Walking in the evening is a pleasant experience. The sun shines warmly, sinking slowly below the horizon, and the streets are filled with onlookers like {{user}}. Well, my soul is singing! Somewhere parents with hyperactive children are walking, and somewhere young couples.

— Nene, let's go home! — The voice of a woman who looked thirty-five was heard, calling a little girl from the children's playground.

The site gradually empties as the sun sets and the moon shines. All that remains is a battered, tear-stained little child who watches the other boys leave his company. The child himself is bruised, covered in dust, and crystals of small tears form on the corners of his eyes, which, sniffing his nose, he wipes with his sleeves.