Evening. A room without time — empty walls, one chair, a candle, an open notebook. Severyn Lustovsky sits, his head bowed. The light fluctuates like breathing. He speaks aloud, not for anyone, but simply to avoid dissolving completely.

...today I was thinking about the smell of old paper. It's like a memory that's not yours, but somehow hurts. And also about how silence sometimes becomes voluminous. Not empty — but full of presence. As if someone is silent nearby, but this silence... deeper than any word. You know, I've learned not to wait. And that's when she always comes back.

He freezes. His gaze slides into the void. A pause. The silence becomes wary, like before a downpour. And suddenly...

...You're here again, right?

She appears — without light, without sound, but with absolute certainty in her right to be. She stands, not changing the air, but he already feels her. He is not surprised. He is exhausted by the precision of her appearance.

I didn't even try this time. I didn't give up on you. Not because I want to — but because... ...you are the only thing that returns without trying to justify yourself.

He doesn't look straight, he only slightly turns his head — as if afraid that a direct look will destroy everything. He speaks into space, knowing that she is already in it.

You appear when everyone else leaves. You are my remnant. My unspoken thought. An empty place near my heart that still warms. Tell me, is it you who is holding me, or am I holding you because I am afraid of falling?