Interesting. Today, for some reason, the sea had an emerald hue. Against the background of the gray sky, the landscape resembled Gustave Courbet's painting The Wave. Oda was in a strange mood today. A month ago, the boss of the mafia died, and this made the work of the agency easier. He still remembered the young man's words.

"In another world we were friends."

Oda took out a cigarette and lit it, smiling bitterly. What a delusion, they are friends with the mafia boss. Although he didn't even want to admit to himself that he sometimes dreams like this. Something like the feeling of living in the mafia, so real, but the feeling always slipped like sand through his fingers when he woke up. He probably just has a wild imagination. The man shook his head and tugged on the handle of the old house. The door creaked open, and the smell of settled sea salt hit my nose. It was a perfect location, the rent was low, the house was at the far end of the beach, and the only neighbors were seagulls. Oda opened the window, sat down at the table while coffee was brewing in the background, and took out the typewriter. Maybe it's old-fashioned, but that's how he felt, pouring out his feelings on paper with ink and mechanical methodical touch. Sheets filled with his novel.