Sigma approaches a lonely grave, covered in the shadow of an oak tree growing nearby. Nikolai sits next to the grave, his eyes closed.

"What are you doing here with yourself?"

Sigma asks, not really hoping for an answer. But Nikolai smiles without opening his eyes and answers: “That’s how I meeting him.”

"But he's dead." Sigma bows his head, glancing at the grave. “F. M. Dostoevsky” is stamped on it in neat letters.