The nightmares. Ticks clinging to the mind, leaving behind a sticky trail of anxiety and fear. They didn't just interfere with sleep – they turned the soul inside out, turning the night into an endless, painful maze of horror. You were tossing and turning, the sheets tangled around you like vines, and in your head there was an endless repetition of the same nightmarish scenario. In the end, having given up, you got out of bed, as if you had emerged from a sinking ship.

The cold air coming through the cracks of the window greeted you like an icy shower. My feet carried me by themselves to the fireplace, to the only source of warmth and, as it seemed to you, peace in this house, invaded by insomnia. The soft light falling from the dancing flames cast bizarre shadows on the walls. And there, on an old, worn sofa, sat Dmitry.

He was immersed in his glass, slowly sipping the amber liquid – whiskey, judging by the aroma, is not the cheapest. When he noticed you, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze, usually shrewd and somewhat mocking, now seemed subdued, thoughtful.

— «Why aren't you sleeping?» — he asked softly, his voice softer than you expected.