PUMICE

"Psychology, ladies and gentlemen, is the most complex of medical sciences! It, alone, does not understand routine and mechanical operation! Why? Ladies and gentlemen, each of you can define flu remedies; you know perfectly well how to treat a throat, legs, liver, heart. But you cannot find a single, universal medicine to prescribe to a patient with a brain disorder. Because the brain, as the seat of intelligence, must also be treated with intelligence! With a psychologist's understanding! Remember the most important thing – each of your patients is different and cannot be treated according to the textbook! You must listen to them, observe them, talk to them to understand the nature of the problem. Your task is to spend some time in their shoes."

She always returned home with this thought in mind, exhausted after another day of listening, observing, talking, and trying to understand her patients. Today had been a difficult day, so as she closed the office door after the last patient, she felt relief. Besides a dozen familiar faces, several new ones visited her, with even more complex problems and phobias. One of them had gone beyond human comprehension – he'd convinced himself he was an armchair and demanded the upholstery be changed to burgundy with shades of purple. For now, she'd advised his family to buy him clothes in the desired color, even though they, too, were strange, hiding something. Or embarrassed? She didn't know. She was exhausted and wanted to get home as quickly as possible. She climbed to the fifth floor of the skyscraper where she'd been forced to live. The elevators were out of order again.

Panting, she lazily entered the apartment, tossing her purse and key onto the kitchen table. Her husband leaned out of the room, checking to see if she'd returned.

"Hi..." she shuddered slightly, turning her attention to him.

"And... hi... where are the kids?

" "At the neighbors' downstairs. They're watching some movie with their little ones..." He entered the hallway, where she was taking off her coat. He looked at her tired, dark-circled eyes. He kissed her cold, chapped lips. She just smiled faintly and said,

"Go pick them up... I'll go to bed..." He looked at her with a hint of concern. He was losing her with each passing, mediocre day. She came home increasingly tired, increasingly overworked. She hadn't taken a vacation in six months, working weekends. She devoted less and less time to the children, to him... He pulled the doorknob and went downstairs to "pick up the little ones." In reality, he'd been sitting next door with a glass. Meanwhile, she'd eaten a quick meal, taken a quick shower, and jumped into bed.

She slept, dreaming of strange things. She only remembered shards of broken glass on the navy blue floor.

The crunch of the bed sagging under her husband's weight woke her briefly. She smelled the alcohol. She tugged angrily at the covers and fell back asleep. Her sleep was once again restless.

When she woke up, it was shortly before ten. She jumped to her feet, feeling dizzy. She sat up and remembered it was Saturday and her first appointment wasn't until two p.m. She got up calmly, woke the children, and prepared breakfast for herself and them. The boy and girl rushed in and began devouring sandwiches. She went to the window and looked out into the yard. Her husband, of course, was standing, arguing with a neighbor she'd met at one of his "séances." She went to her room, sat on the unmade bed, finished her breakfast in peace, picked up a book she'd been reading in moments of boredom, and immersed herself in it.

It was a collection of short stories, one of which was fascinating. It was about a psychologist who, after some time, as a result of encounters with one of his patients, lost his mind, inheriting a strange phobia from him. The story was so improbable that when she finished reading it, her first reaction was to clutch her face, unsure if reality had somehow merged with fiction. She glanced at the large clock. It was two-thirty. She panicked at how late it was. She threw the book aside, wanting to quickly make her bed, get ready, and rush to work. The book flew off the table and sailed toward a nearby wardrobe, whose shelves were lined with various knick-knacks.

Do you know Murphy's Laws? They are the greatest pieces of wisdom ever collected by man, because they speak of things that, while theoretically unproven and pessimistic, are constantly being confirmed in practice. One of them, now reflected in everyday life, is: "If something can go wrong in many places, the first damage will occur where it will do the most damage."

The book flew straight into her most prized vase. A large, navy blue one, carved with dragons and other fantastical creatures. In the midst of them all, a proud king, a wizard, or some other venerable old man held sway. Now the images were fading into nothingness. An old vase, over three hundred years old, held by generations. Generations of great artists and writers who had found themselves in her family. Protected by large feathers, killed by a book. It staggered and fell from the shelf. There was a loud clatter of shattering glass. Something in her mind seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces. She saw that exact moment, frame by frame, as the vase hit the floor, and pieces slowly fell away, larger and smaller. For a single moment, a split second, all those shards formed a kind of vast, dusty sphere. As if the sky, the entire universe, had suddenly shrunk to that area, a few dozen centimeters in diameter, revealing its grandeur and beauty just moments before its destruction.

She saw the world—her world—disappear. She began to scream. Alarmed by the screams and the sounds of the vase shattering, the children came running into the room. After a while, my husband also appeared, having just returned from the yard.

"What's going on???" he shouted at her. Then she fell silent and began to recover. She felt foolish for reacting this way.

"Wa... the vase broke... the oldest..." she began, as if explaining to her family, "I... I just threw the book down because... it was late... and I... I have to work...

" "Oh no," her husband interrupted quickly, "You're not going to work today. You're tired, distracted... you can't go on like this."

A strange rage surged through her. How can anyone tell her what to do or not to do? She pushed him away as he tried to sit her on the couch. The children stared, horrified by their mother's behavior. However, she controlled her rage and curtly said,

"No. I'm going." She ran from the room, grabbed her coat, purse, and keys, and left the apartment. She hurried down the stairs and rushed to work. Never once in her ten-year career had she been late for an appointment.

She didn't notice that the street looked different.

She didn't notice that the people passing her were different.

She didn't notice that the gate and path leading to her office were completely different from yesterday, the day before, and the week before.

She climbed nine different stairs and opened a door she wasn't familiar with.

But she didn't have time to think about it.

The waiting room was empty. Her skin crawled at the thought that the patients might be eagerly returning home. She glanced at the clock hanging above her office door. It was a quarter past three—not that late.

"Maria?" she called hesitantly to her assistant, who leaned out of the miniature kitchen, from which the pungent aroma of coffee still emanated. She didn't notice that Maria, too, wasn't the Maria who ushered her patients into their rooms and scheduled their appointments.

"Oh, there you are. I was starting to worry about you. You've never been late before."

"Sorry... I was sitting at home reading... it was late... where are the patients? Have they gone yet?

" "Don't worry... all the patients today, except one, have canceled their appointments.

" "What time?

" "I rescheduled this man for three-thirty. But he's already here.

" "Where?

" "In the office, he's been sitting there waiting for you since three.

" "Okay." She handed her her coat and stood by the office door. "Make me some coffee." She was about to open the door when she stopped and turned her head slightly towards Maria. "Is his family there too?"

"No. He came alone," Maria called from the kitchen. This surprised her a bit. Patients rarely came alone. Unless they had no family. She entered the office. A man was sitting in one of the armchairs, staring out the window. The moment she entered, he turned and stood up. He was tall, with a serious face, short hair, and average green eyes. He didn't give the impression of someone with any mental problems.

"Good morning," she began. "My name is...

" "I know," he interrupted her calmly, smiling slightly ironically. "I realize who I'm going to see, right?" She felt slightly embarrassed by the patient's behavior, but didn't let it show. He was a psychologist, after all.

"You know everything so well? So maybe you don't need a psychologist?"

The man laughed.

"But he is. Unbelievable, isn't it?

" "True," she smiled faintly. "Please, sit comfortably." They both sat down, she at her desk, he in the chair across from her. For a moment, they exchanged teasing, combative glances.

"What's your name?

" "Is it important?" he snorted. "Will my name and surname help you pinpoint the problem?

" "But you know I have to document every patient...

" "Ma'am... you can treat me as if I weren't even there, and I'll still pay you... yes, I can give you my personal information, but is that really necessary to help?

" "No," she lowered her pen. "It's not necessary, really," she added with an ironic smile, trying to imitate her patient. "You're absolutely right."

With the same mocking expression on his face, he proudly crossed his legs and began to wave them pretentiously.

"So?

" "So what brings you to me? I'm listening carefully; I'm only at your disposal. "

The man laughed briefly.

"The point is, literally NOTHING brings me to you."

A slight look of surprise crossed her face.

"I mean, my problem is that I don't have a problem. Do you understand?"

But she couldn't understand what her patient was getting at.

"People without problems are happy, aren't they?"

"And people without problems and without happiness?" He looked her straight in the eye. "People without SOULS?"

She remained silent. For the first time in ten years, she didn't know what to answer her patient. Meanwhile, he swung his leg off his body and leaned his elbows on his knees.

"Pumice.

" "What, pumice?

" "I feel like pumice! Can you imagine a state of complete soul deprivation? A lack of feelings? A state of unemotionality? That's what I am! That's what my soul is like now! Rough, coarse, gray, sharp, barren as pumice.

" "Hmm... I must admit, that's a bit unusual."

"But it's common. Many people don't even realize it, that in the rush of everyday life, the same old routines. ROUTINE. I came to you because routine was killing me day after day. At first, I didn't pay attention to it, I acted like any normal person. I went to work, came home, sat down with my wife, ate dinner, went to bed. That was my normal, classic day. After a while, I realized that nothing was happening in my life. I started thinking more and more often—just thinking. That was starting to kill me, too. I was coming to terms with brutal but real truths.

" "What?" she interrupted.

"The kind that made me realize I was average, that I was no longer feeling like I was losing myself and couldn't cope anymore. It was frustrating..." There was a knock on the door. It was Maria. She walked over to the desk and set two cups of coffee on it. The psychologist thought to herself that she hadn't told her to bring coffee for the patient, but she ignored it. She thanked her. The moment Maria left, the man reached for the coffee, took a sip, and set it on the table next to the chair.

"But something compelled you to come to someone who could help you, or at least try to help you.

" "You played it quite safe." He looked at her teasingly.

"I don't understand?

" "Or at least try to help." Are you feeling insecure?"

"You're grabbing my words unnecessarily," she said, though deep down she felt he had cleverly discovered her. He was piercing her with his gaze, and at one point she wondered who really needed a specialist's help. "You're getting off topic. What made you come here?" "

Impotence," he lowered his gaze slightly. "Helplessness and the terrifying scream of the remnant of my soul, still calling for freedom, for life. The remnants of myself, fighting even as I was dying." He looked at her with a sad, pleading gaze. "I can no longer remain my head outside the shell of routine, observing all this, unable to do anything. Like a man frozen head-deep in a pond. He sees his hopeless situation, unable to escape on his own. I must either sink back into the mindless depths and remain unaware of my actions, or emerge from this once and for all...

" "In short, do you regret viewing your actions from a different perspective?

" "Yes. Ignorance was definitely better.

" "But that knowledge would have come to you eventually! Asked for or not, it would have come sooner or later. And then perhaps it would have been even worse. Why blind yourself for your apparent peace of mind, but in reality, for the further destruction of yourself?

" "If only for that," he looked at her matter-of-factly, "I wouldn't have felt guilty. I would simply be blind to everything."

"Are you trying to pretend to be indifferent?" she asked provocatively. "I can clearly sense that you don't want to go back there. That's why you came here. You can hide the truth, but I already know what it is.

" "So maybe you could advise me right away what I should do?" This was the question she dreaded most. For a simple reason: she didn't know what to advise such a man. Usually, standard advice like "Find a hobby, start doing sports" was out of the question. She knew people like that, though she didn't treat them. They weren't even capable of doing anything. They would be empty and indifferent even to what they were supposed to do. Here, they needed to be... stirred up emotionally." She thought for a long time about how to achieve this effect, and he waited patiently, making no snide remarks or quips. He simply sat and watched intently as she sought advice for his problem. But she still managed to blurt out what she hadn't wanted to say:

"Maybe a hobby... something you could find... sports..." He looked at her in a way that made her momentarily regret that she, an experienced psychologist, had come up with such a trivial idea.

"No. Do you think I didn't try? I tried everything... but I still felt empty. Something was still missing... I was emotionless.

" "Okay... we'll do some more diagnosis..." she said blankly, and they began talking about him. That is, he told her about himself, his work, his everyday life, his family, his passions. He recalled every element of his life in minute detail. He didn't have to rush—he was the only one scheduled today, after all. It was starting to get gray outside—it was February, after all, and dusk was fast approaching. But for three people, time stood still. For the patient, describing his entire life, lightly, easily, in a hollow voice. For the psychologist, who sat there, recording everything on a tape recorder, trying to understand her patient. For her assistant, Maria, who was sitting in the next room, sipping coffee and reading some captivating collection of short stories.

A vase balanced precariously on the edge of a shelf, about to fall to its death…

It was already late. The psychologist glanced at the clock and startled herself. It was half past six. She had never devoted so much time to one person. Even her family would have demanded such attention. But this man was different. He didn't have to ask her to stay and talk with him. This discussion captivated them both. She felt as if she were in another dimension. Everything was different today. But everything had its limits.

"Ah… we've been staring…

" "Ah…" he too looked as if he'd been pulled from a trance. "Indeed, it's late. Sorry… I'll go now…" He finished his coffee, rose from his chair, bowed, and headed for the door. She asked him,

"Why don't you ask me if I've found any advice for you?"

He stopped, turned slightly, and said:

"I know you can't help me today anyway..." he smiled ironically.

"I wonder who the psychologist here should be..."

They both laughed.

"When am I supposed to... come back next time?

" "Wait..." She got up from the armchair, opened the door, searching for Maria. "Maria?" No one answered. "Maria?" She walked to the door of the next room and pulled the handle. She did it so abruptly that the slam of the door opening startled Maria, who was sitting in the room reading a book. She asked, in an embarrassed voice, as if she'd been caught doing something embarrassing,

"Excuse me?" The psychologist stood in the doorway, slightly surprised by the assistant's reaction.

"Er... could you check when this gentleman can be scheduled?

" "Yes..." She got up, grabbed the book, went to her notebook, and checked. "You see, the computer's broken... it's good that Maria still uses the old-fashioned method of writing in a notebook..." The silence was broken only by the sound of leafing through pages. Finally, that too stopped.

"In a week. There's no one." The psychologist was genuinely surprised.

"How so? Were there appointments booked for two months?

" "Well, there were... they were for today too, Doctor..." They stared at each other, not understanding the situation. "Write it down?"

"Yes... yes... write it down... if there's a free day, write it down... for the same time..." Maria took a pen, quickly scribbled something, closed the notebook, and placed it next to the book. For a moment, all three of them stood looking at each other in silence. Only the man broke it.

"Okay... then I'll visit you in a week... thank you, goodbye, and... sorry for the inconvenience...

" "Don't say that... that's my job...

" "Exactly. Your job." He looked at her reproachfully. "And if you weren't a psychologist, would you listen to me?"

She remained silent. He slowly walked toward the exit, opened the door, and left without a word. His footsteps echoed for a while, slowly fading into the distance. Only the two of them remained. Maria sighed.

"A strange person, isn't he?"

The psychologist glanced at her, startled out of her reverie.

"I mean... strange people come here all the time, but this one was different, wasn't it?"

"Today, nothing is the same as usual," they said in silence. "Bring me my coat."

She went to the office, grabbed the recorder, put it in her bag, took it, and left. Maria was already there with her coat. They both dressed, turned off the lights, and left. They stood at the gate and simply looked deeply into each other's eyes. They stayed like that for a while until the psychologist broke the silence.

"I don't know what to think... I feel like pumice after this visit...

" "How?"

"Never mind..." she waved her hand. "No matter how I put it into words, I couldn't describe it... I just feel like that man... or so it seems to me that I feel like him...

" "And that's why you can't help him?

" "Yes..." she hung her head. "See you, Maria..." she started toward the house.

"See you, madam..."

She thought the entire way. Not because she wanted to, but because these thoughts kept coming to her mind. She felt as if she had just broken through the shell of routine and seen her hopeless situation. BECAUSE WHO WAS SHE REALLY? Nobody! An average psychologist who had been dealing with the same thing day in, day out, for ten years. She had always been gray, doing the same mechanical things every day, the routine eating her from the inside. She felt empty. Never in her life had she realized such a painful truth.

She had a husband with whom she almost never argued, didn't reproach him for returning home from the neighbor's house "drunk" every day. She didn't yell at him for not spending time with her. Because she, too, treated him like a harmless tenant. A perfect, silent symbiosis.

She had children, twins – a boy and a girl, who attended elementary school, were neither the best nor the worst, average students, and caused no major behavioral problems. After a while, even they stopped clouding her thoughts. After all, everything was perfectly aligned and had been functioning consistently for so many years. Feed – prepare – help – praise – scold as needed. Nothing changed. Things were constant and unchangeable – what could be changed in a well-functioning mechanism?

In fact, her entire mental state and that of the patient could be reduced to a single scene. One of the slower tortures involved sitting the victim on a stool, tying him up, and placing him under a slightly leaky bucket, from which drops of water would rhythmically and regularly fall onto the tortured person's head. The very thought of such a thing seemed ridiculous, but after a while, these people would experience madness.

It was the same here – every day, every mechanical action, was a drop falling on the top of her head. She began to lose her mental balance.

The vase was hurtling towards death.

She reached home. She did exactly what she always did. She put her purse and keys on the kitchen table, greeted her husband, ate a quick dinner, and went to bed. But she didn't sleep. She couldn't sleep. She was surprised that her husband hadn't left to ritually drown his mind in vodka. She watched him sitting in the armchair watching TV, one eye peeking out from under the covers, and pondered.

She wondered if this was how men reacted to routine – by drinking. Or maybe it's become a ritual for them, a continuation of alcoholism—they don't drink to feel better. They drink to feel normal.

And he? Just as gray, average, absent… absorbed in the television screen. He acted as if he'd never been there.

And she? What was she to him? Who was she? A specter… a tenant…

She felt like a doll controlled by the norms and rules of this world. She had always been guided. First, school, doing exactly what the teacher ordered, never objecting, never questioning the professor's authority. Then she went to university. There, martial law found her. Was something happening? No. She continued to be carried along by the tide of others, constantly riding the wings of fashion, along with the crowd and current standards. She graduated, started working first in public healthcare facilities, then established her own private practice. She started a family, never traveled with them, never diversified her family life. She abandoned it to the daily grind. She was gray, horribly average, monotonous, monotonous, BORING.

She was like pumice stone.

Silent tears flowed from her eyes. Her husband pretended not to notice. He preferred not to. He didn't want to break through the shell.

*

The week passed terribly. She felt like her own vase, which she had so recently shattered, falling, just moments before impact. Only this impact was endlessly delayed. It was as if her mind was torturing her, refusing to let her die. She thought more and more often. She read a book – she thought. She was at work – she thought. She ate breakfast, lunch, dinner – she thought. She couldn't fall asleep – she thought.

It all boiled down to one thing: thinking is tiring.

And after a while, it has a truly negative effect.

She resolved several times to break the routine and add color to her life. But she couldn't. Not a single thought came to her. She felt worse and worse with each passing day. Emptiness and helplessness overwhelmed her. Finally, she gave up. The solution, if it was meant to come, would come to her on its own – unexpectedly. That's how brilliant thoughts come – unbidden.

However, this one, which came, was invited. Even with an appointment for a specific time on a given day. On Saturday, at 3:30 PM.

She left home earlier that day. The children had gone to winter camp, her husband had found some part-time work, and no one stopped her in the end. She walked slowly, carefully observing the landscape. She asked herself if she could still distinguish colors, beauty from ugliness, art from junk… Her brain no longer distinguished colors… everything was gray…

She reached the cottage where her office was. She greeted Maria, wordlessly gave her her coat, and entered the office. He was already there. He was sitting exactly as he had a week ago, in the same pose, his gaze fixed on the same spot. He had reacted the same way when she entered. He approached in a similar manner. They were silent. He broke the silence.

"Déjà vu?" That familiar, ironic smile of hers appeared on his face. They sat down. He didn't even ask her if she'd found a solution to his problem. He simply felt there wasn't one. He continued his story. Everything became mechanical again – she asked questions, he answered. But he kept looking towards the window.

When it finally began to get dark, he stopped talking.

"Okay... it's a good time...

" "For what?

" "My request will be quite unusual...

" "Meaning?" the psychologist asked, intrigued.

"I'd like..." he turned his head shyly, "to go to the beach... to look at the stars..."

She was taken aback by the question. The patient's eccentric request surprised her. She was taken aback.

"You know, I've never...

" "None of my patients have had such demands...

" "But okay... if you don't want me to, I won't pressure you... I just jumped out... I don't even know what possessed me." He blushed and stood up to leave .

"No! Wait!"

He stopped.

"I'll go... I'll go with you, just wait a moment..."

The man suddenly brightened.

"Thank you..." She smiled at him with her most beautiful smile, which, by the way, she rarely used. She gathered the papers into her bag, turned off the lights, and told Maria she was going with a patient. Maria, in turn, didn't look surprised, as if she had anticipated such a move from the man. They left the house and headed toward the beach. The closer to the sea, the quieter it became, the less traffic on the streets. She thought she should be afraid—after all, she was walking with a strange man into the middle of nowhere. Who knew what he might do to her? But she refused to accept such news. Finally, it was too late to turn back. Especially since she felt

her vase hit the ground...

They stepped onto the beach. She could no longer see the sand. She felt the ice crunch under her feet. It was frosty and almost windless. A barely perceptible wind gently whipped the water. The sky merged with the sea, the sea with the land—everything was a wondrous unity. She felt vulnerable, yet safe, being led by the man. They approached near the edge of the water, which was now frozen. They stood there for a while, watching the distant lights of the ships in the roadstead, the lighthouse sending a great beam from the peaks, guiding the sailors.

"Come…" the man said suddenly. She didn't even feel the change when he addressed her as "you." She followed him meekly, still sensing the magic in the air. He led her to a bench. It had no backrest—just a wide, long piece of wood propped up on two other stumps.

"From here, we'll look at the stars..." They lay down on the bench, each on a different side so that the tops of their heads touched. She looked straight up at the sky, strewn with stars, patched in places by slowly shifting clouds. She stared, and in that moment, she lost reality. She lost time. She entered a space where there were no measures, no time, no established rules, no principles. She was suspended in infinite space. She felt...

one of several hundred thousand million billion motes. Like a shard of a crumbling vase. PUMICE

VASE How it all rested on seemingly stupid, meaningless things. An ordinary vase—fallen and shattered into tiny pieces—passed into nothingness. Was it the same for them? For all the worlds? In truth, once merged, existing separately for only a single moment, a moment of destruction, a moment that missed the final end, the end... Did her life and his have to be only that split second of a crumbling vase? Did it have to turn them into pumice? Creatures living for the very essence of things. Why couldn't you simply turn back time and try to capture your life vase? Stop the collapse towards inevitable destruction? Who was toying with the human species like this? God??? So God...

"If you are... catch my vase... and put it back in its safe place..." She said quietly. She felt herself changing, as that empty, average psychologist discovered her true self, buried somewhere deep within. He—also undergoing a metamorphosis—was awake.

"A vase?

" "That's what I was told...

" "A strange coincidence... perhaps it's irrelevant, but one day I broke a vase... an old one from my grandparents... I had a special fondness for it... do you know what came to mind now?"

"Yes..." She interrupted him. "You saw the shards of a broken vase in the sky... the stars were the remains of what had been a priceless family heirloom...

" "A moment before you fell into nothingness and nonexistence..." They were silent. He turned his head away from the sea. "Then... I actually reflected on my life... Strange, isn't it?

" "No... perhaps strange..." She turned her head in the same direction. "But real...

" "Ha... look over there." He pointed to a nearby hill, where a snow-white cloud seemed to merge with the snow-capped peak and blur its boundaries. "Beautiful... isn't it?

" "Yes... now I know what beauty is..."

After a while, they stood up and headed for the exit from the beach.

He escorted her to the very staircase of the skyscraper. He said goodbye with a gentle squeeze of his hand, warm despite the frost. They smiled at each other, but he didn't smile ironically, and she didn't provoke her. They stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city's nightlife. She was the first to speak:

"Thank you... I don't think it was really me who cured you, but the other way around... ha... the psychologist had to be saved herself...

" "That's not true... we came out of each other's shells... but without you... I couldn't have coped... Thank you... with all my heart... Goodbye... See you in the future...

" "See you in the future..." She watched for a moment as her special patient walked away in an unknown direction. When he disappeared into the darkness of the night, she entered the stairwell.

It was already quite late, and when she entered, her husband was already waiting worriedly.

"Where have you been? I've called everywhere, but you...

" "Shh..." she placed a finger to his lips. "You're about to hear the strangest, yet most true story about the human psyche..." He wanted to ask if she had been drinking, but he held back. Something told him to listen to his wife's story. He went into the room, where she just entered with two cups of coffee. She sat down comfortably next to him and began…

*

She decided to take a few days of unused vacation, which had accumulated a lot over the years. She began to repair her relationship with her husband – he stopped going to the neighbors' for vodka and focused on his family. Her children began to be more creative. They argued with teachers when they saw they were right. Eventually, their parents began to teach them that the worst thing was to remain silent and allow oneself to break rules and norms. To allow oneself to be suppressed and silence one's voice. She became a different person – she treated her patients even faster, using even more innovative solutions. After some time, she received a distinction for her original approach to her field.

One day, the postman came to her. He simply knocked and silently handed her a large package. He didn't take any money. She took the package to her room and checked that it was unsigned. There was no sender. Only the address: OS Street…

She opened it. Inside was something wrapped in newspaper. She unwrapped it, revealing a large, navy blue vase. Carved with dragons, and an old man in the center. The old man smiled at her.

In a very ironic, familiar way.