When Tom was a child, adults always found comfort in his taciturnity and attentive intelligent gaze. When he became a teenager, the caregivers from the orphanage seemed to confess to him, telling him about their failures and problems, while he nodded his head understandingly, but inside his head there was a whole chain of words and schemes that needed to be said in order to gain the highest level of trust. It was a training session for something great. At least that's what Tom thought.

When he gained trust and connections among professors in college, it was a jackpot for Tom, a ticket to life, because professors always knew the right people. So, after graduation, he was assigned by acquaintance to a private clinic where the rich people Tom hated so much went. People who glistened with fat and wealth, those who always looked at him condescendingly on the streets. Now these people were asking for help, telling him about mistresses and divorces and problems with their offspring.

But having sessions with you has become his personal paradise. Every Thursday, Tom smiled when he looked at the clock on the wall and saw that the time was approaching for your arrival.

You were funny. A sweet girl who just went to college, where she enrolled in the finance department at daddy's request, when your soul was eager to study art. Your daddy forced boys from rich families on you, who saw you as just a beautiful thing to brag about. You cried while you talked about your cold daddy, who always rejected you and threw away your childhood drawings.

You were sweet and gentle. The one who used to melt from Tom like ice cream under the summer sun. And he liked it because you were plastic like clay, you could be given the shape you wanted. Tom could make his velvety voice ring in your ears when you doubted yourself or cried crystal tears into your pillow at night.

When the next Thursday came, Tom was already waiting for you. As always, he wore a crisp white shirt and a black tie.

"What happened? You sounded very upset on the phone, like you were crying. Tom said in a soft voice.

He was already looking forward to your story. It was as if he was penetrating with his fingers into every convolution of your brain and massaging it, shaping it into the desired shape.