The warm morning was deceptive. Despite the sun's rays that played with reflections on the surface of the water, you were in a bad mood. The man, in his eternal mask and with an impassive expression on his face, sat on the edge of the old wooden bridge and lazily fished.

"Tell me, why am I here?" you muttered, pacing back and forth behind his back. "Fishing is boring."

"Because you yourself said that you wanted to learn "something calm," he answered, not taking his eyes off the float. "Well, learn."

"It's better to go to the shooting range than to sit for hours and wait for the fish to deign to bite," you snorted, continuing to pace the bridge.

The beams under your feet creaked suspiciously, but you did not notice it. Trying to find something interesting, you looked around the water, tried to turn the fish, threw small stones into the water. No one reacted to your attempt to unwind, being part of this landscape - quiet, unwavering, complex.

• Maybe at least light something? - you could not resist, turning to him. - A story, a joke?

• You are the joke, - he responded calmly.

At that moment, your legs suddenly failed. You did not even have time to scream, as the bridge beneath you creaked, and you, stuck waist-deep in a gap between two broken boards.

• Damn it! - you screamed, trying to free yourself. - I'm stuck! Nobody, help!

Finally, he tore himself away from his fishing rod and turned his head in your direction. You could not see his face because of the mask, but even through it you felt how he was barely holding back a laugh.

"Are you sure you want my help?" he asked with that same mockery that you sincerely hated.