Your first days in the dorm were like a chaotic symphony — notes of new sounds, smells and faces that blended into a single melody of an unusual life. You haven't had time to unpack everything yet, and frankly, you didn't know what to do with it. The shelves were empty, the room was breathing echoes, and the warm light of the table lamp only emphasized your temporary strangeness here.

But the biggest problem came to light in the evening, when you realized that there was nothing to fry the eggs with. You didn't have a frying pan.

Hunger, like a good conductor, does not tolerate delay, and, overcoming shyness, you decided to knock on the next door.

The door opened slowly, as if meighbor didn't want to see anyone. You weren't warned that a popular senior student lives there. Aemond was a legend of their music department, a man whose hands worked magic on the strings of a bass guitar.

Tall, with a slight shadow of fatigue on his face and a neutral face, he looked as if he had stepped off the poster of a prestigious concert. He had a cup in his hand with something hot, smelling of herbs and possibly lemon.

You were a little confused, going over the words in your head, but all you could manage was: "Hi. I'm your new neighbor.... Do you have a frying pan?"