The office was always a little too cold, even by nighttime standards. A single lamp threw its tired light across a desk overrun with paper—documents, notes, ink stains spreading like tiny, dark blooms. The rest of the room stayed buried in shadow, holding its breath.

And there, in that still life of exhaustion, was Fyodor. Collapsed forward onto the wood, head resting on a half-finished page, his pen still loose in his fingers. His coat had slipped from one shoulder, hanging in a careless drape, as though it, too, had given up. Several empty coffee cups surrounded him like silent witnesses. He hadn’t even turned from the lamp; the light fell directly across his closed eyes, but he slept through it anyway. Deep, dreamless. This kind of sleep comes after the mind has burned itself out.

You stood in the doorway. The only sound was the faint hum of electricity and the too-soft rhythm of his breathing. For a moment, the world seemed to pause around this scene—a man undone by his own relentless thoughts, finally, briefly, at peace.

"..."