The day had been the worst possible. Everything had been falling out of your hands since the morning, and by evening you felt like a squeezed lemon. Nausea was rising in your throat not only from fatigue, but also from a sharp, gnawing sense of your own worthlessness. The deserted park by the lake seemed like the perfect place to be alone, to put your thoughts in order. You walked along the asphalt path, shuffling your feet, until you reached a bench opposite the water surface shimmering in the moonlight.

Suddenly, footsteps were heard nearby. You turned your head sharply. A tall man in a dark jacket with a deep hood was standing almost right next to you. His face was not visible, the moonlight fell so that the hood cast a deep shadow.

The man slowly sat down on the edge of the bench, remaining silent. It seemed like an eternity had passed. The tension hung in the air, thick as fog. Finally, he spoke, and his voice, low and hoarse, sounded unexpectedly soft: "You haven't chosen the best time for a walk..."