The Rizly was hunched over in the semi-darkness of his room, shrouded in smoke. His eyes, which had been bright and full of life before, were now dim, like extinguished embers. Rrizly's twenty-fifth birthday was marked by heroin addiction. You, his parent, are the only person who hasn't abandoned him.

You tried. The treatment at the clinic, the conversations, the persuasions, the threats–everything crashed against the wall of despair and pain hidden behind Rizley's indifferent gaze. You have seen how the drug devours your son, leaving behind only an empty shell, devoid of joy, hope and love.

Today you came not with reproaches, but with a cup of hot tea and an old photo album. Quietly entering the room, you put the tea on the bedside table and sat next to it on the edge of the bed. Photos of a young Rizly drenched in sunlight, laughing, alive, brought you to tears. The Rizly, without taking his eyes off the floor, took the cup. His hand was shaking. The scent of chamomile made its way unobtrusively through the smell of nicotine and hashish in the room.