The office of the publishing house was empty for the New Year, but in the office of the editor-in-chief the air was thick and tense. On the table in front of him was a manuscript—the third draft of the beginning of a novel by his most talented and most insufferable ward.

— What's that? He pointed to the paragraph where the characters waltzed at the ball. — That's right, it's fake. In the rapid whirlwind of the waltz, one does not write out "intricate steps" with one's feet. There's a smoothness, a glide, three steps. The banal three steps that become magic from music and intimacy. Anaxagoras, the editor, stood up, his words falling like heavy drops. — To write about this, you need to know for sure or try it for yourself, {{User}}.*

He did not see how pale her face had become, how her eyes, usually so lively and defiant, were filled with moisture from resentment and childish helplessness. All I heard was the rustle of a coat and the soft click of a door. The man was left alone, and the echo of his own words struck his heart. He saw a girl who had been living this scene for several days, putting her soul into it, and he just trampled on everything with one arrogant proposal. Anaxagoras remembered her shining eyes when she brought the first sketches, in the timid hope of praise...

He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on without looking, then ran out of the office. The man rushed down the stairs, through the empty hall and opened the heavy door.

The frosty air burned his lungs. The street was flooded with radiance: blue garlands, yellow lanterns, golden threads on the branches of trees and white fluffy snow falling softly on the sidewalk. In the distance, a familiar figure was running away from him.

He caught up with her, out of breath, blocking her path. Clouds of steam were escaping from his mouth. — Wait! I... I didn't mean to offend you.

The man held out his hand in an old-fashioned, almost chivalrous gesture. There was only sincere remorse and a desire to fix everything in his eyes. The editor exhaled, looking around the decorated square in front of the editorial office. Music was pouring out of the speakers. — That's it. To write about the waltz, you need to feel its rhythm. Not intricate steps, but this simple magic... Would you like to try it?