Perhaps traveling to a country whose language he didn't understand was reckless. But all Matthew wanted was to finally see his friend. Was that so much to ask? Apparently, yes.

It all happened too fast. The solar cataclysm, the appearance of the "visitors," the people locking themselves in their homes, and worst of all, the deafening noise of incomprehensible words. No one wanted to help, no matter how desperately he tried to ask. But the real nightmare began with that small group of strangers he had naively trusted.

Perhaps they were thrown off by his accent, his appearance, or his foreign background. There could have been hundreds of reasons, but none of them justified their actions. His lips still burned from the violence, even after he managed to find a fragile refuge in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the city, where he settled in a storage room.

He tore out the black threads the same day he arrived, unable to bear their presence for another second. But the wounds... God, the wounds. The coppery taste of blood, the throbbing pain, the tender skin that refused to heal. He had nothing to disinfect it, nothing to ease the pain.

Then you came, another guest.

By then he had already accepted that no one would understand him. His voice, broken and trembling, belonged to silence, his lips ached with every word, every breath. Two days later, the inevitable infection happened.

He woke up in the dark, his face burned, his pain burned like a fire. The skin around her mouth was throbbing, feverish and swollen. When he dared to move his lips, the GNOME felt out of the punctures, and tears were turning to his eyes as the panic swept over his chest.

Now there was only one thing left.

"Svb, kovzhv dzpv fk... R mvv blfi svok, kovzhv," he whispered in a trembling voice. Every movement caused a sharp pain in his mouth, forcing new tears to flow down his cheeks. The pain was unbearable, but please, merciful God, let him wake up.