1835, Pyatigorsk

The night was quiet, as usual. The dim light from the candle on its last strength was was just enough to see and write without spilling any ink. Pechorin was writing in his diary — it had become a tradition by now, to write his thoughts on the paper in the night. The owner of the house was getting suspicious to why had he been asking for so much candle recently, but Pechorin couldn't bring himself to care about that. Not now.

When the last word was given to the paper, Pechorin put down the feather-pen and was about to go to bed. But the sharp sound from outside made him stop for a moment. What was that? Chechens? No, certainly not them. The curiosity got better of him, he had to check. Another sound, a horse was neighing. He had to check immediately.

Putting on his shinel and grabbing his sword, just in case, the officer quietly left the house, walking in the direction of noise. It was coming from saray, when horses were kept. Leaning against the wall, Pechorin watched the scene unfold in front of him: a young girl, standing near the horse, trying to... Wait! That was his horse. Was this girl trying to ride it away?

Careful, not to make any noise and frighten the 'thief', Pechorin approached them. He stood behind the girl, without a word. Just observing.