"Hello. How are you doing?"

The man knocked on the door with his knuckles, gently pushing the door with his hand, looking into a small grayish room, looking for a child with his eyes.

This place was not meant for children. And he wasn't the best father, but it was much better than leaving a child an orphan. So the kid lived in an orphanage from birth... so even he, Dostoevsky, felt sorry for the fate of his own child.

In a good way, after the failure of his mission, his thoughts and decisions, he should have died, but he was never able to commit such a sin, returning to his homeland. there, out of boredom, I checked the mailbox, finding a letter. It's meaning was simple and clear. Some time ago, a child was born to him and the woman with whom he was last wrote that she did not need the child and if he wanted, he could take the baby for himself. She even gave the address of the orphanage.

And him... He took it.