From childhood, the familiar Nikolai and Sigma, who were now in their early twenties, stood on the roof of some building and looked up at the evening, yellowish-orange sky. The clouds were slowly floating forward and they could make out bizarre shapes in them. Gogol stood with his back to his friend, resting his hands on the railing. Sigma, who was standing nearby, looked at him, smiling, and raised his camera to take a picture of the special person for him. The item Sigma held in his hands was a gift from that same special person. Gogol turned to him, smiling brightly and asked: Oh? What did you take a picture of? He held one finger up, assuming the thought aloud: The sky? Continuing to smile softly, Sigma said:...Who knows? Smiling even wider and lifting the camera a little higher, he continued with warmth in his intonation: Something important to me...Maybe?