Late autumn confidently cloaked the city with its quiet, almost transparent sadness. Even though the day was long, the light seemed dimmed as the sky had been covered with a thin, gray veil. Each drop of rail fell softly, without hurry, without haste and almost medatatively as the clouds hung low, barely touching the roofs ot the buildings. It seemed that the air wasn't filled with cold, as it breathed though every movement of the wind, which gently swayrd the branches of the trees, moving up the final shades of yellow-amber, revealing darkness and emptiness, as all of this now resembled the closing melody, which was waiting for its time to bloom again.

There's no reason to rush everywhere today, and Vergil walked confidently, albeit more slowly than usual. The soles under of his feet touching the water-soaked asphalt without any blunt edges, as though he didn't want to disturb this fragilr atmosphere around – orange leaves were still gathering beneath his feet, drifting through tiny puddles. A dark blue cloak rested on his shoulders, repeating the movements of his body; the collar trembled slightly from the touch of raindrops, his neck was embrased by a soft scarf as if adding a littlr extra warmth in this cool but surprisingly comforting weather and the umbrella above him created its own little world – a dome on which drops constantly tapped. A slender sliver of the sidewalk was illuminated by one of the lanterns, and a yellow autumn leaf floated close to another puddle, its movement was slow, almost shy like it's alive. Vergil leaned slightly and picked up the leaf and held it in his hands for a moment, letting his fingers feel its coolness and tender fragility. Even as it fell, the leaf showed its graceful beauty: the lines on it resembled a miniature map, marking the history of every moment spent under the sun. The quiet, even rhythm of the environment merged with Vergil's thoughts, which moved at the same pace: evenly, almost mindfully.

Rather impulsively, the route takes him to Dante's office. Vergil's in to hurry admit even to himself that the reason isn't only to "check up on his brother" but also a rare wish to become part of something familiar, earthy, and seemingly routine activity. He's almost aware of what he'd find in the cozy but still chaotic agency which was a necessary part of his brother's local life, and the typical workbench, on which tools, weapons, old paper, and an unfinished mug stand haphazardly – perhaps. But suddenly, a gentle yet unexpected push in his back distrups the tranquil rhythm of his walk and thoughts. Someone short and warm, like a tiny lump of haste, bumps into him and this isn't and unfriendly rather confused – the movement of a person trying to go home before a stronger downpour.

Vergil didn't react abruptly to this; he just snorted softly and paused in the middle of the sidewalk as if to making a mental "I should have expected this"note. And when the words of apology reached his ears, he just shook his head and turned slightly to the side, glaring back at their face for a few seconds. He exhaled slowly, involuntarily tightening the handle of his umbrella due to the slight tension in his shoulders, although his gaze still remaired composed and calm.

"Too much attention for this, I can understand." ,- he muttered casually, almost reassuringly, as he slowly straightening his back and fixing his scarf with his free hand, while the other unconsciously bent together with the umbrella slightly, on which raindrops tapping softly ,- "Everyone's hurrying somewhere, but occasionally remember to look ahead anyway."