

And suddenly, through the fog of pain and despair, he saw a strange figure approaching them. It wasn’t a superhero from a comic book, not an avenging angel, but… an old man. Skinny as a rake, in a worn, weathered tweed jacket, with a huge, comically tied scarf around his neck and a cane that he twirled deftly in his hand like a seasoned musketeer.

The old man, emitting a battle cry resembling a crow’s caw, descended upon the teenagers, brandishing his cane like a samurai sword. «Get out of here, hooligans! Leave the boy alone!» he shouted with a strong accent that placed his origins somewhere between France and Italy.

The teenagers, stunned by the unexpected attack, backed away, showering the old man with curses. «Come on, old man, mind your own business! Or you’ll get it too!» growled the largest of them.

«I said — leave, or I’ll call the police!» the old man rasped, and his voice suddenly held such conviction that the teenagers, exchanging glances, decided not to push their luck and, spitting at their feet, retreated.

The old man, breathing heavily, knelt beside Michael. «Are you okay, kid?» he asked, offering a trembling, wrinkled hand.

Michael nodded, accepting the help. The old man helped him up and carefully examined his bruised face. «They really did a number on you,» he muttered, taking an old-fashioned handkerchief from his pocket and carefully dabbing the blood. «But it’s nothing, a bit of Scotch and a bandage will fix it.»

The old man introduced himself: «My name is Jean-Pierre. I’m a photographer. Or rather, I was. I saw you shooting reflections. You have talent, kid.»

Michael looked at him in surprise. How did this eccentric old man know about his hobby?

Jean-Pierre smiled, as if reading his thoughts. «I see the world differently, my friend. I see the reflections of souls. It’s a curse and a blessing, you understand?»

Jean-Pierre took Michael to his home. His dwelling, located in an old, dilapidated building, resembled a treasure trove more than an ordinary apartment. Stacks of books, boxes of photographs, broken cameras, dusty statuettes, and other curiosities were piled everywhere. The air was thick with the smell of old paper, developer, strong coffee, and, strangely, cat hair. A huge striped cat lounged lazily in an old leather armchair, observing them condescendingly.

«Welcome to my humble abode,» Jean-Pierre said, waving a hand at the clutter. «Here you will find shelter, inspiration, and perhaps a little… chaos. But don’t worry, chaos is just order waiting for its time, you understand?» He winked, and mischievous sparks glittered in his eyes.

He seated Michael in an old, sagging armchair and handed him a cup of aromatic tea with lemon. «Drink, this will warm you up and calm your nerves. You’re pale as a ghost, and your eyes are like a frightened deer’s. If it were up to me, I’d give you a shot of brandy, but you’re too young for that.» He took a sip from his own small cup and grunted with satisfaction.

That evening, Jean-Pierre told Michael about his life, full of adventures, passions, and disappointments. He spoke of photography as a way to stop time, to capture fleeting beauty, and to tell stories that couldn’t be expressed in words.

«Photography isn’t just a craft, my boy,» he said, taking a drag from his cigarette and releasing smoke that immediately dispersed in the sunbeams filtering through the dusty window. «It’s the art of seeing, feeling, understanding. It’s the ability to look into a person’s soul and show their true face. You know, as the great photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson said: „To photograph is to put one’s head, one’s eye, and one’s heart on the same axis.“ That says a lot.»

Jean-Pierre stood up and went to an old cabinet stuffed with photo albums. He took one out and handed it to Michael. «Look, these are my works. My whole life is here. From Paris to Tokyo, from war reportage to portraits of ordinary people. Be a time traveler.»

Michael started flipping through the album. The photographs captured different people, different countries, different eras. He saw Parisian clochars who seemed like kings, Venetian gondoliers carrying eternity on their shoulders, African hunters whose eyes held the secrets of the wild, Russian peasants whose faces were etched with wrinkles like old maps. He saw war, famine, poverty, but also love, joy, hope.

Jean-Pierre’s photographs were stunning. They had life, passion, truth. They screamed of pain, love, hope. Michael realized he was facing a true master, a man who had dedicated his life to photography.

«You lost your voice, kid,» Jean-Pierre said when Michael finished looking at the album. «But you found another way to speak. Don’t betray your gift. Keep shooting, keep searching, keep speaking with your silence.» He sighed, and his eyes gleamed. «Remember, a true artist sees not what is, but what could be. Look for that ’could be’ in every shot.»

Jean-Pierre walked to the window and looked at the city plunged into night darkness. «The world is full of reflections,» he said. «You just need to learn to see them. You need to learn to look beyond the surface, to seek the hidden meaning. You know, as Oscar Wilde said: „Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.“ You must find your own beauty, your own meaning, and tell about it.»

That evening, Michael realized he had met not just a stranger, but a true friend, a mentor, a teacher. A person who could help him find his path in life.

He felt a fire of hope ignite in his soul. He was no longer alone. He had Jean-Pierre. He was like a lighthouse in his life’s storm.

He looked at Jean-Pierre and said with his eyes: «I will shoot. I will search. I will speak with my silence.»

Jean-Pierre smiled and nodded. «I know, kid. I believe in you. And now, let’s have some more tea and discuss your plans for the future.»

Chapter 4

City of Sins

The gray dawn slowly blurred the blackness of the night as the bus, rattling, drove out of his small provincial town. Michael sat by the window, clutching his old camera. It had become his talisman, his weapon, his voice. Ahead lay the metropolis, the city he had heard so many contradictory stories about, the city that beckoned with its lights and frightened with its unknown. The City of Sins.

Jean-Pierre, seeing him off, had said: «Remember, my boy, the city is like the sea. It is cruel and beautiful, it can shelter you, or it can swallow you. Don’t fear the waves, but don’t forget your compass. Look for reflections. They will tell you the truth. Remember the words of Exupery: „It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.“»

Jean-Pierre’s words echoed in his head, instilling both hope and anxiety. He felt like an explorer setting off on a dangerous but exciting journey.

The bus, like a huge whale, made its way through the night streets, cutting through them with its headlights. Outside the window, lights, people, cars, signs flashed by… Michael, pressed against the glass, greedily absorbed the new impressions. Skyscrapers, like giant mirrors, reflected the city lights, creating an illusion of infinite space. The lights of advertisements, like bright spots on a night canvas, blinded the eyes.

He remembered Jean-Pierre’s words that photographs were a way to stop a moment, to capture the truth. He took out his camera and started figuring out how he would shoot.

Soon the bus entered the very center of the city, and Michael was overcome by a feeling comparable only to panic. Noise, bustle, smells — a mixture of exhaust fumes, cheap perfume, and fried food — assailed him from all sides. Huge crowds of people scurried back and forth, like ants in an anthill, each with their own affairs, worries, dreams, and fears.

Michael got off the bus at a huge square. Street musicians played lively music, their melodies intertwining with the hum of cars and the voices of passersby. Vendors called out to customers, outshouting each other. The smell of roasted chestnuts mixed with the aroma of shawarma and exhaust fumes.

He felt lost, lonely, adrift in this seething chaos. But then he remembered Jean-Pierre’s advice and pulled himself together. «Look for reflections,» he whispered to himself.

Taking out his camera, he started shooting, as if trying to grasp the elusive reality. He shot the reflection of a huge building in a puddle after the rain, showing its grandeur and fragility. He shot the tired faces of passersby reflected in the windows of expensive shops, capturing the contrast between rich and poor. He captured street musicians reflected in the polished shoes of a passing businessman.

Suddenly, his gaze stopped on a girl standing at the entrance to a nightclub. Her bright red hair, like tongues of flame, stood out from the crowd. She was dressed in a black leather jacket and faded jeans, and her whole appearance exuded a kind of defiant beauty. She was smoking, slowly exhaling smoke, and seemed to be watching him specifically. Her gaze held curiosity and something else he couldn’t understand.

He pointed his camera at her and captured her reflection in the club’s mirrored door. She immediately smiled, as if understanding his intention. She looked mysterious and unattainable, like a heroine from a noir film.

It was at that moment that Michael realized: the City of Sins was not only darkness but also light. Not only dirt but also beauty. He understood he had something to tell this city. «Art, like life, is a reflection. It reflects you and opens up the world.» — Jean-Pierre.

The girl, noticing his interest, pushed off the wall and headed towards him. Michael froze, his heart pounding wildly. His muteness, usually a barrier, now turned into a shield, hiding him from the unfamiliar reality.

She approached him, stopping a few steps away. Her gaze was piercing, as if she saw right through him. Her smile was both challenging and disarming.

«Hey, photographer,» she said, and her voice sounded hoarse, as if she had smoked her whole life, «Did you like my reflection? Or do you prefer shooting shadows?»

Michael, unable to utter a word, just nodded, not taking his eyes off her face. He studied her features: high cheekbones, expressive eyes, thin lips touched with lipstick. He saw in her not only beauty but also a mystery.

«Interesting,» she said, examining his camera with genuine curiosity. «Old school. I thought such things were only in museums now. What’s your name, quiet one?»

He took a notepad and pen from his pocket and wrote his name.

Scarlett read his name, nodded, and smiled. «Michael… Sounds nice. I’m Scarlett. Nice to meet you, Michael. You know, I have a special sense for people like you. I’ve always loved photographs. There’s something in them that no painting, no word can convey. You can stop time, catch a moment, look into a soul.

As one genius of photography, Henri Cartier-Bresson, said, «Photography is the recognition both of what you see and of how you feel.» Anyway, I adore photographers.»

She fell silent, looking at him appraisingly.

«Listen, Michael,» she said suddenly, «I work at this club. Tonight we’re having a crazy party, a real shindig. Maybe you’ll drop by? Take some pictures? We need fresh faces.»

Michael hesitated, thinking it over. He had never been to a nightclub, but for some reason, he felt he needed to. There was something attractive, though frightening, about this place. It was a chance to break out of the usual routine, to see a new world that would open up new possibilities for him.

He nodded in agreement, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.

«Great!» Scarlett rejoiced, and her eyes sparkled. «Then I’ll expect you. Come at ten. Ask for Scarlett at the entrance. It’s always a mess there, but it’s fun.» She winked and, turning around, slipped into the darkness of the club.

Michael remained standing on the square, feeling both excitement and trepidation. He knew that tonight something special awaited him. He took out his phone and wrote to Jean-Pierre about his new encounter.

There was a lot of time until evening, and Michael decided not to waste it. He went wandering around the city, as if hoping to find answers to his questions in the reflections.

He went into an old church, where multicolored light fell through the stained-glass windows, creating intricate patterns on the floor. He shot the reflection of the vaults in a puddle after the rain, seeing in it both the heavens and sins. He looked into an abandoned house, where graffiti on the walls mixed with glimmers in broken mirrors, demonstrating a world that was crumbling. He went into a cheap diner, where a rumpled waiter in a stained apron seemed frozen in eternal sadness, reflected in the murky window.

He shot and shot, feeling his muteness recede, giving way to the language of photography. He understood: Photography is the art of seeing what is hidden. Photography is a way to speak when words are powerless. His journey had only just begun.

In the evening, he returned to the square where he had met Scarlett and headed to the club. He felt a mixture of fear and curiosity. He took a deep breath and went inside.

Loud music, bright lights, crowds of drunk, cheerful people — it all hit him like a hurricane. He felt stunned and lost, but… intrigued.

He went up to the bouncer and asked for Scarlett. The bouncer, looking him over appraisingly, pointed to a girl standing behind the bar. She was even more beautiful than during the day. Her red hair shone in the spotlight, and her eyes sparkled with mischief and some wild energy.

She noticed him and, smiling widely, waved.

«Hey, photographer! Glad you came. Ready to dive into the madness?» Scarlett shouted over the roar of the music, which seemed to make his insides vibrate. She waved to the bartender, and he immediately brought Michael a glass of mineral water and her some poisonously pink cocktail that looked like window cleaner.

Michael nodded, feeling adrenaline mix with timid curiosity. Stepping inside the «Venus» club, he immediately immersed himself in the thick, intoxicating atmosphere of the night world. The bass shook his chest, strobe lights hurt his eyes, and the crowd, consisting of all sorts of characters, moved in some disjointed rhythm.

The club was packed: there were sleek types in expensive suits, dressed-up girls on stilettos, punk teenagers with piercings, tired waiters, and bouncers with stone faces. The air was thick with the smell of cheap alcohol, sweet perfume, cigarette smoke, and sweat.

Scarlett, noticing his confusion, took his hand and led him through the dance floor, deftly maneuvering between dancing bodies. «Don’t be afraid,» she shouted in his ear. «There are rules here, but basically it’s simple: be yourself, do what you want, and don’t worry about other people’s opinions. And remember: everything you see here stays here.» She winked and added, looking at his mineral water: «What, allergic to alcohol? Come on, everyone’s a little crazy here. Relax!»

She led him to a small table in a secluded corner. «This is my observation post,» she explained. «Great view of all this madness.» Then Scarlett leaned towards him and said confidentially: «But keep your eyes open. This city is like a jungle, and here, at the „Venus,“ all kinds of predators gather.»

Michael sat down at the table and took out his camera. He started taking pictures, as if trying to capture everything he saw around him. He shot dancing couples whose bodies merged in an ecstatic dance, he shot laughing people whose faces were distorted by unrestrained merriment, he shot the tired faces of bartenders wiping glasses, he shot reflections in the mirrored ball spinning under the ceiling. He tried to capture the essence of this place, to capture its atmosphere, to show its truth.

After a while, he saw a fight break out on the dance floor. Two tipsy guys, shoving each other, suddenly snapped and started throwing punches. The bouncers immediately rushed over and broke up the fighters, but Michael managed to take a few shots.

These photographs evoked mixed feelings in him: on one hand, disgust and disappointment, on the other — interest and even sympathy. He thought: «What made these people lose control? What is hidden behind their aggression?»

Soon a singer came on stage. She was dressed in a sparkling dress that seemed to be made entirely of sequins, and her face was hidden under a layer of bright makeup. She began to sing a song about unhappy love, and her voice held so much pain that Michael couldn’t help but sympathize with her. He photographed her, trying to convey the tragedy of her image.

But his gaze was suddenly drawn to a girl sitting in a darkened corner of the club. She wasn’t dancing, laughing, or drinking. She just sat there, silently staring into emptiness. Her eyes held such sadness and hopelessness that Michael couldn’t look away. He felt he had to go to her, talk to her, learn her story.

And then she noticed him. Their eyes met, and Michael felt a strange connection arise between them. She slowly approached him, and he noticed that she was beautiful, despite the sadness frozen in her eyes.

«Hi,» she said quietly. «I saw you taking pictures. You’re a photographer?» Her voice was hushed, as if she was afraid of being heard. She spoke with a slight accent that Michael couldn’t place. He felt her gaze penetrating his very soul, as if she was studying him like a rare exhibit.

Michael nodded, feeling goosebumps run down his skin. Her presence affected him strangely. She seemed to emit a special energy that attracted him like a magnet. He caught himself wanting to get to know her better.

He handed her his notepad, and Lisa read what was written: «Michael.»

«I’m Lisa,» she repeated, smiling slightly. «Nice to meet you, Michael. Have you been in this city long? It’s like the song says, ’everyone chooses for themselves’ — a woman, a religion, a road.»

Michael, trying not to look her in the eye, nodded again, confirming her words. He felt awkward and helpless, unable to sustain a conversation. His muteness made him a passive observer, depriving him of the chance to express himself.

«I haven’t been here long either,» she said, as if reading his thoughts. «I came to start with a clean slate. You know, as my grandmother used to say, ’a new home — a new fate.» But so far, it’s not working out very well.» She smiled sadly, and a shadow crossed her eyes.

Michael looked at her sympathetically. He understood her feelings. He, too, was looking for his path in this big, foreign city.

Lisa was silent for a moment, then asked: «And what do you photograph? What do you want to say with your photographs?»

Michael thought about it. He had never asked himself that question before. He just photographed what he saw, what he felt.

Taking the notepad, he wrote: «I want to show the truth. The truth about life, about people, about myself.»

Lisa read his words carefully and nodded. «Truth,» she repeated. «That’s very difficult. In this city, truth is the hardest thing to find. Everyone here plays roles, wears masks, hides their true faces. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s in this chaos, in this lie, that the real truth is hidden.»

She hesitated slightly, as if choosing her words, and then suddenly said: «Will you show me your photographs?»

Michael, without thinking, nodded and took an album with his works out of his bag. He was a little nervous showing them to her. He was afraid she wouldn’t understand him, that she wouldn’t see anything special in his work.

But Lisa looked at his photographs with great interest. She peered intently at each image, as if trying to decipher some complex code. She asked him questions, asked him to tell her what he felt when he took those shots.

«This photograph, where the old man is reflected in the shop window,» she said, pointing to one of the shots, «it’s very powerful. There’s so much pain, so much loneliness in it. It’s like a mirror reflecting an old man with sad eyes.»

«And this one, where the two lovers are kissing in the park in the rain. Did you want to show love, or show that you can’t do that?»

«And this shot, where the street musician is reflected in a puddle,» she continued analyzing his shots, «it’s just amazing! There’s so much hope, so much faith in something better in it.»

She understood him, felt him, saw his soul. She was the first person who truly appreciated his talent.

Noticing the photographs of reflected buildings, Lisa asked him a question: «People build houses, but they don’t build relationships, so why do we need houses then?»

«Photography is like a letter you write to the world,» she inserted a quote, as if knowing that was what he wanted to say, and that she was well-versed in it.

He felt incredibly happy.

Then Lisa took her tablet out of her bag and showed him some of her own work. On her screen were photographs of the city, photographs of people, photographs of nature. Her works were bright, unusual, and a little strange.

Michael looked at her shots with interest, and she explained what she wanted to say with them: «Look, here I wanted to show the chaos that happens in the city, in this metropolis. And look here, in this one, I wanted to show that beauty can be in the little things.»

They sat talking in the language of photography until morning. They had found a kindred spirit in each other.

When the first rays of sun broke through the curtains, Lisa said: «You know, Michael,» she said his name tenderly, «you’re a talented photographer. Keep shooting, keep searching for your truth. And don’t be afraid to be yourself. The world needs people like you.»

She smiled at him in farewell and left the club.

Michael was left alone, but he no longer felt lonely. He had Lisa, Jean-Pierre, and his talent. Now he had something to live for and something to tell the world.

Lisa’s words fell like seeds onto the fertile soil of his soul and began to sprout, filling his heart with warmth and inspiration. He was determined to prove to her that he was worth something, that his photographs really could tell the world something important.

The sun, peeking over the horizon, painted the city in soft pastel tones. Michael, leaving the «Venus» club, took a deep breath of the morning air, trying to clear his lungs of tobacco smoke and the smell of cheap alcohol. He felt a little worn out after a sleepless night, but at the same time filled with a kind of frantic energy. He wanted to create, to shoot, to tell stories.

He had about three hundred dollars left in his pocket — all he had managed to save working in his hometown. That should have been enough for the first while, but he needed to find a job as soon as possible.

Jean-Pierre, seeing him off to the city, had advised: «Look for housing in the old districts, my boy. The atmosphere there is special. There you will feel the pulse of the city, its history, its soul. And remember, the most important thing is the people around you. Neighbors can become your family.»

Michael decided to follow his advice and went looking for a suitable place to live. He headed to a district where, according to rumors, artists, musicians, and other creative types lived. It was an old neighborhood, with narrow streets, dilapidated houses, and an abundance of graffiti on the walls. An atmosphere of freedom, creativity, and a certain anarchy reigned here.

He went into the first real estate agency he came across, hoping for luck. In a small, stuffy room that smelled of dust and cheap air freshener, a plump woman with dyed red hair and a haughty expression sat at a desk piled with papers. She was engrossed in reading a glossy magazine, paying no attention to the newcomer.

Michael waited patiently for her to finish. Finally, the woman, tearing herself away from her reading, looked at him with a displeased expression.

«What do you want?» she asked in a sharp voice.

Michael took out his notepad and wrote: «I’m looking for a room.»

The woman shrugged indifferently.

«A room? Let me see. Who are you, anyway? Where’s the money from?»

Michael wrote again: «I’m a photographer. I have money.»

The woman, squinting, gave him an appraising look.

«Alright,» she said. «There’s one little room. A shed, really, but it’s cheap. Five hundred dollars a month, plus a deposit. Suit you?»

Michael, without thinking, nodded. He understood this was his chance.

«Well, then come on, I’ll show you,» the woman grunted, getting up from the table.

They went outside and walked a few blocks. Finally, they stopped in front of an old, dilapidated house, its facade covered in cracks and graffiti. There were no curtains in the windows, and the front door creaked like an old gate.

«Here we are,» the woman said, pointing to the house. «Your «Parisian evenings’ will be here.»

They went up to the third floor on a creaky staircase lit by a dim bulb. The hallway smelled of dampness and mold.

The woman took out a key and opened the door to a small room. The room was small and shabby. Peeling paint on the walls, an old bed, a wobbly table, and a lopsided wardrobe constituted the entire furnishings. In the corner stood a well-worn armchair upholstered in worn velvet.

The room’s only decoration was a window overlooking a courtyard where an old tree grew, dotted with birds’ nests.

There was nothing special about this room, but Michael felt it had been waiting for him. He felt a special atmosphere here, the spirit of the old city, the spirit of freedom and creativity. Here he could be himself, create, dream.

«Well, what do you say? Taking it?» the woman asked.

Michael, without hesitation, nodded and wrote in his notepad: «I’ll take it.»

The woman took his money, handed him the keys, wished him «a pleasant stay,» and left.

Michael was left alone in his new room. He looked around and smiled. Yes, it was far from perfect, but it was his place. It was his beginning.

He made the bed and unpacked his things. He took out Jean-Pierre’s photographs and hung them on the walls to fill the emptiness a little. Then he sat by the window and looked out into the courtyard.

Soon he met his new neighbors.

In the apartment across from him lived a young artist named Chloe. She was eccentric and sociable. She often dropped by to see Michael, told him about her life, showed him her paintings, and treated him to homemade cookies.

On the floor below lived an old jazz musician named Bill. Every evening he played the saxophone, filling the house with magical music. Michael often listened to him, sitting by the window, and dreamed of one day becoming a famous photographer.

And on the floor above lived a strange couple who constantly argued, shouted, and stomped their feet. Their voices could be heard throughout the house.

His life was getting better.

One evening, after a long walk around the city, he returned to his room. He looked out the window and saw his new home reflected in the moonlight. It was old, dilapidated, but it was his home.

Taking out his notepad, he wrote: «Home isn’t about the walls, but about the people who surround you.»

The morning greeted Michael with a cacophony of sounds: the cooing of pigeons outside the window, the rumble of passing cars, and, of course, the enchanting sounds of old Bill’s saxophone. The music flowed from under his windows like thick honey, filling the room with sadness and hope simultaneously. Michael went to the window and looked down. Bill, as always, was standing on his balcony, clutching his old saxophone. His eyes were closed, and his face expressed bliss.

Michael thought: «What power there is in this music! It can heal the soul, comfort the heart, give hope. Art is like a medicine that cures all diseases.»

But right now, he needed to think not about music, but about his daily bread. The money he had brought with him was melting like snow in the sun. He urgently needed to find a job.

He went downstairs and knocked on Bill’s door. The old man opened the door, dressed in a greasy bathrobe and worn-out slippers. His face told a whole story, full of joys and losses.

«Ah, it’s you, kid,» Bill said, recognizing Michael. «Something wrong? Is my music bothering you?»

Michael smiled and shook his head. He took out his notepad and wrote: «Thank you for the music. It’s very beautiful. It inspires me.»

Bill grinned, revealing a gap-toothed mouth. «Music is my life, kid. It’s my love, my pain, my passion. Without it, I’d just die. You know, as Louis Armstrong said, „If I don’t play, I don’t live.“» He paused, then asked, as if reading his thoughts: «And what are you doing here? Are you a musician too?»

Michael shook his head again and wrote: «I’m a photographer. Looking for work. Almost out of money.»

Bill thought, scratching his gray stubble. «Work… Hmm… Maybe I can help you somehow. I have a friend, Alex, owns a cafe. A good place, cozy. Maybe he needs a photographer. He’s a young guy, creative.»

Michael’s face lit up with a smile. «Really? That would be great! I’d be very grateful.»

Bill laughed, looking at his joy. «Well, don’t celebrate too early. It’s just a cafe. But you have to start somewhere, right? Okay, here’s the address. Tell him Bill sent you.»

He handed him a scrap of paper with the cafe’s address. Michael thanked him heartily and promised to come to the concert that evening.

The cafe turned out to be small and cozy, with a sign that read «Cozy Corner.» Inside, it smelled of freshly brewed coffee, cinnamon, and fresh pastries. Paintings by local artists hung on the walls, and an old piano stood in the corner. A young guy with a good-natured face stood behind the counter.

Michael approached him and gestured that he wanted to talk.

«You must be the photographer Bill told me about?» the guy guessed, smiling.

Michael nodded.

«Great! My name is Alex. Bill said you’re a talented guy. We actually need a photographer. We want to update the menu, take photos for the website, attract new customers.»

Michael nodded enthusiastically, took out his camera, and got to work. He photographed coffee, pastries, the cafe’s customers. He tried to capture live moments, convey the atmosphere of warmth and coziness. He felt he was doing what he loved, and it gave him strength.

Alex really liked his shots. He offered Michael a job with good pay, a free lunch, and the opportunity to exhibit his work in the cafe.

Michael was over the moon. Everything was working out wonderfully!

He worked at the cafe for several days. He enjoyed shooting, communicating with people, listening to the stories they told. He felt like a part of this place, a part of this life.

One evening, returning home after work, he got caught in the rain. The city seemed gray and dreary, but Michael felt warm and joyful inside. He thought about Lisa, her words, her smile.

He went into a small flower shop and bought a modest bouquet of daisies. He wanted to thank Lisa for her support and inspiration, to give her a little summer warmth on this rainy evening.

Approaching the «Venus» club, Michael saw Lisa standing at the entrance. She was smoking a cigarette, and the ember, flaring up and dying down, cast strange shadows on her face. She was in her usual attire: black leather jacket, ripped jeans, heavy boots. She seemed both strong and vulnerable.

He was a little nervous; he wanted Lisa to like this modest token of attention. He hoped the daisies, bought at a nearby stall, would brighten her gray days at least a little.

Seeing Michael, she smiled, but the smile was strained, as if painted over an old resentment. Something’s wrong, Michael thought.

«Hi, Michael,» she said quietly. «What are you doing here? Came to watch the nightlife?»

Michael, feeling awkward, handed her the bouquet. The daisies in his hand seemed too simple and naive for this place, for this girl.

Lisa looked at the flowers in surprise, her eyebrows slightly raised. Then she looked at Michael, and something like confusion flashed in her eyes.

And at that moment, a man burst out of the club doors like an angry bull. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a short haircut and a vicious expression. He was wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans. His whole appearance screamed self-confidence and aggression.

«Lisa, for fuck’s sake, where have you been? I almost killed everyone looking for you!» he roared, putting his arm around Lisa’s shoulders as if marking his property. He smelled of cheap beer and cigarettes.

His voice was loud, harsh, and rough.

Fear flashed in Lisa’s eyes, and she instinctively pulled away from Mark.

«Who’s this?» Mark asked, scorching Michael with his gaze. «Another admirer? Or just decided to hit on my girlfriend?»

Tension hung in the air, like before a storm. Michael felt his heart pounding, blood rushing to his cheeks. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. His damned muteness deprived him of the ability to defend himself, to explain the situation.

Lisa tried to say something, making excuses, but Mark interrupted her.

«Shut up, Lisa! I’ll handle this myself.» He snatched the bouquet from the girl’s hands, crumpled the flowers, and threw them on the dirty asphalt. «That’s where your daisies belong!» he said, smirking maliciously.

Rage boiled inside Michael, but he knew he couldn’t rise to the provocation. He just clenched his fists, trying to keep himself in check.

Mark took a step towards Michael, looming over him threateningly. «Listen to me, kid,» he hissed, «Stay away from Lisa. She’s mine. And if I see you near her again, I swear, you’ll regret you were ever born.»

Lisa, mustering courage, pushed Mark aside. «Enough, Mark! Stop it right now! He didn’t do anything to me.»

Mark looked at her contemptuously. «You’ll regret this, Lisa. You’ll dance to my tune yet.»

He spat at Michael’s feet and, turning around, disappeared into the club doors.

Lisa looked at Michael with a guilty expression. Tears welled in her eyes. «I’m sorry, Michael,» she whispered. «Mark… he’s just very jealous. I don’t know what came over him.»

Michael, unable to utter a word, just took her hand and squeezed it slightly in a gesture of comfort.

She turned away, trying to hide her emotions. What was left for him to do?

He looked at the crumpled flowers lying on the asphalt and felt a piercing pain in his chest. That bouquet contained his hopes, his feelings, his dreams. And it had all been trampled, ground into the dirt.

Taking out his notepad, he wrote: «Don’t worry. Are you okay?»

He tried to smile as best he could.

«I have to go,» she wrote in response. «Take care of yourself.»

He nodded, understanding there was nothing more for him to do here. He turned and walked away, trying not to look at Lisa so as not to see her pain.

He was leaving her with this man who didn’t value or cherish her. At that second, he began to hate her.

He walked through the night city, feeling empty and broken. His shoulders slumped, his step became uncertain, and a cold melancholy settled in his soul. It seemed to him that the whole world had conspired against him, that he would never find his place in this city, that his muteness was a curse that doomed him to loneliness.

He knew he had to move on, to keep searching for his truth, his path. But now he felt only tiredness and disappointment. He wanted just one thing: for someone to hug him and tell him everything would be okay.

He couldn’t find an answer to the question: what was this pain he was feeling? Was he sorry for the girl, or for himself in this situation?

He walked through the night city, soaked to the skin, like a beaten dog. The rain drummed on the sidewalk, reflecting the dim light of the streetlights, creating an illusion of an endless labyrinth. The trampled daisies, like a guilty conscience, haunted his thoughts. Michael felt overwhelmed by resentment, disappointment, and helplessness. It was as if he had fallen into a dark well with no way out.

«What the hell did I even come here for?» he thought, «Why am I trying to change this world if I can’t even handle my own life?» At times like these, muteness was not a gift, but a curse.

He wandered the streets, aimless. The city, which had recently seemed full of opportunities and hope, now pressed down on him with its gray walls and the indifferent faces of passersby. He wanted to run, to hide, to disappear.

Jean-Pierre’s words came to mind: «Pain is fuel for creativity.» But now he felt only burnout, emptiness, a complete lack of inspiration. It seemed to him he would never be able to pick up a camera again, that his talent had died before it had a chance to bloom.

Reaching his house, he went up to his room, locked the door, and collapsed on the bed without undressing. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to stop trembling. Thoughts of Lisa, Mark, the injustice of this world swirled in his head. «Why is it always like this? Why do good people suffer, and bad people thrive? Where is the justice?»

Suddenly, he heard a loud knock on the door. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone. All he needed now was silence and peace.

But the knocking continued, becoming more insistent and irritating.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door. Chloe, his eccentric artist neighbor, stood on the threshold with a bottle of wine in one hand and a huge bag of chips in the other. She was wearing a colorful bathrobe, a ridiculous unicorn horn hat on her head, and a mischievous smile on her face.

«Hi, neighbor!» Chloe shouted, almost falling on him. «Why the long face? I heard you’re in a bad mood. And I just happen to be having a party! Come on, let’s cheer up!»

Michael shook his head, indicating he didn’t want to go to the party.

«What a shame,» said Chloe, frowning. «You can’t just mope and be sad all the time! You have to let go of your problems sometimes and just have fun. You know, as my favorite artist Salvador Dali said, „Have no fear of perfection — you’ll never reach it.“»

She tried to squeeze into the room, but Michael blocked her way.

«Okay,» said Chloe, sighing. «I understand, you’re not in the mood for fun. But promise me you’ll at least get out of your den and get some fresh air. Otherwise, you’ll completely sour.»

Michael, to get rid of her, nodded. He knew he wouldn’t keep his promise, but he needed her to leave.

«Great!» Chloe rejoiced. «Then I’ll expect you in an hour! There’ll be music, dancing, heart-to-heart talks, and all sorts of goodies.» She winked and added: «And no sad faces! A party is the cure for all diseases!»

Chloe left, leaving Michael alone in his gloomy room. He fell back onto the bed and closed his eyes. He knew he didn’t want to go to the party, that it would only make him feel worse. But at the same time, he understood he couldn’t stay alone, that he needed to distract himself from his sad thoughts somehow.

An hour later, forcing himself, he finally got out of bed, pulled on his jeans and an old t-shirt. He took his camera, like a talisman, and left the room.

It was noisy, smoky, and crowded in Chloe’s apartment. Loud music shook the walls, people danced, laughed, drank, and had animated conversations. The air was thick with the smell of marijuana and cheap alcohol.

Michael felt completely alien and lost in this crazy crowd. He pressed himself against the wall and began to observe what was happening.

Soon Chloe came over to him. She was wearing a shiny dress and high heels. A bright smile was painted on her face, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

«Hi, neighbor!» she shouted over the music. «I’m so glad you came! Why so sad? Where’s your smile?»

Michael pointed to his notepad, but Chloe waved it off. «Oh, forget your notepad! Today we communicate without words. Just relax and have fun!»

She took his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor. Michael resisted, but Chloe was persistent.

Finding himself in the middle of the crowd, he felt even more awkward. People pushed, stepped on his feet, accidentally elbowed him. He didn’t know how to dance, felt constrained and clumsy.

But gradually, giving in to the rhythm of the music, he began to relax. He closed his eyes and let go of all his thoughts, all his worries. He just moved to the beat, feeling his body fill with energy.

While dancing, he accidentally made eye contact with a girl standing off to the side. She was smiling at him.

Michael didn’t recognize her at first, but then remembered he had seen her before at the cafe. She had been there with friends. She seemed sweet and friendly to him.

He went over to her and smiled.

«Hi,» the girl said, and Michael felt her voice, a little hoarse from cigarettes and laughter, penetrate his heart. «You dance well! You got so into it, like it was your last dance.» Her eyes, the color of sea waves, looked at him with genuine interest, without a trace of judgment or mockery. She smelled of a mixture of caramel, vanilla, and something rebelliously elusive, like a forbidden pleasure.

Michael, unaccustomed to compliments, was embarrassed and lowered his eyes. He always thought dancing wasn’t his thing, that he was too clumsy and stiff for it. But her words sounded so sincere, so encouraging, that he felt warmth inside.

He reached for his notepad, but the girl stopped him with a gesture. «Don’t,» she said, «let’s try without words. Sometimes silence speaks louder than any phrases.»

Michael looked at her in surprise. How did she know about his muteness? How had she understood him so quickly?

The girl smiled, as if reading his thoughts. «I saw you at the cafe,» she continued, «you were working there. You’re a photographer, right? You have a very expressive face, you know. I feel like there’s some secret living inside you.»

Michael nodded, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. He liked that she was showing interest in him, that she saw him not just as a silent stranger, but as something more.

«I love photography too,» the girl said, «Though, I prefer being in front of the camera. Maybe you’ll show me your work sometime? I’d be really happy. You know, as my favorite photographer, Helmut Newton, said, „The most important thing in photography is not the depth of field, but the depth of feeling.“»

Michael felt a surge of gratitude. He took out his notepad and wrote: «Of course. I’d be happy to show you my work. What’s your name?»

«My name is Emily,» the girl said, offering her hand. «And yours?»

Michael wrote his name, and she read it aloud, slightly drawing out the vowels. «Michael… A very beautiful name. Like an angel’s.»

They got talking. Michael learned that Emily had come to the city from a small provincial town, just like him. She dreamed of becoming an actress but was working as a waitress in a bar for now to make ends meet.

«This city is full of dreamers,» Emily said with a sad smile. «Everyone comes here to achieve success, to become famous, rich, happy. But only a few manage it. Most are left with nothing, with broken hearts and empty pockets. But you have to believe in yourself, you have to fight for your dream. Otherwise, what’s the point of living at all?»

Michael nodded, agreeing with her words. He understood that life wasn’t always a fairy tale, that the path to success involved overcoming many obstacles and disappointments.

«You know, as they say, „The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.“ The main thing is not to stop, not to give up, even when it seems like all is lost,» Emily added, as if reading his thoughts.

Michael looked at her and smiled. She was right. He shouldn’t dwell on the past; he should look to the future with hope and optimism.

«Art is a reflection, you see?» she continued. «It reflects the world we live in, our dreams, our fears, our hopes. But it’s not a simple mirror reflection. It’s a reflection filtered through the prism of the artist’s soul. It shows not only what is, but what could be. It gives us a chance to look at the world in a new way.»

At that moment, Michael remembered Lisa, her cold gaze, her jealous boyfriend. He felt sadness again. In one moment, he remembered Lisa’s words: «I already have someone, and I don’t want to lose him,» and this phrase struck him like thunder.

Emily, noticing his confusion, gently touched his hand. «Hey, why so sad? Did something happen?»

Michael shook his head, trying to hide his feelings.

«Come on,» said Emily, smiling. «You’re a bad liar. It’s all over your face. But you know what? Today we won’t talk about sad things. Today we’ll have fun, dance, and enjoy life. Forget all your problems for just one evening. Promise?»

Michael looked at her and nodded. He realized she was right. He shouldn’t dwell on the past; he should live in the present.

They talked all evening, danced, laughed, exchanged opinions about movies, music, and photography. Michael felt light and free, as if he had dropped a heavy burden. He felt good with Emily; he felt comfortable and calm around her.

When the party ended, Emily suggested Michael walk her home.

They walked through the night streets, illuminated by the flickering light of streetlamps. The rain had long stopped, and bright stars shone in the sky. The air smelled of freshness and wet leaves.

When they reached her house, Emily stopped and looked at Michael. Her eyes shone in the moonlight.

«Thank you for this evening,» she said quietly, «It was really nice to meet you. You’re a very interesting and talented person.»

Michael was embarrassed and lowered his eyes. He didn’t know what to say.

Emily came closer, touched his cheek, and kissed him. It was a light, weightless kiss, but a wave of warmth ran through Michael’s body.

«Until tomorrow, Michael,» she whispered. «I hope we see each other soon.»

She went into the house, leaving Michael alone on the street. He touched his cheek, where her kiss still lingered, and smiled.

He no longer felt lonely and lost. A new hope, a new interest, a new love had appeared in his life. He knew he had something to live for, something to create for.

On the way back, he saw his reflection in a shop window. He looked at himself carefully and smiled. He saw in the reflection not a scared and insecure guy, but a strong and confident man ready for new challenges and victories.

He fell asleep with a smile on his lips, anticipating a new day and new meetings with Emily. He couldn’t wait to pick up his camera and start shooting.

This time, he wanted to shoot not pain and suffering, but joy and hope.

Returning home, Michael felt as if he had returned from a long and exhausting journey. Emily’s words, her sincere interest and support, were like a fresh sip of water in the desert. He no longer felt the oppressive emptiness and loneliness that had haunted him in recent days. Now hope lived in his heart, and timid dreams of the future were in his head.

He walked through the night streets, and it seemed to him the city was smiling back at him. The lights in the shop windows twinkled like stars, passersby hurried about their business, and the intoxicating aroma of nightlife hung in the air. He no longer felt like a stranger in this city. He was beginning to feel that this place could become his home.

He remembered Emily’s words about art as a reflection of the soul. It suddenly became clear to him that he didn’t want to shoot pain and suffering anymore. He wanted to shoot beauty, hope, love. He wanted to tell stories that inspired, that made people smile, that gave them faith in a better future.

Going up the stairs to his room, he heard the sounds of a saxophone coming from Bill’s apartment. The music was quiet and melodic, like an old forgotten song. He couldn’t make out the melody, but it held a special sadness, a deep longing.

Michael stopped and listened. He wanted to talk to Bill, share his experiences, ask for advice. He felt that this old musician, with his rich life experience, could help him find answers to many questions.

Entering his room, the first thing he did was take out his camera. He looked at it for a long time, like an old friend. He remembered Jean-Pierre’s words that the camera was his voice, his way of communicating with the world. And he decided he would no longer be silent, he would speak through his photographs, he would share his thoughts and feelings with other people.

Remembering Emily’s request to show her his work, Michael began sorting through his photographs. He took a long time choosing which ones would be best. He wanted to make a good impression on her, to show her his talent, his soul.

Finally, he selected a few of his best shots and went to bed. He fell asleep quickly and soundly, like a little child tired after a long day of play.

Waking up the next morning, he felt a little better. He no longer felt the hopelessness and anguish that had tormented him in recent days. He decided to follow Chloe’s advice and distract himself from his problems.

He called Bill and suggested they meet, go for a walk, get some fresh air. Bill gladly agreed.

They walked the city streets for a long time, chatting about this and that, sharing their thoughts and feelings. Bill, as always, was wise and insightful; he knew how to find the right words to support and encourage.

After meeting with Bill, Michael felt even more confident. He realized he needed to stop listening to Aurora and start listening to his own heart. He knew there was good and evil, light and darkness in the world. But he believed that good always triumphs over evil, that light always dispels darkness.

Michael took his camera, went outside, and started shooting. He shot the city, people, nature. He shot everything he saw around him. He tried to see beauty in every moment, in every face, in every landscape. He wanted to show the world what he felt, what he saw, what he believed in.

Standing in front of the door to his room, Michael felt an icy cold running down his spine. Not just cold, but a premonition of something inevitable, inescapable. Behind this door was not just a room, but his past life, his hopes, his dreams, his disappointments.

He stood for a long time, not daring to open the door, as if afraid to find out what awaited him on the other side. Fragments of phrases, fragments of memories, fragments of thoughts raced through his head. He remembered Aurora’s words, Chloe’s words, Bill’s words. Each of them said something different, but they all agreed on one thing: he needed to change something in his life.

Finally, gathering his courage, he took a deep breath and opened the door. The room greeted him with its usual semi-darkness, mess, and the smell of old books, dust, and loneliness. But today everything seemed alien, detached. It was as if he was looking at his life from the outside, observing it from a bird’s-eye view.

His gaze fell on the old globe Jean-Pierre had given him. It stood on the table, covered in a layer of dust, as if forgotten by everyone. Michael went over to it and began slowly spinning it, running his fingers over the familiar names of countries and cities.

America, Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia… The world was so huge, so diverse, so full of mysteries and secrets. And he, Michael, sat in his little room, in his little town, and saw none of it, knew none of it. It was as if he was living in a cage, voluntarily depriving himself of freedom.

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, an idea struck him: what if he dropped everything and went traveling? Saw the world with his own eyes, met different cultures, encountered different people, felt the taste of real freedom, found new sources of inspiration, found himself.

The idea seemed crazy, unreal, impossible. But it didn’t let him go; it pulled him like a magnet. He understood this was his only chance to break out of this vicious circle, out of this meaningless routine.

He remembered Aurora’s words that he had to save himself. He realized this was his salvation. He needed to leave, to forget all his problems, to start a new life with a clean slate.

The decision matured instantly, like a fruit that had been ripening for a long time and was finally ready. He no longer hesitated, doubted, or feared. He knew it was the right step, it was his destiny.

The next morning, Michael, mustering his courage, told Chloe and Bill about his decision.

Chloe, as always, reacted stormily and emotionally. She threw her arms around his neck, kissed both cheeks, and shouted: «Michael, you’re a genius! That’s an amazing idea! I always knew you weren’t like everyone else. You’re a real adventurer, a dreamer, a rebel!»

She hugged him again and added: «Be sure to take your camera! Shoot everything you see, everything you feel. I want to see the world through your eyes!»

Bill, as always, was more reserved and laconic. He listened to Michael carefully, then shook his hand and said: «Well, kid, it’s your choice. And I respect it. But remember, wherever you go, you can’t run away from yourself. Your problems, your fears, your hopes will always be with you.»

He looked him straight in the eye and added: «And don’t forget that ’a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.» The main thing is to take that step. After that, everything will work out.»

In the last days before his departure, Michael was busy preparing for the journey. He sold almost all his belongings, leaving only the essentials: his camera, a few lenses, a change of clothes, and, of course, his beloved notepad. He bought a one-way plane ticket and wrote farewell letters to his friends, promising to return someday when he found himself.

Just before leaving, he went to Alex’s cafe to say goodbye. He stood in front of the door for a long time, not daring to enter. It hurt to remember what had happened between them, how he had tried to help him and how it had all ended.

Finally, gathering his courage, he entered the cafe. Alex, as always, was behind the counter, pouring coffee. He didn’t even look up when he saw Michael.

«I’m leaving,» Michael wrote. «Wanted to say goodbye. Thank you for everything.»

Alex shook his hand without looking up and without saying a word. His face was impenetrable, like a mask.

Leaving the cafe, Michael felt a piercing pain in his chest. He realized their friendship was over, that he had lost Alex forever. But he didn’t dwell on it. He knew he had to move on, that something new, something important awaited him.

He headed to the airport, feeling his heart fill with anxiety and excitement. What awaited him ahead? What trials would he have to face? What discoveries would he make?

In the waiting lounge, he took out his notepad and wrote: «The road calls. I am setting off in search of truth. I want to see the world with my own eyes, to feel its taste, to touch it with my own hands. I want to find my place in this huge world, to find my path, to find myself. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I believe everything will be alright. I have to believe.»

Closing the notepad, he stood up and headed for the departure gate. He walked with a confident stride, not looking back. A new life awaited him.

And when the plane, gaining speed, lifted off the ground and soared into the sky, Michael felt his heart fill with boundless freedom. He was flying towards his destiny.

Chapter 5

Angel in a Puddle

Rain in the City of Sins is not just a weather phenomenon; it’s part of its soul. It washes away the glitter and tinsel, exposing the city’s true essence: its sadness, its loneliness, its beauty. It was in such moments that Michael felt especially acute, as if becoming part of this huge, seething organism.

He loved to wander the wet streets, like an artist seeking inspiration. He watched as neon signs blurred in puddles, as reflections of houses, like ghosts, danced on the water’s surface, as passersby, hastily sheltering under umbrellas, rushed about their business, noticing nothing around them. In these moments, he felt somewhat detached, like an observer from the outside.

One evening, returning home after work at Alex’s cafe, he saw her. She stood on a corner of a busy street, as if she had stepped out of the pages of an old book. She was wearing a long, dark green coat that hid the contours of her figure, but even so, she exuded an aristocratic refinement. A large hood covered most of her face, but even what remained visible was striking in its beauty.

The street wasn’t in the best condition, so right in front of her, on the asphalt, was a large puddle, like a mirror, reflecting her face. And in this reflection, Michael saw not just a beautiful woman, but an angel. Seriously, without any exaggeration, the reflection was simply magical, unearthly. The light from a streetlamp played on her face, creating a halo around her head, and her eyes seemed to glow from within.

She seemed an unearthly being who had descended from heaven to touch this dirty and sinful city for just a moment. A thought flashed through Michael’s head: «Maybe this is the very soul I’ve been searching for so long? The soul I must capture in my photographs?»

He automatically took out his old camera, wanting to capture this moment, this angelic image. He wanted to stop time, to preserve this beauty forever. He had already started adjusting the focus, but then something unexpected happened.

As if sensing his gaze, as if reading his thoughts, she suddenly raised her head and looked directly at him. Their eyes met, and Michael felt an electric shock run through him.

He abruptly lowered the camera, embarrassed, as if caught in some indecent act. He felt the color rise to his cheeks.

Their eyes met for only a moment, but it was enough for Michael to feel something irreversibly change inside him. He felt an inexplicable attraction to this woman, a desire to know her, to touch her soul, to tell her about himself, about his dreams, about his fears.

She tilted her head slightly, as if studying him, as if trying to solve his mystery, and smiled faintly. Her smile was strange, as if she knew something about him that he himself didn’t know. That smile drove him crazy.

And then suddenly, as if frightened by something, she turned and walked quickly away, disappearing into the crowd of passersby. She dissolved into the air, like a mirage.

Michael stood for a long time, as if paralyzed, unable to move. He watched her go until she disappeared from view. He felt he had missed something important, that this fleeting glance could have changed his life forever.

Deciding to learn more about her, he started looking for her on social media. But he only found an account on one of them, with no photos, no followers, no posts. A real mystery.

Bitter memories of Lisa and her words surfaced in his mind: «I’m sorry, Michael, I already have someone, and I don’t want to lose him.» He felt a pang of jealousy, even though he had no right to this woman. He didn’t want to experience that feeling of disappointment and pain again.

«Or maybe it’s just my imagination?» he thought, «Maybe I just dream too much? Maybe I’m just going crazy in this City of Sins?»

Deciding he had nothing to lose, Michael mustered his courage and returned to the same spot the next evening, hoping to see her again. And what was his surprise when he saw her, standing on the same corner, under the same streetlamp, in the same coat. It was as if she was waiting for him.

Seeing Michael, she smiled slightly and gestured for him to come closer. Then she took a small notepad out of her purse and wrote: «Was I waiting for you?».

Michael’s heart beat so hard it felt like it would jump out of his chest. He couldn’t believe his eyes — she really had been waiting for him. Was it fate? Or just a coincidence, a trick of chance? In any case, he wasn’t going to miss this chance.

He approached her, trying to look as casual as possible, even though a hurricane of emotions was raging inside him. He studied her, as if trying to memorize every detail, every little thing. Up close, she seemed even more mysterious and alluring than in the puddle’s reflection.

He noticed a tiny mole above her upper lip, like a randomly scattered star, long, thick eyelashes framing her eyes, and a barely visible scar on her chin that gave her face a special charm. These small details made her unique, special, alive.

He wanted to say something, to greet her, to introduce himself, but the words stuck in his throat. He remembered his muteness and felt despair wash over him. Was he doomed to silence, misunderstanding, loneliness again?

Gathering his courage, Michael took out his well-worn notepad and wrote: «I couldn’t not come back. You… you’re like an angel descended from heaven.»

The girl smiled slightly, and her eyes lit up with a mysterious light. Then she took a small notepad from her coat pocket and wrote: «Angels don’t smoke cheap cigarettes and don’t stand on dirty streets in the rain waiting for who knows who.»

Michael was embarrassed and wrote: «You are an exception to the rule.»

Aurora was silent for a moment, as if pondering his words, then wrote: «My name is Aurora. Something like the northern lights. And I already know you. Your work is not bad, though there are too many gloomy colors.»

Michael was surprised. How did she know his name? How did she know about his photographs? Had she been watching him?

He looked at her questioningly.

Aurora, as if reading his thoughts, wrote: «Your photographs speak for themselves. I especially like the shot of the old saxophonist.»

Michael was pleased that she was familiar with his work, that she saw something special in it. But at the same time, he felt a little awkward, as if she had looked into his soul.

Aurora, squinting, looked at him curiously and wrote: «Why don’t you speak? Are you shy? Or afraid of saying the wrong thing?»

Michael, sighing, took out his notepad and wrote: «I’m mute. Since childhood.»

Surprise mixed with sympathy flashed across Aurora’s face. She wrote: «Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m very sorry.»

Michael shrugged. «It doesn’t matter,» he wrote. «I’m used to it. The main thing is that you’re not disappointed in me.»

Aurora frowned. «Why should I be disappointed in you? You haven’t done anything wrong. Or have you?»

She looked at him questioningly, as if waiting for a confession.

Michael wrote: «What do you want from me?»

Aurora smiled, and a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. «I want to see the world through your eyes,» she wrote. «To know what you feel, what you think, what you dream about.»

Michael felt his heart beat faster. He knew Aurora was speaking sincerely, that she really wanted to know him.

He wrote: «That’s impossible. You can’t see the world through my eyes. Everyone sees the world in their own way.»

Aurora thought, then wrote: «Maybe you’re right. But we can try. We can share our thoughts, our feelings, our experiences with each other. And then, perhaps, we can come a little closer to understanding each other.»

Michael felt a little sad. He understood that Aurora was right, that he could never fully understand another person, see the world through their eyes. But he could try, he could strive for it.

He wrote: «I still want to try. Even if it’s impossible.»

Aurora smiled, and that smile illuminated everything around. «Okay,» she wrote. «Let’s try. But be warned, it won’t be easy. Are you ready for difficulties?»

Michael’s heart filled with joy and hope. He was ready for anything for this woman.

He nodded his head vigorously, showing his agreement.

Aurora wrote: «Tomorrow I’ll be here at the same time. If you really want to, come. But don’t expect miracles from me. I’m not a sorceress, and I have my own skeletons in the closet too.»

Michael squeezed her hand in gratitude.

Aurora smiled and wrote: «Until tomorrow, photographer.»

She turned and, as if dancing, walked away, leaving Michael alone in the rain. But he no longer felt cold or lonely. His heart was filled with warmth and hope.

The next day, Michael came to the same place long before the appointed time. He couldn’t sit at home for a minute. He paced nervously back and forth, constantly checking his watch. Time seemed to drag on endlessly.

He was so engrossed that he didn’t even notice Aurora approaching him from behind and lightly touching his shoulder.

«Hi, photographer,» she wrote on a piece of paper. «Am I late?»

Michael’s heart pounded wildly, like a bird locked in a cage. She had really come. She had waited for him. He wasn’t mistaken. It was incredible, unthinkable, but it was really happening.

Aurora stood nearby, smiling her mysterious smile. This time she was wearing a long, bright red coat that seemed to radiate warmth and light in this gray and dreary city. Her dark hair was loose and slightly damp from the rain, softly framing her face, making her look like the heroine of an old movie. Her eyes shone with an inner light, holding a mischievous spark and an inexplicable sadness.

«Hi,» Michael wrote, barely restraining the trembling in his hands. He tried to look as calm and confident as possible, but inside, everything was churning. «It’s fine. I just… waited a bit. Counted the minutes, probably.»

Aurora laughed quietly, and her laughter was like the ringing of a bell, pure and melodic. That music was sealed in his memory for a long time.

«Always like this? Impatient photographer? Or just a fan of punctuality?» she wrote, raising an eyebrow. «Ready for adventures? Today we will travel. But not in space, but in time.»

Michael looked at her in bewilderment. What did she mean? Where was she taking him? What did she want from him?

But he nodded, trusting her as a blind man trusts his guide. He was already used to her strangeness, her mystery, her unpredictability. That’s what attracted him to her.

Aurora, seeing his agreement, smiled and wrote: «Great. Then let’s go. But remember that ’time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.»»

She took his hand and led him through the narrow, winding streets of the City of Sins. She knew this city like the back of her hand, as if she had lived here all her life.

She showed him places he had never seen before, even though he had walked these streets many times. They went into an old bookstore that smelled of dust, old books, and something else, elusively pleasant. Aurora told him this store had been around for over a hundred years and that many famous writers and poets had visited.

They peeked into an antique shop where you could find the most incredible things: old clocks, yellowed photographs, porcelain dolls, broken musical instruments. Aurora said that every object has its own story, its own soul, its own energy.

They visited a small cafe that served the best coffee in the city. The barista told them the secret of his coffee was a special bean variety and a special roasting method. Aurora said the taste of coffee depends not only on the beans but also on the mood with which you drink it.

She led him as if through a labyrinth of memory, where every corner was filled with its own story, its own legend.

They walked along the embankment, looking at the murky water of the river. The rain had stopped, and rare stars appeared in the sky, reflecting in the water like little diamonds.

Here Aurora took out her notepad and wrote: «They say every person has their own guardian angel. But what if you have more than one? What if angels are the people who come into our lives to help us, support us, teach us something important?».

She looked at him carefully, as if trying to read his thoughts.

Michael looked at her for a long time, not knowing how to respond. He suddenly remembered all the people who had ever helped him in life: his parents, Jean-Pierre, Bill, Emily, Chloe. Maybe Aurora was right, and they were all his angels?

They were silent for a while, enjoying the silence and beauty of the night city.

«Look, we’re reflected in the water,» she wrote. «It’s like in life: you help me, and I help you. That’s why we’re here and now, together.»

Later, Aurora took him to an abandoned theater. It was a huge, old building with peeling walls, broken windows, and a courtyard overgrown with grass.

«They used to put on plays here,» she wrote, entering the theater. «Life was bustling here, music sounded, tears were shed. And now… silence and desolation. But I love this place. You can feel the spirit of the past here, the spirit of art.»

They went up on stage. Aurora stood in the middle of the stage, like an actress preparing to perform. Michael sat in the auditorium, like a spectator spellbound watching her.

«Close your eyes,» Aurora wrote. «Imagine you see me. Imagine me as you want to see me. Imagine I am your heroine, your muse, your dream.»

Michael closed his eyes and imagined Aurora standing on the stage, flooded with spotlight beams. He imagined her laughter, her voice, her smile, her movements. He imagined her as he wanted to see her, as he felt her.

«What do you see?» Aurora wrote.

Michael, opening his eyes, grabbed the notepad and wrote: «You are light. You are hope. You are everything good in this world.»

He raised his eyes and looked at Aurora. She stood before him, smiling. Joy shone in her eyes.

«Now close your eyes again,» she wrote, «and imagine the world around you is filled with love and light. Imagine all people are happy, healthy, and living in harmony with each other.»

Michael closed his eyes and imagined it. And he suddenly felt so good, so calm, so light. He felt his heart fill with love, all his anxieties and worries leaving his soul.

They sat in the abandoned theater until evening, conversing in the language of glances, gestures, and touches. Michael felt he was getting closer and closer to Aurora, that they were opening their souls to each other, that they were becoming one.

When it got dark, they left the theater. Aurora wrote: «Thank you for this day, Michael. It was magical. Let’s keep this day in our memory and remember that life is beautiful, even when it’s raining outside.»

When they reached her house, Aurora stopped and looked at Michael. There was sadness in her eyes.

She wrote: «I know what you want to ask. But I can’t tell you now. It’s not time yet. But believe me, one day I will tell you everything.»

Michael nodded, understanding what she meant. He wouldn’t rush her; he would wait. He knew she would open up to him when she was ready.

«Until tomorrow?» he wrote, looking at her hopefully.

Aurora smiled and wrote: «Until tomorrow, my good one.»

She kissed him on the cheek and disappeared into the entrance, like a ghost.

When he returned home, Michael took out the album Jean-Pierre had given him and opened it to the first page. He looked at his photograph, taken many years ago, for a long time. And he suddenly realized he had changed. He had become a different person. He had become stronger, more confident, happier.

«Life is beautiful when you know how to see its beauty,» he read the words written on the album cover. «All you need is to learn to feel.»

Returning to his room, Michael felt not just inspired, but truly elated. The encounter with Aurora, this fleeting but profound connection, made him forget all his past failures. He wanted to live, create, breathe deeply. He again felt part of this mad but alluring City of Sins.

He opened the window, breathed in the cool night air, and looked at the sky. The stars shone like precious stones, reminding him that even in the deepest darkness, there is always light. He understood he needed to move on, to seek new stories, new subjects, new impressions. He no longer wanted to dwell on his problems; he wanted to see the world in all its beauty, in all its contradictoriness.

In the morning, without waiting for the alarm clock, Michael jumped out of bed. He was overflowing with energy, and he felt that today something important must happen. He quickly got ready and went to Alex’s cafe.

Entering the cafe, he saw that Alex was not himself. He paced back and forth nervously, constantly glancing at his watch and muttering something under his breath.

«Hi, Michael,» Alex said when he saw him. «I’ve got a bit of a problem. The landlord wants to raise the rent. He says he found another tenant who’s willing to pay more. If I don’t find the money, we’ll have to move out.»

Michael looked at Alex sympathetically. He knew how much this cafe meant to him, how much labor and soul he had put into it. He understood that losing this place would be a real tragedy for Alex.

Taking out his notepad, he wrote: «What can I do? Do you need some help?»

Alex thought, rubbing his temples. «I don’t know,» he said. «I need a large sum of money, which I simply don’t have. The only option is to sell the coffee shop. And that’s not an option either.»

Michael thought. He didn’t have a lot of money, but he had talent, a name, friends. He could help Alex; he simply had to.

Suddenly, an idea came to him, seeming crazy but at the same time brilliant.

He wrote: «What if we organize a charity exhibition of my photographs? All the proceeds will go towards the rent. I’m sure many will want to help.»

Alex’s eyes lit up; hope appeared in them. «That’s a great idea!» he exclaimed. «We can do it! Everyone likes your photographs. I’m sure we can raise the necessary amount!»

Michael and Alex set about organizing the exhibition. They called their friends and acquaintances, placed ads in newspapers and online, hung flyers all over the city. They invited everyone who wanted to help Alex keep his cafe.

A few days later, the exhibition opened. A huge number of people came to the cafe. Everyone admired Michael’s photographs, his talent, his ability to see beauty in the most ordinary things. People willingly bought the photographs, understanding that they were not only acquiring works of art but also helping a good person.

Among the guests was Aurora. She was, as always, mysterious and alluring, dressed all in black. She carefully examined each photograph, lingering on some as if trying to solve the mystery hidden in them.

At the end of the evening, Alex, beaming with happiness, approached Michael and, shaking his hand, said: «We raised the necessary amount! You saved my cafe, Michael! You’re a true friend!»

Michael smiled. He was glad he could help Alex, that he could do something good.

Aurora appeared as if out of nowhere. She approached Michael and, putting a hand on his shoulder, said: «Ah, so this is what you’re capable of. This is all your strength — helping people, and then you get a stab in the back.»

Michael looked at her questioningly, not understanding what she meant.

«Don’t stop there,» added Alex, who had approached, smiling. «You must continue on this path. Only then will you achieve success.»

After that, Aurora, as if ceasing to notice him, quickly left somewhere.

From that day on, a kind of black period seemed to begin in Michael’s life. Everything he undertook fell apart. His exhibition failed, Alex started behaving strangely, his relationship with Emily deteriorated. But he tried not to lose heart, remembering Bill’s words: «Life is jazz, kid. It has its ups and downs. The main thing is not to be afraid to improvise.»

Anxiety, like barbed wire, squeezed Michael’s heart, giving him no peace. What did Aurora’s mysterious words mean? «All your strength»… «A stab in the back»? Had he really been so naive as not to notice hidden threats, the dark sides of life? And why was everything around him starting to crumble like a house of cards?

Arguments with Emily became a regular occurrence. Exhausted by a busy filming schedule, tired of the endless attention of the paparazzi, she took her anger out on him, accusing him of lacking understanding, of not being able to share her joys and sorrows. It hurt Michael to see her like this, but he understood the reason wasn’t just him.

His photographs, the very ones that had recently delighted the public, now only evoked crooked smirks from critics. His talent seemed to have dried up, his inspiration had left, leaving only emptiness behind. New ideas didn’t come, and the old ones now seemed banal and uninteresting to him. It was as if he had lost his voice.

Alex, the friend he had so wanted to help, had also distanced himself. He began avoiding meetings, citing busyness, fatigue, some problems. Michael, accidentally overhearing snippets of his phone conversation, learned that Alex was planning to sell the cafe. Michael’s world was crumbling. All the efforts, all the sacrifices had been in vain. He felt betrayed, abandoned, unwanted by anyone.

One night, when the sky was crying with rain and Michael’s soul was crying from anguish and despair, he decided he needed to talk to Aurora. He hoped she could explain to him what was happening, what to do next.

He went to that very corner, under that very streetlamp, where they had first met. The rain was pouring down in sheets, soaking him to the bone, but Michael paid no attention. He waited. Time dragged on like an endless black ribbon. He was already beginning to lose hope when he suddenly saw her. Aurora was walking down the street, her head down, as if carrying the whole weight of the world on her shoulders. She looked exhausted, sad, as if she had aged decades.

Seeing Michael, she stopped as if she had run into an insurmountable obstacle. Her face showed neither surprise nor joy, only a kind of cold detachment that cut him like a sharp knife.

Michael, with trembling hands, took out his notepad and wrote: «What’s happening? Why is everything so bad? Why has everyone turned away from me?»

Aurora, without raising her eyes, wrote: «You wanted to see the world through my eyes? Well, look. This is a world of pain, betrayal, disappointment. Welcome to reality.»