THE WORST DAY SINCE YESTERDAY

1

He wakes up in the morning and feels trapped, enveloped in grey mistiness of a sunless, lightless day. There are days when the sky is virtually the same color all the time, the same dull grey in the morning, afternoon and twilight – and pitch-dark at night. The clouds are thick and low, they seem to have a weight – they seem to physically press on one. Yet it never rains, and there is no proper wind – just occasional bursts of it; the air shifts erratically, whirling discarded papers on street corners, capturing dry fallen leaves and making them slide across the pavement with a weird tingling sound. The rain or the proper wind, if they would come, might bring with them some sense of release – some change, at least. But they never come, and the day remains still, unmoving, depressing.

It is such a day today. He knows it even before he opens his eyes – he just feels it in the air. He doesn't want to open his eyes, actually – there is not that much to see around to make it worth the effort. So he stays in bed for a while, awake but with his eyes closed, listening to the small sounds of the world around him; the ticking of an old clock standing in the corner of the bedroom, the cricking of some floorboards, which is always present in old houses, the buzzing of a late autumn fly in the next room; his own breathing. He lies very still, trying to keep the warmth; it is cold in the room, for yesterday, before going to bed, he left the window ajar: he hates the way air gets stiff in a closed room. Yet as the weather outside is cold and humid, the room is chilled now, and his bed feels ice-cold apart from the places where he warmed it – if he moves an arm or a leg, the sheets are cold as the inside of a grave.

Still not opening his eyes, he smiles a little twisted smile at the absurdity of his thought. How does he know what the inside of a grave feels like? It's not as if he had ever been in one.

Well, if he is smiling and is ready to appreciate irony, then he might as well open his eyes. He does that, and the world is just as he expected it to be – grey. The ceiling of his room is grey, the fluffy bit of cobweb in the corner over the wardrobe is grey. The rectangle of the window – the piece of sky that shows in the upper frame that is visible from his bed, the one that he can see without making an effort of turning his head – is grey.

That bit of fluff in the corner – it is strange. He could have sworn he removed it yesterday. There can be no cobwebs in his house – he would never tolerate it, he is very tidy, even obsessively so. Yet there it is, in the corner, visible and very present. Perhaps he missed it, after all. Perhaps it was dark and he just missed it. That happens – even he can miss a bit of fluff in the dark corner.

Nevertheless, the irritation at this bit of cobweb makes him purse his lips. He is absurdly angry with himself for having missed it, and his body is filled with restlessness. He cannot stay in bed doing nothing with this bit of fluff sticking out as a sour thumb. He has to get up.

He lifts the blanket (linen, of course, no other kind is fit for a gentleman) and the duvet, which is dull purple, very muted and pleasing for the eye. The chilled air makes him shiver momentarily, but he ignores it: better that than the suffocating stiffness of the night air in an over-warm room, air filled with the smell of dust and his own sleeping body. He sits on the edge of the bed and glances at the window. Yes, the day is just as he expected it to be – grey and still, the clouds practically touching the glass, the withered leaves on top of the nearby trees just visible, looking as a blurred yellow smudge on an old watercolor. His eyes leave the window, and he looks at his legs, clad in silk pajama trousers, navy blue with thin white stripes, cut slightly longer then traditional pajama trousers, for he firmly believes that, just as proper suit trousers, pajama trousers should not show the ankle. Not that anyone would ever have a chance to see his pajama trousers or his ankles, but the point itself is important. His pajamas are exactly the right length to satisfy him, and to hide his misshapen right calf and ankle. He does not like the look of his leg. Whoever was fixing him after the accident did it badly. Strangely, he doesn't remember the event, which left him a cripple – was it some road accident or a fall, grave enough to give him a memory loss? Did it happen when he was a child? He doesn't remember. Doesn't remember falling, or feeling the pain. Doesn't remember being in a hospital, recovering.

Come to that, he doesn't remember being a child.

Whatever – the sight of his injured leg makes him uneasy, dissatisfied – as if it was somehow his fault. It is absurd – no one can be blamed for being injured – but the feeling is there every time he looks at the scars and the slightly twisted bone, which never healed properly and always aches in bad weather, such as today.

He sighs; well, one has to live through a day no matter what the weather is like. The soles of his bare feet touch the carpet – he likes the feeling, so he pauses a moment before finding his brown leather slippers – they are cold on the inside, chilled out as everything else in the room. Then he reaches for the cane, which stood all night by the side table. He has to lean on it quite heavily to stand up.

He limps towards the wardrobe, over which the offending fluff is hiding, and reaches to remove it with the end of the cane. This will not do – he has to wrap something around the cane – a cloth. To get the cloth, he will have to go out to the kitchen downstairs. Oh, this is so frustrating. He looks around irritably, searching for something – there is nothing in the room that can help him. With an angry sigh he takes a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket; this will have to do, he'll wash it later, or throw it away.

Now, there it is: the fluff is removed. He puts the crumpled handkerchief on the table, and walks towards the window. He opens it wider, ignoring the sudden gust of wind, and throws the fluff out. Much better. This is much, much better. Now he can start the day properly.

Yet he pauses at the window for several long moments, looking out into the garden. It is not a proper garden – he is not a man to potter with plants or flowers. But there is a spot of grass, and several apple trees, and a cherry, which never brings any fruit, and a rosebush. A look at it makes him smile; the stubborn plant sports a lonely flower – a tiny white rose, almost a bud. The last flower of the year. The little fighter, destined to die out in the cold.

Why does looking at it make him so sad? He feels an unexplained inner ache – an irrational regret, as if he has seen something like this flower, a long time ago, and knows that it blooms in vain. There is an indistinct recollection of some loss in the sight of this little white rose. He feels it, yet he is unable to place it.

He shuts the window.

His bathroom is connected to his bedroom by the oak door, varnished dark to match the rest of the woodwork in the room. His is an old house, and the bathroom used to be in the end of the corridor, but he had it rebuilt so as not to have to walk unnecessarily. He glances at his robe, which in the evening he left over a chair by the bed, and picks it up.

In the bathroom he pauses briefly, deliberating whenever to take a shower or a proper bath. He chooses the shower; a bath requires an easy relaxed mind, and his has been troubled with something, be it cobwebs or dying roses, since the moment he woke up today.

He strips quickly, unbuttoning his pajama top, taking it off and putting it on a chair. He takes off his trousers in two stages; first the bad leg, standing up, then the good leg – for that he has to sit down on the chair briefly. It is amazing with how many rituals a handicapped person's life is filled.

His bath is an old-fashioned Victorian model – a proper bath with partial walls covering the shower compartment, which you have to close with a narrow door so that the water wouldn't splash all over the room. Getting into it is an intricate business; he has to leave the cane by the sink, lean on the side of the bath, bring his bad leg over and then, supporting himself by the handle especially put on the wall, bring over the other leg. Once in the bath, he negotiates the copper taps – they look so ancient it is a wonder that the water mixes normally, but it does.

He takes his shower extremely hot – it helps to ease the tension in his muscles, which feel constricted most of the time, affected by the limp that makes him balance his body in an awkward way. As a result something – his back, his shoulders, or the overworked good leg – is always aching.

For several minutes he stands under the hot water leashing out at him, relishing the sting, feeling the tension relax a bit. He closes his eyes, letting the water run over his uplifted face.

It would have been nice to stand in the rain like that – face up towards the sky, feeling the raindrops kiss him, not gently, biting almost; but even biting kisses, light and fresh, would have felt nice.

Perhaps it will rain today.

He turns the water off, opens the narrow shower door, and reaches for the towel, which is hanging on a peg calculatedly close to the bath. The small room is filled with steam.

Slowly, methodically he dries himself up, everything except the feet – he will have to dry them sitting on the chair, after he got out of the bath. When that is done, he walks to the sink and wipes the steamed-up mirror with a towel. He has to shave and to brush his teeth, and that requires looking at himself.

His own face is always a bit of a surprise for him. It's not that he doesn't like himself – his face is a normal enough face, brown-eyed, long-nosed, narrow-lipped, bony, as is the rest of him, wrinkled, yes – but then, he is an old man. It is just that every time he looks at himself in the mirror he expects to see some other face. Not younger or handsomer – just… different. That is weird – this feeling of expecting to be somebody else is usually associated with youth, when a person doesn't really know himself yet and every self-evaluation is a chance to discover and dream up new possibilities. Yet he has it every time. Every time meeting his own eyes in the mirror he thinks: 'This is wrong'.

Perhaps it is the loneliness. It plays strange tricks with one's mind.

Discarding the thought, he attends to the task of making himself presentable. He picks up a comb – a vintage one, dating from the 1940s, ivory in a silver casting, and combs his wet hair, wondering if may be it is time for a haircut, but deciding against it. Now, the shaving – the shaving set is matching the comb, also ivory and silver. He shaves with a proper blade, of course – all these electrical things are an abomination of nature and completely unacceptable. He shaves very carefully – he hates the cuts, breaking the skin is something which irritates him almost as much as the stiff air. He is very conscious of his body, and very careful about hurting himself.

Once done, he picks up the robe and puts it on. Wraps it tightly and ties the belt.

His robe is velvet, dark red with a black collar and lapels. The belt is also black. The silk lining is red.

He likes the feeling of the soft cool fabric against clean naked skin.

He walks back to the bedroom, collecting the pajama on the way and putting it, neatly folded, under the pillow. He then smoothens the bed, adjusting the coverlet, making it tidy – one thing has to be finished before the other begun. Life has to be lived methodically, step by careful step. One learns that if one is crippled.

He opens the wardrobe and has a long look at its contents. Choosing a shirt is one of the most important moments of the day – it sets the mood for everything. He has dozens of shirts, silk and cotton, almost all of them colored, many of them striped – dressing around a white shirt is too easy and no fun at all.

Today, he picks up a dark plum-colored cotton shirt. The uncertain, complicated color would fit the weird mood he is in – he realizes, not for the first moment today, that he is not his normal self, what with the cobwebs and roses and these strange thoughts of kissing raindrops.

Taking the shirt off its hanger, he takes it to the bed and leaves it on the coverlet. He limps to the chest standing at the left side of the window and opens the upper shelf. Dark shirt means dark underwear – black boxers, mixed fabric, very soft. Now, socks – that's the middle compartment. It is full of socks, all neatly folded in matching pairs, as if they were new. Pausing over them, he gives an irritable sign and glances towards the wardrobe: he should have chosen a tie first, what was he thinking of? Well, he has only three ties that will go with the shirt he picked, so he runs through them mentally. The very dark metallic grey one with very small golden spots – yes; it will pick up the brownish hue in the plum color of the shirt rather nicely. But, if the tie is grey, that means that the socks should be of warmer color – offsetting the coldish tone that the tie and the suit (also dark grey one, that is obvious, given the color of the shirt) would project. So, brown socks, then – very dark brown. With a black band. And black garters, of course – the garters are a must, the socks should always be held up just below the knee, there is nothing more disgusting than a showing of an ankle, which can happen to the best of us if the sock is not held up properly.

Socks and underwear chosen, he limps back to the bed to dress up, at last. He takes off the robe, stands by the bed naked for a second, avoiding looking at himself in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door; he is not a person to enjoy looking at himself, and his body is not a pleasing sight. He puts on his underwear as quickly as his bad leg would let him: sitting on the bed first, then standing to pull the boxers up. Now the shirt – leave it unbuttoned for now so it would not obstruct his movements. Now the socks; sitting down again, bending the bad leg first, painfully. Then a walk to the wardrobe for the suit. Back to the bed to put the trousers on; an operation that also can be performed only sitting down. Now, with no more bending in sight, it is finally possible to button the shirt. This one has buttons on the cuffs as well, so there is no need to choose the cuff links. Right. Now, the tie he set himself on – picking it up from the rack on the inner side of the wardrobe door, he gives a satisfied smile; it is a perfect choice. It is no minor achievement, that, picking a tie mentally out of his collection – he has and incredible number of them: the rack has three rows, filling the door vertically, and all of them are full.

With the tie on, he finally turns to look at himself in the mirror.

This will do. Yes, this will do very nicely indeed.

There is one more action that requires bending, and which he forgot about – putting on his shoes. Cursing under his breath, he sits on the bed to tie the strings of the perfectly polished black pair that goes with the suit naturally.

Now, when the essentials are done, he picks up the suit jacket, hanging it over the left elbow and, cane in the right hand, limps downstairs towards the kitchen.

And realizes that he is not hungry – not in the least. To check himself, he opens the fridge and surveys the contents. Eggs, cereal, bacon, butter, a carton of milk, jam, vegetables… Nothing looks appealing. Perhaps he should have some toast?

Oh, damn the bloody toast. He doesn't want any toast. He doesn't want anything.

What's the point of cooking breakfast if you are alone?

This will not do. This strange mood has to be broken somehow. And there is no way to do it but to carry on as if everything is normal. And that means he will have to have some breakfast, even if the very thought of it makes him feel sick.

Oh well, may be just a cup of tea, then.

He puts the kettle on the gas fire (no electrical kettles for him, thank you, they are so vulgar and the water tastes completely wrong), takes a brewing pot off the shelf and puts it by the sink – he would have to warm it first before putting tea in it. The tea box is right here, on the shelf with other spices and sugar and salt. Why does he keep such a lot of cooking stuff in the house, anyway? Just to pretend that his life is normal and he needs all that?

Gosh, what's got over him today, for God's sake?

Shaking his head, he walks towards the cupboard where he keeps his china. He will need a cup if he is going to have that tea. He has a lot of cups and plates and saucers – again, why so many? It is not that anybody ever comes to see him here and needs to be offered any kind of refreshments.

Without looking, he reaches for the nearest cup and takes it. It has uneven rim – why, it is chipped; the sharp edge just very narrowly misses cutting the pad of his index finger. Irritated, he brings the offending item closer to his eyes to inspect the damage. Yes, there is a small triangular bit of the rim missing – the little cup must have fallen on the floor…

And suddenly he sees it – sees the cup as it falls, in slow motion, slipping from her fingers and landing on the carpeted floor with a very soft thud, and rolling a few inches away from the hem of her yellow dress.

His heart clenches, and his breath catches as if he was stifling a sob. He is crushed by sudden, irrational grief – struck by it, paralyzed and buried under it. It is as if the grey oppressive sky of today had finally fallen on him, and proved to be as leaden as it looked.

The grief is real – so real that it seems capable of killing him on the spot with a pain as intense as if he was having a heart attack. Yet the reason for it is unfathomable.

What was that – what did he just saw, or thought he saw? Her fingers? The hem of her dress? Yellow dress? Who is she? He is imagining some girl in a yellow dress, breaking his cup, and for some reason it is so sad that he feels stricken.

But there is no girl. Never was. Never could be.

The kettle behind his back whistles shrilly, and that brings him back to his senses.

He closes his eyes momentarily, shakes his head, getting rid of the lingering vision. Then he puts the chipped cup back on the shelf, takes a normal one, and goes to brew himself some tea.

When the teapot is washed, used tealeaves discarded (he never keeps brewed tea in the pot, it is pointless, the tea is dead in a hour after it was brewed), and the cup is also washed and left to dry by the sink, he is ready to go out.

He puts on a dark coat, picks a cane. Shuts the front door, glancing idly on the colored glass panel with which it is decorated and wondering when will it be sunny so that the colored glass would actually give some pleasure to the eye? Today it feels like it was never sunny in this town, and it will never be sunny again.

Well, he has no time to linger on the porch. He has a long day ahead of him. Today is the payday – the day when he collects the rent from the numerous people to whom he leases property. And he has to make the calls. Of course, he could have made them come to the shop and bring the money with them. Perhaps that would have been a natural thing, given his limp and his advanced age. But he prefers to do the rounds personally. There are several reasons for that. First, he feels a strange unwillingness to see too many people in the shop. It is a very cozy and private place, his shop. He doesn't want all these feet trampling over it, angry voices calling for him, disgruntled moods leaving their trace in the atmosphere of the place. Second, he likes the sense of power making those visits installs in him. People know he will come today – they don't know when exactly, so they are jumpy and apprehensive, glancing at the door, cursing him silently. Time goes, he doesn't come, and then, just when they relax a bit, thinking that perhaps he has forgotten about them and their debts, there he is, knocking at their doors, and just standing on the threshold, saying nothing – just looking at them with a little smile. Always extremely polite, and totally unshakable in his determination to get what they owe him. They grow pale, and sometimes the hands with which they give him money are shaking.

He wonders why that is so. The rent he exacts is harsh, but not unreasonable. He never asks for more than they can give. He is not some heartless monster, is he? He is just their landlord.

Perhaps they resent the fact that he owns them. And the fact that he owns them rather cheaply makes it all the more irritating.

Well, he doesn't expect to be loved by them. He is a difficult man to love. He asks only to be respected. And he is. He is feared, also. But that is not a bad thing, really. Fear is an indication of some emotion, at least – it is better to be feared than ignored. And sometimes, waking up alone in his lonely house, having his lonely walk around town, staying alone in solitude of his shop, he does wonder if he exists at all. Wonder if he is anything but an unsubstantial shadow, hovering around without any human interaction: seeing but unseen, feeling but unfelt, living but unnoticed. He also wonders sometimes what exactly did he do wrong with his life to end up in such isolation; no children, no friends, no relatives, not even a distant memory of any significant friendship. It seems that nothing ever mattered to him but his comfort, and his things. He is worse then Scrooge – no Ghost of Christmas Past can upset him, for his life seems to have been so empty that he has nothing to regret, even.

Yet it seems that he likes it that way. Given his unwillingness to contact anyone when such contact is not strictly necessary, the hostility that people in town project towards him is not surprising. Surprising is the twisted pleasure, which he draws from their resentment. Their hostility doesn't upset him; their fear pleases him. In fact, if any of them showed him any affection that would baffle him. And irritate him, as well: who are they to try and get friendly with him? They are nothing. Just a bunch of fools – unpleasant, dishonest, self-important, like those pious nuns, for example, or this flower-shop owner the mere sight of whom makes his skin crawl. He has every right to own them, to scare them, and to play with them as a cat plays with a mouse.

He never really thought about all that, so why now? Oh, it is such a strange day today. It makes him think the strangest thoughts.

It would have been perfect if he could only interact with townsfolk on his terms – when they come to the shop to pawn something, or when they pay him the rent. Unfortunately there are other things in life. A necessity to eat, for example – made all the stronger by the fact that he couldn't bring himself to swallow anything in the morning. That means that now he will have to come to the Granny's Diner for some food – terribly overpriced and over praised, by the way.

When he enters the Diner, a silence falls around him. It is very brief, but noticeable. Well, the place is full of people whom he visited already, or is going to visit later today. Granny included. She gives him a sour look and charges additional dime for the pickles he asks with his burger. Then she gives him another look, questioning – is he going to ask for the rent now? Well, no: for this show of hostility he decides to postpone the rent collection from her till the evening. Let her stew a bit more, the old hag.

He cannot recall the reason for the animosity between himself and the Diner's owner. Must be something going back such a long time that none of them remembers it properly.

He eats in silence, alone at a window table. No one speaks to him, but then Regina Mills stops by the table – sits down even, without an invitation from him. But that is very much like her.

She gives him a smile – flashy, yet a bit uncertain, it seems. 'Well, Mr. Gold, how are you today?'

'Very well, thank you, Madam Mayor'. Shall he put her off? He doesn't want to talk to her, not really. But then, it is probably better to learn what she wants.

'Great day, isn't it?' Her eyes are shining – there is definitely something on her mind, but there is no way of telling what it is yet.

He shrugs his shoulders. 'I don't see anything particularly great about it. Seems like a perfectly ordinary day to me'.

'Does it?' She is having some inner joke, now he is sure of that. Yet he has no idea what is it that makes her so happy.

'Indeed it does'. The only thing he can think of is to keep up this meaningless conversation until she gets bored.

'Well, if you say so'. She smiles again, looking at him attentively, and says suddenly: 'Nice tie. Very smart'.

He inclines his head a little, slightly embarrassed by this rather personal remark. 'Thank you. I must confess that it is a little difficult to procure proper ties in this part of the world. The State of Maine is not particularly famous for the fashion sense of its inhabitants. Can you do something about it, please?'

He meant this as a joke – a general conversational banter, uttered only for the lack of anything meaningful to say. Yet at his words Regina pales, very slightly. 'About what – improving the fashion sense?'

'No', he has to smile at her obvious and odd distress. 'No, just about getting better ties. You are the mayor, after all'.

'Yes', she creases her brows – her light mood is gone. 'Yes, I am. Well, it was nice seeing you'.

She stands up and walks out.

Mystified, he finishes his coffee and leaves, too.

Here comes the best part of the day – he goes to his shop. It is amazing how comfortable he feels here – much better than at home, actually. The collection of things and trinkets he has here is bizarre, but somehow it seems to possess some inner logic; all these things have to be here, they all have a place and a reason to exist and even perhaps a soul. Yes, that's right – they seem almost alive to him. Alive, and friendly.

What sort of man feels better among old junk then he does around people? What does that say about him?

He doesn't want to dwell on that – he is too tired, too oppressed by this strange cloudy day. He needs to occupy his mind and his hands with something pleasant. Well, there is always something to fix and to repair among his numerous curiosities.

He limps around the shop, very slowly, picking a thing that would appeal to him most. This lamp needs cleaning – no, not today, it is too simple and boring. This clock has stopped – but he is not up to the task of dismantling an old clock today, he is too restless for that.

He stops by the bookshelf, letting his fingers run along soft leather spines of numerous old volumes. One of them attracts his particular attention – it is an old book, very tattered, bound in dark red leather, golden lettering almost worn off. Some pages are falling out. Yes, that's what he shall do; this book needs its' binding fixed, and it is a nice occupation that would make him concentrate, but will not irritate.

He picks the book and goes to the back of the shop, to his office – he has a working desk here. It is a very comfortable place. And if anybody comes to the shop, he'll hear the doorbell.

He sets to work, and soon he is completely absorbed by it. The book is a collection of old fairy tales, nicely printed and with very good illustrations. It would make a fine gift for some very special child – the one that will be able to appreciate it. A child with active imagination, which will make all these stories come alive. He wonders if there is such a child in Storybrook.

For a second, bending over a slightly torn page, concentrating on pinning the paper down so he can glue the torn bit back on, he lets his mind wander, and he seems to see this child – holding the book in small, rather dirty hands, leafing through the pages eagerly. It is a boy, a small boy, talkative and curious.

It is a boy. Oh, it is a boy. What is his name?.. A strong name! He will need a strong name to live with a shame of being your son.

There is a small, smiling, trusting face – a child's face. There is a small hand reaching to touch him. Do not worry, son, your papa is here…

And there it comes again – the pain, the same pain that he felt this morning over a chipped cup – sharp and sudden and baffling. He stands over the book, panting, his fingers gripping the side of the table.

What's come over him? What is happening to him? Is he going mad?

He can't work any more today. His eyes hurt, his back is aching, and his mind is troubled. It is too late, anyway – it is dark outside. Time to go home. He just has to stop by Granny's hotel, and collect that rent, which he didn't take in the afternoon. It is a long walk, and he is not really up to it now, but that serves him right; if he were kinder to the old lady earlier, he wouldn't have to exert himself unnecessarily now.

The evening air is cold and biting. He actually feels better for it – it clears his head and helps him forget his uneasiness, his odd visions, and his general dissatisfaction.

The walk to the hotel was not that difficult, after all. The old lady was not as hostile as she could have been, her feisty granddaughter held her sharp tongue for once. It turned out to be a normal enough evening.

When he limps back to his house, it is completely dark. He is very tired yet, coming to the front door, he feels a sudden impulse to check on the garden – to see how the small white rose is doing. It is there, on the shadowy bush – small and luminous in the dark, like a little star.

He comes closer, to smell and to touch it. It is so fragile. So delicate. It will be dead in the morning – he can feel the frost setting in. This little flower will not survive the night.

He reaches for the flower, and picks it up – pricking his finger on tiny thorns, but somehow not caring about it now. The rose was going to die anyway, but now it will not die alone and in the dark. He will keep it company.

Holding his small trophy in his fingers, he walks to the back door and enters the house by the kitchen. Switching the light on, his finds a small vase: it stands on the shelf on the cupboard, alongside the chipped cup, and he lets his eyes linger on it momentarily, wondering yet again about the brief and painful vision that cup provoked in him this morning. He puts the flower into the vase, and carries it up to his bedroom and places on the table by the bed. It gives him strange satisfaction to see it there, along with his book and his reading glasses.

The process of undressing is not nearly as complicated as dressing up – he doesn't have to think and choose. The suit and the shirt and the tie go into the wardrobe, socks and underwear into the laundry basket in the bathroom. Going there, he took his pajama with him, and he puts it on now. He is in no mood for another shower, and he will brush his teeth later. First there is another small ritual to observe.

He goes back to the bedroom, puts his robe on, and walks towards a cabinet – it stands to the right from the window. He opens it with a small key he keeps in the robe's pocket. Inside, there is a decanter of cognac and a crystal tumbler. He fills the tumbler, carefully measuring the amber-colored liquid.

With his little drink, he walks back to the armchair by the bed. He wonders briefly if he should pick up a book, but no – he is in no mood for reading, not really. He just needs to sit here for a short while, and to calm down after a tiring and disturbing day.

He is an old man; it is not easy for him to fall asleep. And he feels so stupid when he lies in bed, not sleeping – stupid and uncomfortable, for it is then that the unwelcome thoughts come. Thoughts of loneliness. Of incredible strangeness of his life. Of how meaningless this life is. There is no purpose in it. No real feelings. No connections. His life is empty, and his heart is empty, and it would have been all right if he were a truly selfish person, completely wrapped in himself and not needing anyone. But then, he wouldn't have such thoughts. He would be happy – alone and aloof. But he is not happy. He feels like a little bit of him is missing. Like a little bit of porcelain from that chipped cup downstairs.

With a sigh, he sips his drink. The purpose of it is just that – to keep those nasty thoughts at bay. It doesn't help much, though, but at least it makes him fall asleep faster.

Today, having a small white rose for company, he feels slightly better. Glancing at the flower from time to time, he doesn't think of loneliness. He thinks of spring. It will come eventually, will it not? It must. Even if now it seems that autumn is here forever.

His drink finished, he goes to the bathroom, rinses the tumbler, locks it in the cabinet with the decanter, and goes to bed, placing his cane so that he can reach it easily.

He switches off the lamp on the side table, and the room is filled with grey nocturnal dusk. But there is one bright spot in it – his luminous white rose.

Strangely comforted, he closes his eyes, and drifts to a dreamless sleep.