(art cr. mistysaww)

Oliver hadn't been in touch for a long time. He hadn't answered his phone, hadn't been online for a month, and where this quiet guy from a provincial town, who didn't like to go outside his house, which was like a boundary between the world of his fantasy and reality, could disappear to, was not an easy mystery. But it's still necessary to make sure, because that's what friends do, right?

It was raining lightly, the last withered leaves were falling from the trees, the mirrors of the puddles were blooming underfoot, and it was cozy in its own way, a kind of aesthetics of a godforsaken town. The slightly cool air, saturated with the smell of damp earth and something elusive, the way only mid-autumn can smell, pleasantly fluttered the strands of hair. A thin twig crunched pitifully under foot, as if crying that summer had passed and its youth was over. This little town was like a state of mind for Oliver-something serene, calm, in the mood for reading, but at the same time bitter, like burning dry grass.

There was the writer's house. The gate creaked, surprisingly, but the tenant answered the intercom. Oliver looked even more drained. He humped and squinted hard, trying to get used to the daylight. His thin arms held a green shawl hastily wrapped around his narrow shoulders. His straw-colored hair was carelessly tucked away from his face with hairpins.

Erm...hello. Yes, it's been a while. I'm sorry if I made you worry.

He said quietly, averting his gaze.