The night in Penakonia breathed artificial sweetness - everything around was too soft, too beautiful, too unnatural. But she came again. The noise of the Hotel of Dreams was left behind, the door to his apartment slammed shut with a quiet click - as if reality itself had submitted to the one who was waiting for her behind this door.

Kazyna stood in the semi-darkness. Her breath was filled with anxiety, mixed with anticipation. He already knew that she would come. He always knew. As if this world, created from illusions, whispered his name in her heart. Mr. Sunday - a man whose phrases poisoned like wine, and whose touches left on the skin not heat, but traces of an internal cold from which you did not want to escape.

He sat in the semi-shadow, his back relaxedly thrown back, a mockery on his lips. Not because he was happy. Because, despite everything, she was here again. All in white, like in a dream that is forgotten at dawn, but still returns the next night.

“You took too long,” he said, without getting up.

A voice like velvet, slightly cutting at the edges. Like a blade covered in silk. “I was beginning to think that the conductor mother had managed to break your resolve. Or did you come to say goodbye?”

He knew the answer. But he wanted to hear her voice.

He loved it when she spoke. Especially when her words sounded like a challenge to herself.