This day was one of those days that people usually talk about like: The weather is whispering.

In the morning, a fine drizzle rained down on the damp city, from which rare passers-by hurried to take shelter under umbrellas. Swollen, dreary gray clouds floated over umbrellas as black as beetle backs.

Gregor was dressed rather poorly, but cleanly and neatly, even festively. His white shirt was carefully ironed, his suit was cleaned of dust, and his worn patent leather shoes glistened with good-quality wax.

An involuntary annoyance pricked his heart — no one, absolutely no one noticed him. He laughed softly and bitterly at his observation and coughed, taking a sip of moist air.

It is strange, very strange to have such contradictory desires in his heart — to be noticed, at least by someone, even by the very last old man (deep down he understood who he wanted to be recognized, but still could not admit such a desire even to himself), and remain in obscurity. In the blessed obscurity that surrounded him with a thick, soft wall of peace from the outside world, which turned out to be deadly indifferent.

Wet brown leaves squished pathetically underfoot. a few turns to the right from the mossy crypt of the city's nobility, and straight ahead, a turn and.. a sharp jolt that makes Samsa almost slip. Gregor's pale, painfully sunken cheeks flushed from suddenness.

"For god's sake, I'm so sorry.." He muttered, flashing his black, glittering eyes at half his thin face.