Suddenly see the world in a different light

Smells have magic. Right? Right. For example, cinnamon, or sweet vanilla. Almonds, patchouli, chocolate. Strawberries, basil, fresh grass.

Every scent has a secret, a history. Each is a distinct character. In fact, the entire world is a scent. More precisely, millions of scents.

Just as all colors mixed together eventually create white, so too all scents combined create the scent of the Earth. Right? Right.

"But what scent is mine?

" "Exactly, what scent?"

An echo echoed in the void. Impossible? Not true. Possible. The laws of physics are nothing when magic occurs. And magic was there. It was scents, the murmur of words, the laughter of light robes. Two ghosts floated in the void. Ghosts? Yes, ghosts. They were a cluster of dreams. Wrapped in light shawls, they tangled in long skirts, tossing dark curls from their foreheads. Pathetic? Yes. But in some places, there are dark, evil, terrifying spirits. Or friendly, smiling, helpful. Human. And here were pathetic spirits. Exactly. Yes, no different. These spirits liked scents differently. They fell asleep lulled by vanilla, woke up amidst lavender. In the real, unpathetic world, they would have woken to the scent of warm sheets. But here it was different.

Besides, all this is a myth. You shouldn't believe it. Why? Although... Although not. You should believe this myth, this lie, while reading. To create a better atmosphere. And then forget it, just as you forget the scents of summer, giving way to autumn, which lingers in the October rain.

Then you remember the scent of wet leaves, puddles, and clods of earth squeezed out from under the gray grass by water drops. And you remember these scents until winter comes. And the scent of snow.

But let's stay with the scent of chocolate and the image of ghosts. Let's leave philosophical analyses of olfactory memory aside. Although, in fact, this entire text is a small analysis. Perhaps it's better not to dissect the scent? Maybe then it'll lose its magic?

Let's go back.

* * *

"What scent? What... What? What?! Panic rang like a pure note in the void. Sound doesn't travel in a vacuum? Nonsense, it does.

"Sweet. Otki, tki, łdki..." the ghost played with the syllables, completely ignoring the other ghost's hysteria.

"Sweet? Chocolate, vanilla, almonds. It was, it was, it was!!!" the apparition thrashed about in colorful robes, angered by its companion's traditional approach. "New, new! Not old! Sweet...! No, no, no! It was!"—well, pathetic spirits aren't exactly eloquent. And despite their idyllic appearance, they can be very impulsive. Like now, when, in a fit of rage, a hysterical spirit tore out another's long, dark lock. It would probably surprise those who think pathetic spirits are only pathetic. But what exactly does pathos mean? Not necessarily fluffy white clouds and soft colors. Sometimes pathos can be very avant-garde. Like ghosts. Or angels. Right? Right.

Let's get back to it.

* * *

Surrealism. A pure form of daydreaming. Creativity that leads nowhere, heavy with feathers. Creating ghosts, angels, unreal creatures, beings without deeper meaning. Forcing thoughts into abstract work, without result.

Seeking scents, the trajectories of delusions wander, subconsciously transgressing laws in search of the unconscious, replacing the void with matter.

- Smell! New! New! New! Void! - ghosts are surreal. They are a dream, a hallucination.

The imperfections in their creation are nothing, a vain detail. Because dreams are imperfect, an outline.

Everything smells. Even abstraction. Hilarious silliness, irritatingly real and cynically unreal. What am I striving for?

- Victoria! Haha! New! New! Abstraction, andronics! Old!!! New! New! - well, joy can be limitless. And hardly coherent; in fact, it is a purely schizophrenic form, the most beautiful figure, without unnecessary embellishments. It is perfect in itself. And flaws? They are an emphasis.

I strive for a void. Madness? No. Words are nothing, and consciousness is a delusion. I strive for the void, not in the exact sense. Metaphorically.

Mysticism, mystery. Is this the void? No. What is it? I don't know.

* * *

And the spirits, dancing in light robes, absurdly reveled in the new scent of the void. Remember, it's all a myth...

Raped Thoughts.. 1/2

She lay on the floor. Covered in blood. Her hands were tangled in her hair, tears streaming from her eyes. Her heart was beating faster. She could hear his whisper, his laughter, his voice in her ears. When she took a breath, she could smell his scent. When she moved even an inch of her body, she felt his touch.

***

"Ania, be careful. You know what happens at discos like this," her mother said anxiously.

"Yes, Mom, I know. But I'm not going there alone. I'm going with my friends," the girl sighed and ran her lipstick across her lips.

"Don't drink beer..."

"Mom! Stop it... I've heard that a million times," the girl grimaced.

"Okay. And don't go to the bathroom alone," her mother said, handing her daughter her jacket.

"I know, I know... Will you tell Dad to pick me up at three?" she asked, applying mascara.

"Yes, I'll tell him. You look beautiful." But remember... Watch out for boys, because they only care about one thing...

"Yes, Mom. Bye," the girl said, and kissed her mother on the cheek. She left with a smile on her face.

***

Someone entered the restroom, so the girl untangled her hands from her hair and covered her mouth. She didn't want anyone to hear her sobs. She felt a sudden rush of heat. Then cold. And so on. Someone jiggled the doorknob. "

Is it occupied?" the girl squealed. That voice. It was the blonde in the red blouse who used to hang around her Maciek. Definitely. That voice was impossible to forget. She curled up and hid her face in her blouse, which, stained with blood, had changed color. "Go away! Get out!" she wanted to scream, but she choked it back. She closed her eyes.

*** "

Anka, see that boy in the beige pants?" her friend nudged her. "

He's staring at you. So what?" the girl grimaced. Half the guys drooled over the sight of Aśka walking down the street in the morning, let alone at a disco like this.

"No! He's clearly looking at you..." the girl smiled mysteriously.

***

The blonde emerged from the restroom. The girl wanted to get up, but felt a strange pain in her lower abdomen. Her eyes were filled with tears, making it difficult to see clearly. She knew what she looked like. Her blouse torn at the breasts, her pants pulled down to mid-knee along with her panties, her hair disheveled, blood drying on her body, her makeup smeared, and she felt breathless. She pulled up her panties and cringed. She couldn't believe what had happened. Why had she let Aśka persuade her to approach him? She'd known right away that he had a nasty look in his eyes. But he'd noticed her, not Aśka, and that impressed her. And now she had it coming. She should go to the police. No! They wouldn't be able to prove anything to him anyway... And they'd drag her through the mud and say it was her fault. Would she get pregnant? Or maybe he'd infected her with HIV or some other disease? She heard him laugh.

A shower. She had to wash his touch off her as quickly as possible. She ran out of the bathroom, tripping over her pants. She quickly adjusted them, not buttoning them fully, ignoring the pain. No one noticed her. Perhaps such a sight was common there? Aśka flashed before her eyes with some guy. But Anka quickly forgot about her. She walked to her car. She had her driver's license, but her hands were shaking. She cursed under her breath. She couldn't find her keys. She'd left them in her purse. And her purse? She didn't know where... It must have been left somewhere on the table. What had just happened had made her lose control. She also couldn't remember how she'd gotten home. She nimbly entered through the open window. She jumped into the shower. Sh

Love leads to ...

The day was approaching for Marcin to meet Ola. He didn't know how to behave, so he asked his father for some advice. He left the house very stressed.

Ola was already waiting there. When he arrived, they started talking about them. They decided they were a couple from now on. They declared their love for each other and kissed.

With summer vacation approaching, they decided to go away together. They were both 16 years old. Their parents agreed. They went to a lakeside cottage that belonged to Ola's parents.

One evening, they had a bit of an argument about Ola's friend, Bartek. The boy lived next door to their cottage. Marcin was very jealous of Ola. The next day, when he returned from a store where he'd been shopping, he saw Ola walking with Bartek. He decided to follow them. Near a forest, they stopped and started kissing. Bartek invited Ola over. She agreed. Marcin kept playing detective, spying on them through the window. Bartek and Ola started having sex, and Marcin couldn't believe that his Olena was cheating on him with some man. He had no idea how to get revenge.

When Ola returned home that evening, she told Marcin that she'd met the daughter of Ola's father's friend.

Marcin couldn't stand the thought of her cheating on him, and what's more, she was lying.

He went to the attic, found some rope, and tied a noose around his neck. He had previously tied the rope to a rod sticking out of the wall.

Ola searched for him all night and the next day. She didn't find him and never imagined she would never see him again.

His love for this girl killed him.

Summer 2005.

It was a very hot summer; his wife and her daughter were away for treatments. I, of course, took advantage of the opportunity to see him whenever I could. I visited him often, hugged him, and exchanged sweet nothings. I was always there for him. And when he finished his work on the farm, we went upstairs to his place and gave him a massage. I felt wonderful then, sitting on his legs, massaging his beautiful, muscular body. Those evenings were wonderful; I remember them to this day. One evening, when I had to leave, he grabbed my leg and asked if I wanted to stay longer. I looked at him and replied that I had to go or I would be embarrassed again at home. Grandma and everyone around knew I had feelings for him, saying he had a wife, two children, and a third on the way. However, I didn't care and continued to wade into the swamp. The more often I saw him, the more I hated him and fell deeper in love. Summer It was over, time to pack and go home to get ready for school. I was very sad because I knew I wouldn't see him for a whole year. I left without saying goodbye because my cousin, of course, had to come. I drove home in the car with my grandfather and grandmother, looking out the window, remembering the moment he took me on his lap in the kitchen and stroked my back. We arrived home, and as usual, I was scolded at the door for behaving badly. I was angry at the whole world for not letting me be with my loved one. The school year began, and the hard work began. I couldn't concentrate while sitting in class. And so it went for almost 10 months. I sent him messages, I wrote, but he didn't respond. I knew something was wrong, that things weren't good. However, there was a light at the end of the tunnel because he got internet and I got his IG. I wrote to him often, telling him I couldn't live without him anymore and that he loved him. He didn't respond. And I missed him more and more, his body, his little eyes when he hugged me, and his whispers. I didn't give up, and finally he answered, but in one sentence. He told me he had a wife and three children, which I'd known for a long time. That he wouldn't fall in love with me and that I should get treatment because there was probably something wrong with me. I told him then that he wouldn't change my feelings and that he should do something about it because I couldn't live without him anymore. However, I feel like something has burned out between us, that the desire isn't there anymore. But I hope that will change when we meet and when we're together, because I've loved him for two years and I won't stop.

Four: Dream

He was completely unprepared for what he saw. He had to wait a few days for his mount to regain its strength. If only he could have set off sooner... then he would surely have made it. But that would have been too easy. From the very beginning, he had a bad feeling. He knew something would go wrong, but he hadn't expected something like this.

Once he had ridden down the slope of Eversnow Mountain onto the flat ground, he headed for the capital. Along the way, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The towns and villages went about their dull lives. There was no sign... no sign of any troops passing through.

Only Måne. Utterly destroyed. He cautiously passed through the city gate, barely clinging to the walls, and looked around the city. He dismounted, deciding to let him go free – he would tire him out even more, pity the animal. It was already quite exhausted.

The walls were completely destroyed, the houses scorched. The earth and stone walls, the remains of the buildings, were black with ash and soot. Some were stained with blood. Human blood—of that he had no doubt.

He felt omnipresent death. He felt exactly the same when he looked into Nidhogg's eyes, eyes devoid of irises and distinct pupils. As if Niflheim had expanded its borders to this part of Midgard.

He was searching for something. He didn't know what, but he knew he had to find something.

The stench of burning stung his nostrils; Ulven dreaded to think what was being burned here, though deep down he knew it perfectly well.

Only after a few minutes did he come across the first corpse. He was wearing chain mail—so he had to be a soldier. His face and body were... bitten, so Ulven would never have recognized him. Which didn't matter, since he'd only seen a few people during his stay in Måne.

He leaned over the unfortunate man and began searching him. He found a handful of gold coins, a silver pendant representing Thor's Hammer, and a quiver of arrows. He took everything.

"May Odin welcome you into Valhalla, warrior," he whispered, rising, "and thanks for the arrows; you won't need them."

The sun was setting lazily, the air growing colder. Ulven continued to prowl the city—or rather, the city's ruins. There weren't as many corpses as he'd initially expected. Either the people had fled, or Hel herself had kidnapped them, he told himself. No other explanation was possible.

He wondered where he could spend the night. He needed to rest for a few hours, but he was afraid to risk sleep. He sensed too much death here. The spirits of the fallen had not left this place, or something worse lurked here...

He decided to rest, half-lying, leaning against the stone wall that remained of one of the buildings.

When the sun had completely set, an extraordinary sight met his eyes. At first, he saw a faint light in the distance, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. The glow gradually approached. Looking around, he realized the glow was coming from all directions, including the sky. It was as if it were forming a colorful dome around him, narrowing. And he was at its center.

He felt a shiver run down his spine, but at the same time, excitement. Curiosity, and fear.

He probably would have stood up to get a closer look, but the sensation made him forget he was capable of any movement at all.

Suddenly, a colorful light blinded him. He instinctively closed his eyes.

When he opened them again...

He saw...

No, this couldn't be true...!

This was something no mortal had ever seen! The light took the form of a multicolored mist, glowing in the night, enveloping everything.

Female figures moved within it. He could see them clearly. Some even glanced at him, but then quickly looked away—as if occupied with something more important.

They all had long, fair hair in a thousand shades—from orange, through shades of gold, the classic "human" blonde, to almost pure, snowy white. They wore short chainmail armor made of relatively large rings, beneath which was visible some unknown white material. It didn't reflect the light; rather, it seemed to glow with its own.

He gazed at them with admiration; they surpassed the beauty of any mortal woman he had ever seen.

One of them leaned over the body of a dead soldier, brushing back his hair, revealing a face scarred by claws and teeth. She gazed at it with such rapture, as if it were the face of a beautiful youth. Perhaps she had once been like that?

She slowly began to lean over him, simultaneously gently lifting the lifeless body with her hands. When her lips were about an inch from the warrior's, she parted them slightly, as if for a kiss.

The warrior did the same.

They remained in that position for several seconds, though Ulven thought it was an eternity. Something resembling thick, white, glowing smoke poured from the warrior's mouth and disappeared into the woman's.

She had taken his soul—he understood—to transport it to Valhalla.

No mortal had ever seen such a thing. So why could Ulven?

Valquiria released the corpse and looked at Ulven. She stared at him for a long time, and Ulven at her. She pointed at him, uttered words he didn't hear, and gradually began to dissolve into thin air.

After a moment, the entire world began to dissolve.

Until finally, there was emptiness. An emptiness in the form of ubiquitous blackness.

"I fell asleep!" he yelled, jumping to his feet. It was already before noon. He looked around—everything was the same as before he'd fallen asleep. He glanced at the soldier's body, which lay a dozen or so feet away. It, too, lay in the same position he'd last seen it in. Nothing had changed. Nothing, except one thing.

He no longer felt that omnipresent death. As if... as if the spirits had departed...

So it was true? It wasn't a dream?

But I was asleep! he screamed in his mind.

He grabbed his weapons—a sword, a bow, and a quiver full of arrows he'd found—and set off briskly. He wasn't walking in any particular direction, just walking. After such a sleep, he felt more rested than ever.

He grabbed his pendant—the one with the spike. Thankfully, he still had it. Now, Mjölnirr—Thor's hammer—hung beside him. A talisman meant to protect a warrior – I wonder how long it had served its previous owner…

Only when he stepped outside the city walls did he consider where he was going and why? He crouched on the ground, leaning his back against the wall.

Nidhogg is dead – he thought – I completed my mission. The only problem is that Hexer didn't find out. Is he alive? His body was nowhere to be found… And the destroyed city was no longer my problem. Actually, I could go back to…

Exactly!

Where could I go back? Måne is my new home. I won't return to the Cave…

No. A man can't live in such conditions when he's known better…

He stood up and headed back to the city. As he passed the watchtower, he suddenly felt a hand wrap around him, while another quickly covered his mouth. Someone was forcibly pulling him into the tower.

"Shh…" he heard a hushed voice. "They haven't left yet!"

Ulven easily wrenched himself free, spun around, and took a step back. He grabbed the hilt of his sword as the man before him raised his arms, revealing empty palms. He was defenseless.

The man, judging by his build, could only be a warrior.

"Who didn't leave?" he asked, letting his sword hang freely in its scabbard. Only now did he notice that the man wasn't truly defenseless. The hilt of a heavy sword protruded from behind his back. But the man seemed to have peaceful intentions. Moreover, there was a faint hint of madness in his eyes.

"Them!" The warrior pondered for a moment, staring at Ulven, unable to resist the thought that he'd encountered him before. "They were here! A whole pack!

" "Wolves?" He tried to help. "Fenris?"

The man simply nodded instead.

"When did they attack?

" "Yesterday!" He answered without hesitation. "No, not yesterday, the day before yesterday, I mean last night, I mean the night between yesterday and yesterday!" – The man said it quickly and fluently, as if he was reciting it from memory.

"So I was half a day late..." Ulven said it as if he were addressing the question only to himself.

"Do you know what happened to the Sages?" he asked after a moment.

"Apparently they fled, like most of them. I'm not sure, but I haven't seen any dead.

" "But you don't know in which direction?

" "Unfortunately.

" "And Fenris?" He had a strange feeling that the Wolf was following them.

"South," the warrior replied, "but it might be far away. I see you don't have a horse...

" "Lead on!" Ulven's voice was very firm. Few would refuse his command. "Oh, one more thing. I'm Ulven." His voice became more friendly now. "We've met before, but there was no chance to talk then...

" "Yes..." he mused, "I remember now... I'm Gord."

Five: Who am I?

Gord slashed with his long, razor-sharp sword. The blade passed smoothly through the attacker's body. The animal, thrown aside, fell with a loud splat, accompanied by a sudden and copious gush of blood. The wound was so severe that the animal bled out in less than a minute. Assuming, of course, it survived the fall, which no one had verified.

"Back!" the warrior shouted, awkwardly turning. The heavy sword hampered all maneuvers.

Ulven spun instantly, slashing at knee height, almost blindly. The blade struck something hard and wedged itself. The wolf stopped inches from Ulven's leg, which he had intended to bite off. The blade sank halfway down the attacker's back. The gushing blood stained the warrior's chainmail. The animal initially wore a look of surprise, but when Ulven moved his sword, it changed to a plea. The same expression a dog adopts when begging for a piece of meat.

Ulven, however, refused to be appeased. With a sharp yank, he withdrew the blade. At that moment, a huge amount of blood gushed from the wolf's body, creating a sizable puddle on the forest floor. The wolf staggered on its paws and fell unconscious.

Gord, meanwhile, defended himself against the last attacker. This one was more cunning than his brethren. He skillfully dodged the blade. Gord sometimes struck trees, and before he could remove the blade from the bark, the wolf would dash away and bite, only to escape again. Exhausted, Gord dropped the sword and fell to his knees.

"Stop!" he whispered. "I will meet Odin today!"

The wolf approached the warrior cautiously, as if fearing it was a trick, but Gord truly looked defeated. Just as the beast was about to spring, an arrow pierced its throat. The impact was so powerful that the bullet went through, pinning the beast to the tree. He hung on the arrow for a few seconds before it broke. Ulven only put down his bow when the wolf stopped moving. He ran to his companion, helped him up, but when he saw that he was truly exhausted, he placed him on the forest floor. They were in the very center of the forest.

"So, no more hunting," Gord said quietly.

"I had a feeling this would happen," Ulven replied. "I could feel the presence of those wolf pups all the time!" After these words, he examined the numerous wounds on Gord's legs.

"I said they didn't leave! I was right!" A look of derangement once again appeared on the warrior's face.

"It seems the wounds aren't serious," he remarked. "You'll be fine tomorrow, but for now, you need to rest."

Ulven led Gord to a clearing and built a fire. Today he had to take care of everything himself. He hunted down two puny hares, filled the water skins, and prepared the stew. It wasn't much, but it had to suffice.

When Gord finished his portion, Ulven gave him a significant portion of his own. He lied about having eaten berries in the forest. He didn't want to reveal information about the talisman to a stranger, as if it were true.

"Thanks, friend," the wounded man said, taking the offered portion of hare. "Friend?" Ulven replied in his thoughts. "You just wanted to kill me, and today, friend?" He didn't know why he was doing this, why he was sharing his food. Perhaps because of Hexer and the other sages, he had become more... hmm..." he couldn't find the right word. "Soft? Sensitive? Human—yes, that was it—more human.

" "I have a bad feeling," Gord announced. The sun was slowly setting, and Ulven was struggling with the dying fire. He wanted to keep it alive at all costs.

"Our path leads through the forest; once you're out, head south." He felt a strange sense of relief as he said this.

"Do you think you won't be able to walk tomorrow?" It's just the bites, they don't even look deep.

"I just feel like I have to tell you this." That was the last sentence he spoke. He lay down and tried to sleep. Ulven stared at him, thinking. It had been three days since they had marched together. He was right; they didn't have the slightest chance of catching up with Fenris. And even if they did find him, what would they do? Kill an animal that even the gods fear? Alone? Two of them?

But something wouldn't let him turn back. An unknown force was driving him forward.

He also wondered why Wolf had left his three "soldiers" here in the forest. Had he expected them to follow him? Was fate to blame?

Who am I, exactly? The thought occurred to him as the moon settled into the sky. He casually threw a few twigs on the fire. The matter seemed serious, so why was he only thinking about it now?

Who am I? The question echoed in the warrior's mind. For as long as he could remember, he had lived in forest caves and killed all living creatures. Now he no longer knew why he did it. Some unfounded bloodlust? As if he had been born solely to kill. Born?

He didn't even remember ever having a mother! He had always been alone. The concept of family was alien. In fact, only the wise men could be called his family—they had shown him how to be human.

"You're a soldier," he heard. As if on cue, he leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and spun around. A dozen or so feet away stood a beautiful woman in gleaming white armor. She seemed both utterly alien and yet familiar. She was more beautiful than any of the mortal women. Silver hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, well-defined cheekbones, a nose barely jutting from her face, and pale pink lips. And her eyes... her eyes held the beauty of every Valquirii who had ever served in Valhalla. Their color was a rich, saturated green with a hint of blue. They contrasted perfectly with her hair and overall attire. Her overall build seemed quite solid for a woman, yet delicate. It reminded her of a thorny rose, admired by all but afraid to touch.

The same with Valquiria – you can admire her all you want, but try to touch her… and not a single bone will be left in your body.

“You serve Him.” From the tone in which she spoke, Ulven immediately realized the last word had been capitalized. He didn’t respond; it was as if he’d forgotten how to use language. Suddenly, a strange, unfamiliar feeling arose. Although her beauty seemed forbidden to every human, he felt he was the only one walking Midgard who could possess her. However, he preferred not to try.

Valquiria approached, half the distance of her outstretched arm. Ulven looked deeply into her eyes. At first, his own image reflected in her irises, as if in a mirror, but after a moment he saw the outline of a palace. Its walls were snow-white, in fact, even whiter than snow.

“Go north,” she said in a barely audible voice. Ulven didn’t even notice her lips moving.

"I'm yours," she added after a moment. Ulven placed his hands on her hips. She returned the gesture, placing hers on the back of the man's neck. Ulven involuntarily closed his eyes, leaning in as if for a kiss. He knew she was doing the same. He brought his lips closer to...

When he opened his eyes, instead of the expected sight of the beauty from Valhalla, he saw only the distant wall of the forest. He kissed the air. Valquiria vanished. He turned and realized he had been mistaken. Now she remained in the same position as before the kiss, leaning over the sleeping Gord. A white mist escaped his lips.

Now she was truly gone. Vanished as suddenly as a dream, like a hallucination.

He sat down on the grass. He stared at the dying fire. He thought of nothing. He simply stared at the fire.

"How did you sleep?" Gord rose to a half-sitting position.

"Gord?" Ulven couldn't hide his surprise. He had seen it himself...

Or maybe Valquiria was really just an illusion?

- Yes, it was me... - a look of incomprehension appeared on his face - did something happen?

"No, nothing." Ulven stared at a point in the distance—"I had a strange dream."—so he decided not to mention the fact that he didn't actually need to sleep. Now he had doubts. Should I go north or west?

"Can you go?" he asked after a moment of silence.

"I think so." He tried to stand up, but his legs refused to obey. "Something... is... not..." His face was etched with terror, as if before impending death. After a moment, he realized that not only his legs but also his arms were immobile. Suddenly, every muscle gave out. The entire skin on his body turned deathly pale. He froze in a half-lying, half-sitting position and remained there forever. As if all the life had evaporated from him in an instant.

"Wolves carry various diseases," he heard a pleasantly sounding female voice behind him. He didn't even turn to check who it was—you can catch rabies from those who inhabit the forests." She trailed off.

"But what can one catch from those inhabiting Niflheim?" she added after a moment.

Niflheim, the world of death. Their bite can only transmit death, Ulven finished in his thoughts.

"Why can I talk to you?" he finally dared to ask the supernatural being a question.

"You're the only one," she replied without hesitation. "There's no one else like you in all of Midgard." She fell silent for a moment, then continued, "but there are multitudes...

" "Only not on Midgard..." he finished. The silence that followed suggested Valquiria felt embarrassed, as if she'd said too much. Ulven guessed what she didn't want to say yet.

"So where?" He spun around sharply. But the Warrior of Valhalla was no longer there.

So who am I? The question returned like an echo.

Fight

Yes, everything was clear now... I went for tests with my friend Aga. Today was the day of reckoning...

The results...

After pneumonia, thorough physical examinations, chest X-rays, and finally a biopsy, I could eliminate the word "maybe" from my personal vocabulary and replace it with "definitely."

Non-small cell lung cancer.

Stage 3, the cancer had spread to the chest walls, diaphragm, and mediastinal lymph nodes. "

I give you a year to live, no more," the doctor said callously. Should I be surprised? No. He's probably been through more than one "cancer," seen more than one; for him, it's routine. Aga, like a reliable friend, was with me. She held my hand tightly the entire time; in those moments, she was the only one I had. We walked out into the street, stunned, I don't know who was more.

"Where would you like to go?" Aga asked.

After a moment of silence, I replied:

"You know what, I'd like to be alone. I'll go home, you go to the university, you have classes, I'll call you in the evening.

" "But you shouldn't..." "

Please, Aga, respect my decision. I want peace and quiet to think everything through. I feel shocked, my mind is spinning. I can't wrap my head around what the doctor was talking about... What chemotherapy, why? What am I supposed to do now? I need to come to terms with all this, talk to myself, face to face, without witnesses."

"Are you sure you want this? Or... wouldn't it be better if I accompanied you? My classes aren't important. I'll sit quietly, practically as if I weren't there, and you can think everything through carefully. I'll be with you just in case..." "Come

on, I won't hurt myself, I need solitude. You know that whenever something went wrong, I had to be alone; it's just a habit, remember how it was always like that?" Have I ever tried to hurt myself? -

"Okay, you win, but if anything happens, call me, I'll come immediately, take something to calm you down, preferably for sleep, don't think too much..."

- "You too, Aguś, take something, you look like a 7, what a disaster, after all, you'll outlive me, not me you...

" "What the fuck is going on, why did this have to happen to me? I don't smoke compulsively like Aga, well, I won't say I live a healthy life, I eat so-called fast food, I don't do sports, I only run if I see a bus about to miss me, but are these all reasons why I won't be here in a year? Maybe they are, or maybe I'm just plain unlucky... It had to fall on someone, so it fell on me... The question is: what next?" I stopped writing in my diary and sat with my notebook trying to answer this question. Suddenly... I knew...

"What a son of a bitch that doctor is! How could he say I have a year left to live?! I'll show him, that pompous faggot who thinks he's seen everything in life and predicted it, that he can decide someone's life, 'One, two, three, you die...' Is this some kind of fucking rhyme and tell?

Right, I'm sick, but he has no right to judge the length of my life, because it's mine! Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, anything that can help me. I'm not afraid of sacrifices, I'm ready for them. I'll renounce everything the disease forces me to do, just to live one more day... Just to live at least one year and one day... Two days... Three days... I want to live! Desperately! Greedily! At all costs! I'm young! I deserve life, I deserve it no less and no more than anyone else! I won't let it be taken away from me so quickly!" I'll show that doctor it's possible, I'll show them all...

a week later, my mother came to pick me up to help me with my luggage. I was leaving for Christmas in my hometown, about 100 km from Wrocław. We'd just left the dorm and were walking down the street when I felt faint... I had a coughing fit, I was short of breath, and I stopped.

"Daughter, what's wrong with you?" I was touched by my mother's concern. I couldn't bring myself to tell her this terrible news. She had so many worries herself, she wouldn't help me, why should I add to her worries?

"Nothing, Mom, nothing," I managed to choke out between coughing fits. "It's because of that pneumonia, I don't think I've fully recovered yet.

" "Oh, poor thing, you should have come sooner. Why didn't you tell me anything when I called?"

I couldn't answer; another coughing fit brought bloody sputum. The pain in my chest grew and became unbearable. Suddenly, the ground began to split beneath me, the world spun, and I fell into darkness.

Wait a minute... I no longer feel shortness of breath... I breathe easily and freely. What's happening? It's morning in some room, no, not a strange one, not a hospital room... It's my room... It's so good that

I woke up... I don't have friends, but I have time and a chance to make them, right?

Perhaps not all is lost in my life? Perhaps fate has given me more time to fight than in this dream?