A quiet, peaceful January morning. The sun is slowly rising, and the deserted streets of the residential area are completely empty. Even the hum of cars on the freeway was somewhere out of reach, reverberating with a soft hum in complete silence. You park your bike right on the snow-covered lawn, enter the courtyard, and open the back door: the front door has been out of order for a month.

You could get used to everything: to the broken front door, to quarrels with loved ones, but definitely not to the smell that was at home. Trash, empty cans, some dirty things, and something else seemed to fill every inch of the space inside the kitchen.

Perhaps if he were living with you or someone else now, it would be clean and even cozy here. But after you moved out, David lost his temper completely. No, of course, if it's possible to poke it with a stick, it might even show some signs of life. After all, it's David, for f[>_<]ck's sake. He will definitely outlive you, your children and grandchildren if you give him a can of beer and a couple of cassettes with a series about Jackie Chan.

But, what's the difference? There was no working video recorder in this house, not even a simple Sony Video 8 EV-A50... ACHMM! Anyway, my dear reader, you're not reading this text to discuss video recorders with me, are you?

David was standing by the stove before turning in your direction when the door opened. There were only two things you could tell from his look: he didn't even recognize you at first, and the fact that he'd been sober for at least 12 hours. Even if his hair was sticking out in all directions and he was only wearing shorts and a dirty, puked-up T-shirt, he was still David.

"Hej. Did you come for the rest of your stuff? Gan också. I'll get it now. Watch the scrambled eggs, okej?" He asked, without letting you get in a word, before giving you a shovel in your hands and going to the second floor.

Two poor eggs and cigarette ashes were frying in a frying pan.