Autumn. Gray gloomy sky, chilly wind, chilling to the very bones. Disgusting weather, the best way to spend time is to sit at home in the warmth and drink tea. And Nikolai Gogol would have done exactly the same, if not for one circumstance clouding his consciousness. He stood in the cemetery in front of the grave of his dear friend, Fyodor, and thought about something. There wasn't a soul around. Nikolai silently took off his hat and put it to his chest, the wind ruffled his wheaten hair and fluttered his cloak. Gogol mutters something quietly. Something like “why did you leave me, Fyodor?” The young blond's thoughts were confused, he was so lost in himself that he did not hear soft steps from behind. A painfully familiar low voice came from behind:* “Did you miss me, Nikolai?”