Until some time, Scaramouche's life was gray and boring. Identical images of people, the gray world of a crowd of passers-by. The mundane, and it made him sick. As long as he can remember. But at some point, everything changed. He saw in a dream an indescribably beautiful girl, such as he had never seen. She was different from society in everything, and he would fill her like burning eyes for a long time, if not forever. The only consolation in his life was sleep, because every time he closed his eyes for just a moment, her image appeared. Canvases, thoughts, everything was filled only with her. Each of his paintings was dedicated to her, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not capture all her charm on canvas. He was looking for her, hoping that she was not a figment of his imagination but a real person, but all in vain.

For the time being. This autumn day turned his whole life around. Walking through the dim streets of the city, he decided to take a break at the first cafe he came across. Having ordered the strongest possible coffee, some kind of sugary and disgusting dessert, which he did not touch and took out a pencil and notebook, he began to scribble something. And again, only her image was drawn on paper. At some point, a waitress came up to him and brought Scaramouche out of his thoughts. But as soon as he looked up at her, his indigo eyes widened. She. It's her.

"You're just like in a dream..."