Diamond painting 🎨

 

Diamond painting 🎨

 

Diamond painting

 

Paulina

.

She was roused from her reverie by the sound of the door being violently opened and footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, Leszek entered the room. Without a word, he placed half a liter of "Bols Boat" and juice on the table, then opened the bar, probably to look for glasses.

"Something wrong?" she asked timidly.

Leszek merely grunted, placing the glass on the table. Paulina stood and embraced the boy. He seemed oblivious to her gesture. With visible frustration, he poured himself a shot of vodka.

"You're hindering my movements," he growled with reluctance, then downed his first shot. Paulina already knew not to cross him tonight. Quietly, practically on tiptoe, she slipped into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. She already knew the scenario for tonight... now she was just waiting for it to be played out.

They had met five years earlier. Paulina N. and Leszek K. She was a young, ambitious girl of just 19, and he was a 24-year-old unemployed man with only a partial secondary education.

They first met during one of the spring open-air concerts their city hosted. A drunken man began making advances on Paulina, who had briefly separated from her friends. Just then, Leszek appeared. In a firm tone, he told the intruder to leave Paulina alone, or misfortune would befall him. The intruder meekly walked away, practically bowing to Paulina and Leszek in apologetic gestures. That was the beginning of their relationship. Leszek greatly impressed Paulina with his determination and physical prowess, and also, as it later turned out, his romantic spirit. During that concert, they spent a solid five hours together, after which Leszek walked Paulina home. They exchanged phone numbers… That's how it all began.

Now, five years later, the girl has long regretted that evening. Her family, who never accepted Leszek, cut off all contact with her as soon as Paulina moved in with him. For the first two years after they moved in with Leszek's mother (and three years after they began dating), things were quite good. Although Leszek changed jobs frequently, their income was somehow sufficient to support them, as Leszek's mother paid all the rent. However, two years later, her mother died, leaving them only her apartment. Now, as money began to flow through their fingers, poverty loomed before them. This situation lasted for several months. One day, Leszek returned home happy and waved a roll of banknotes in Paulina's face. "Our troubles are over!" he would shout excitedly. It turned out that Leszek had started dealing drugs. At first, she wasn't particularly interested in her boyfriend's new occupation, but later it began to bother her – Leszek, after a hard day of dealing, when his business wasn't going well, started drinking. Gradually, he became a different person. He drank because the business was bad, he drank because the police were constantly raiding dealers, he drank because… he drank. His optimism, his romanticism, vanished. He became withdrawn, grumpy. But when he drank… "Why, you slut, can't you find a job?! Do you think I'll fucking support you forever?!" He would shout often, in a fit of anger… Later, of course, he apologized profusely, promising to do better… but nothing changed. Paulina repeatedly wanted to return to her family, but she knew full well that she had long since been discharged…

She was already half asleep when the bedroom door slowly opened. The light switch clicked softly, and a sudden brightness momentarily blinded Paulina. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Leszek standing in the doorway, looking at her suspiciously.

"Are you avoiding me!?" His hateful voice seemed louder to Paulina than it actually was. She didn't answer, so Leszek repeated the question…. Silence again.

"I knew it, you whore! You don't love me anymore! I'll show you how much you're worth to me!" Leszek growled through his teeth, then moved toward her. Paulina simply closed her eyes. From the moment Leszek took his first drink, she knew how the evening would end.

A moment later, she felt his breath on her face. He reeked of nicotine and overcooked alcohol… mostly alcohol.

"You wanted love, so you'll have it..." he whispered in her ear. At that same moment, she felt Leszek's touch on her thigh. His hand slowly moved higher and higher, towards her crotch. Paulina gritted her teeth, trying to keep a straight face. Meanwhile, Leszek had already begun to pull her skirt down. Paulina didn't even resist... she knew that whatever was going to happen now was simply inevitable...

Meanwhile, Leszek had just finished with the skirt and with a violent movement, practically ripped Paulina's panties off. "Oh God, oh God, oh God..." Paulina repeated in her mind. With all her heart, she wished for this nightmare to be over, for it to be over. She felt Leszek's touch on her thighs again, this time parting her legs. She opened her eyes for a moment and saw him above her. His wild, almost inhuman eyes stared at her labia with clear pleasure, as if wanting to devour them. His swollen, bloodshot member seemed to throb as if it were about to explode. His dry lips whispered one word over and over again… "…love, love, love…" Suddenly, Leszek violently collapsed on Paulina, his weight practically crushing her into the bed. She closed her eyes again. Leszek's hands tightened painfully on her buttocks, and then she felt a terrible burning sensation in her vagina. His member seemed to burst her, tearing her apart from the inside. Forward, backward, forward, backward. Each one a hundred times more painful than the last. And that whisper… "…love, whore, love, whore…" – two words Leszek repeated like a mantra. She knew she couldn't scream. Every word she uttered now threatened to be beaten. Every resistance, every movement… she had been through this too many times.

After a moment, Leszek released her buttocks, raised himself slightly, and began tearing at her shirt with his right hand, holding himself in place with his left.

"He'll come home tomorrow with a new shirt as an apology gift," the thought flashed through her mind. Yes... Paulina had been through this too many times...

Leszek ripped his shirt and began kneading Paulina's breasts, not stopping his fucking. Usually, at this moment, Paulina would think of nothing, focusing all her attention on the pain and that strange feeling of "dirtyness." This time, however, was different. For some reason, Paulina opened her eyes and, gazing at Leszek rhythmically moving above her, thought about how he used to be. She recalled the beginning of their acquaintance, their romantic walks, their first kisses. The entire situation Paulina was in now slowly began to lose its reality, replaced by a world of memories. The silhouette of Leszek raping her began to gently blur and merge with the ceiling. The light of the lit lamp, from yellow, gradually faded to a glowing white, softly enveloping Paulina from all sides. The pain and suffering vanished, replaced by a pleasant, soothing warmth. And then... just as Paulina felt almost happy in this strange state, the end came. The light suddenly went out, the warmth vanished. Paulina was enveloped in darkness, and that was how it remained.

A few hours after the rape, with Leszek sleeping next to her, Paulina bled to death…

Life is beautiful...

Part 1

My eyelids droop like weights weighing hundreds of tons. I feel shattered, strangely tired, my legs ache.

This is how my day begins. A splash of icy water brings me to my feet. A terrifying glance in the mirror, searching for a new day. Bite after bite of the sandwich that feels like salvation. And my race to the bus stop begins. Music gently caresses my mind in my ears. My beloved reggae, which gives me strength. "Rasta trance, reggae danse..." And so on. I reach the bus stop after a few minutes of running, realizing that my long-awaited bus has just departed. I approach the door. I wave my arms, begging the driver to let me on. I feel like a homeless person begging for a slice of bread in front of a church. I wait to see if the visitor will prove to be a merciful traffic ruler or an insolent boor. A man gestures at the departing cars in front of the bus, trying to tell me I'm worthless. I didn't make it, I've wasted my life. "Rasta, that's what it means to be free..." Race number two begins. To the next stop. I run past people like bars on a treadmill. I get hit in the stomach with an umbrella, but it doesn't matter to me at that moment. I finally reach my goal. I look at a young guy glancing back at a shapely teenager, a woman in her thirties taking a drag on a cigarette—her daily bread—and a man in his fifties nervously checking his watch. Already three minutes late. 180 seconds. Everyone's waiting for their ride. I feel like an animal in the forest. A handful of strangers waiting for the exact same thing—the coveted bus, route 185. No one speaks to anyone, no one reacts to anyone else, no one attempts conversation.

Finally, our long-awaited vehicle, like a sun king, arrives. It stops, and the driver graciously opens all the doors with a button. Another fight begins—this time for seats. Right from the start, I'm trampled. People rush onto the seats at terrifying speed. I don't even have the strength to fight. I calmly take a seat by the window, gripping the armrest with my hand. I long for at least a little sleep. I close my eyes and surrender to the music. We're off. That's good.

A moment later, I start to feel someone's breath on my neck. My eyelids lift with immense difficulty. I don't want to, but I have to. I turn around, looking at the guy who owns the breath. It's some old man who, seeing my gaze, doesn't make even the slightest move. I can read from his expression, "Give it a rest, buddy. I'll be standing here anyway." I return to my position, trying to close my eyes again. I give in to daydreaming. I'm starting to feel some relief when suddenly my grandfather pushes me forward. A look of despair crosses my face. I turn again, hoping the man will do something. He's still scowling at me, growing increasingly grumpy. I have to fight. I won't give in. I was here first. I'll defend this place like a lioness defends her cubs.

Suddenly, my grandfather grabs the railing with his hand, touching my head. I turn around quickly, but all I see is the man's profile. My grandfather turns his head, probably not wanting to hear my complaints. I patiently wait for him to look my way again. I'm already tired. The wait isn't helping. I tilt my head and spend the rest of the ride to school in this position. Thinking nothing strange will happen to me, I close my eyes. An uncomfortable position—oh well. Standing—well, it could be worse. Suddenly, I feel my grandfather start to push me away with his shoulders. I duck. He touches me from behind with his genitals. I feel a gag reflex and immediately turn a little to the right. He does too, not giving up his "touching." I run away again. Him, me. Him, me. Him, me. He's a faggot! I can't take it anymore. I take off my headphones and look at him. At the same moment, a woman who's just getting out of the car elbows me. I clutch my face, feeling the pain. "Rasta trance..." Of course. And then there's the traffic jam. Sweat is beading on my forehead. I'm completely stuck. This isn't how I imagined my trip to the shack would be. The driver stops at each stop. More and more people arrive. "There's almost no room, but whatever. I'm not waiting for the next one. I'll get on this one. I'll squeeze in somehow." Incredibly crowded. Legs pressed together, hands pressed together. I feel like the canned sardine has it better than me.

It's starting to feel loose, I'm hoping for a moment of rest. No! This is my stop!

I start to move toward the door. I say, or rather shout, "Excuse me." People struggle to get out. I practically climb out of a tank and reach the light at the end of the tunnel. Totally exhausted and sweaty, I arrive at the stop. The bus pulls away, and I head toward school. Almost eight o'clock. The very beginning of the day. And I'm more tired than some after a long day of work. Worse still, the same thing awaits me in the other direction in a few hours. But life is beautiful... "Rasta trance, reggae dance." I reach the light. It's turning red right in front of me. Awesome. I smile, knowing nothing bad will happen today. Life is beautiful, after all.

Conversation

"Hello, hello?

" "Hi.

" "Oh, it's you again...

" "Listen, I have something for you. How can I put this... Get some people from me, huh?

" "No, how long can we go on about this? I thought we'd already reached some conclusions...

" "Yes, we talked about it, but...

" "Look, I understand you never keep your word and always want something from me, but this time you've gone too far. How many times do I have to refer to our agreement?

" "Agreement is an agreement, but there really have been a ton of them here lately. They've had another damn war, and a batch of two hundred thousand people have died.

" "Stop whining, you wanted it yourself. I take people like that, you take people like that.

" "Yes, yes. But there's nowhere left to go around here. Every month so many murderers, rapists, thieves, and other riffraff come here that it's sickening.

" "So what if you have too many already? You know I don't care." We both have to serve them all, whether we want to or not.

"They could at least stop reproducing...

" "What can I do if they keep reproducing? Your job is to send illnesses and misfortunes to the monks, mine is to heal them.

" "Yes, you're smart, but if you had deficiencies, who did you send, smartass? No descendants were in the deal either!

" "Don't keep bringing up that Christ thing! I got caught! It can happen to anyone. And besides, ever since then, I've been taking people who aren't entirely pure."

"Sure! You always find some lame excuse. Oh, wait, maybe we could send some to purgatory?

" "Purgatory! Purgatory is only a temporary solution. Besides, they're going to me from there anyway, so what are we even talking about?

" "Stop pissing me off!! I can't take everyone! You should be happy I'm taking the worst quality stuff. If it weren't for me, I wonder what you'd do with the part I'm getting!" They used to be bearable, but now you can drive yourself crazy. They steal everything, nothing is sacred. If they could, they'd even steal my tail. At least take some of the souls from that war in Europe. I know they sometimes set things on fire or raped someone, but they fought honorably...

- I can't!! They don't meet the conditions!! How much damn money do you have? If this keeps up, I'll end up with you too.

- And how long do I have to explain that I'm overbooked!!!

- Overbooked? I told you from the very beginning that being in charge isn't that easy. You screwed up, you failed. Be glad you're at least the boss down there. But, by the way, you must be doing a lousy job if you're calling me, huh?

- Get off my back, I can't...

- Ha, ha, ha! I got you! If I'm supposed to piss off, I'm done, bye.

- WAIT!!!! Wait...

- What? Anything else?

"You know, I have an idea... Listen. We'll do it like we did with Hitler and Stalin. Some idiot will come along and wipe out half the world if he gets to power, right?

" "You want a pogrom again? And what good is it to have even more people willing to join us? Wait a minute, I think I get it. If it's supposed to be a pogrom, you mean innocent people are supposed to die, right?

" "Well... That would work.

" "So this whole dead rabble will just flock to me?! Oh, things aren't so good.

" "You have tons of free seats! You'll take a measly million and...

" "A million? What am I going to do with a million souls? Let's say a hundred thousand.

" "How much?! A hundred thousand?

" "Yes, a hundred, not a single one more. You'd be better off inventing some disease to stop them from multiplying like that, not some pogrom.

" "Listen, that's the solution!

" "Will you think about it?

" "I'll think about it, but what good is that to me if you'll be giving them a cure in a year anyway."

"No, let's assume they don't come up with a cure for this beast in fifty years.

" "And how do you know they won't? What if they spite you and come up with one, huh?

" "What do you mean, how do I know? You must be forgetting who you're talking to!

" "Okay, okay, I was joking. Don't get so worked up. And by the way, what's fifty years? Let's take it easy. Let's say I throw a genetic error at them, a small mutation caused, let's say, by a poisoned atmosphere that causes infertility in every second individual. What do you think?

" "Not bad, not bad. But knowing their ingenuity, the half that survives will multiply uncontrollably.

" "If we add a famine to them, they'll wise up.

" "Hmm, that's a good idea...

" "We deserve a vacation too. Once we catch our breath, we'll leave them alone. Remember how fun it was when you left only Noah on Earth with your Ark?"

"Yes, but back then I had a reason...

" "Now you don't?! Everywhere you look there's war, famine, perversion, and on top of that, there are regions where, after leaving home, there's zero chance of returning in one piece. I'm telling you, if we give them a little thrashing, they'll immediately fall to their knees. And don't forget, they'll be praying to you for mercy, so your stock will rise as a result, not mine.

" "I'll think about it.

" "No, I can't stand it. Listen, I'm offering you the best solution, and you're still whining? We have to act fast.

" "Okay, when can you start spreading this mutation?"

"You know, if I pull an all-nighter today, it'll be ready by tomorrow.

" "Then we're agreed.

" "It's waiting. I need some extra spots!

" "Are you starting again? You'll get three million spots in purgatory, okay?

" "I'll fill three million in a month."

"So how much do you want?

" "Three billion, and that'll be enough for me for a while."

"Where am I going to get three billion seats?!

"I don't need them now. Let's assume you give me a million by the end of the month, and you'll be giving me a million more or less every month.

" "I'll check my computer...

" "On what?

" "On a computer. A machine invented by humans. Sometimes it's useful.

" "Invented by humans, you say... And it's not for killing?

" "No, come on. I have things like that... It's for counting. If you want, send someone to Gabriel tomorrow, and he'll give you one such computer... Okay, you'll get three hundred and fifty thousand seats every month.

" "But...

" "Silence! I also have to service my own people. There may not be as many as before, but my situation is tight.

" "Exactly. But whatever, maybe it'll be enough. And I'll send someone for that computer. I just need to find someone who knows how to do it.

" "Even if you find someone, they won't teach you anything. It's better to send you someone honest.

" "And that's where you're wrong, my dear." My sinners will surely know more than your entire sanctimonious heaven. If, as you say, this thing is for counting, that means it can be used to multiply money, and con artists certainly know better than angels.

"Maybe you're right. Okay, I have to go, a batch of penitents from purgatory has arrived.

" "Scare them thoroughly." "Bye.

" "Gabriel!

" "I'm listening.

" "Tomorrow someone from downstairs will come for a computer, give them one. Oh, and we'll have to find some seats for them.

" "It'll be tough.

" "Try." I leaned back in my chair. It's not so bad. Maybe, like in the old days of Noah, we'll manage to carve out some vacation time again...

But first, we have to rub people's noses in the sand. Sometimes, when I look down on them, I wonder what the hell possessed me to create Adam..."

2

The wind beat with greater, redoubled force, making a hollow sound against the Plexiglas entrance door, which shook suddenly. The weather was worsening practically by the minute. Day had barely dawned with its dubious dawn when everything had already darkened and grayed under a thick layer of clouds. A few light pieces of newspaper and a few torn branches flew across the street. A red salvage truck drove slowly by, its pink warning light flashing. It was carrying a heavily damaged greenish Ford Mondeo. The practically squashed front end, with its fancifully dented hood, revealed the engine compartment. Henry recognized the make only by its distinctive rear end, which was almost intact except for the shattered right headlight. He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling the stains he'd noticed on the crumpled bodywork of the door were dried bloodstains.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gemitus," a man's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

He glanced at the doctor standing before him.

"What's wrong with her? Is everything okay?

" "Yes, generally speaking." She's in a bit of shock, but aside from a few scratches and bruises, she's fine.

"Does anyone know how she got on the road?"

Steve Firmus looked at him silently for a moment, then said,

"About three hours ago, we got a call about an accident on 8th Street, halfway to Last Step. We were alerted by a very distraught woman who called from her cell phone. We dispatched an ambulance, and two victims were brought in: a woman and a man. Unfortunately, they were already dead. One of our paramedics, who was there when he heard about the girl you brought in, told me that when they arrived at the accident scene, the woman was still alive, and as they were extracting her, she kept whispering one name: Emilly...

" "Do you think she was with them?" he interrupted. "Is that their daughter?"

"It looks like it," he said. "The road to Last Step runs parallel to the one you were driving. Apparently, after the accident, she was in shock and managed to get out of the car and through the woods to the other road. She was very lucky. We still have to confirm this, of course, but there are definitely documents, photos, etc. in the car or with the victims.

" "Yes. Do you need me for anything else?" he asked. "I have to get to work and I'm already very late."

"Of course, I won't keep you anymore. But please remember, you saved her life."

He left the hospital and drove to the office. His partner, Jeff Moneo, once again pointed out his lack of a cell phone, but Henry, as usual, waved him off. He didn't like being tied up, and a phone would be nothing more than a leash at the end of which he would always be waiting and available. When he explained the reason for his delay, Jeff looked at him with those deep-set eyes, which held many shades of life, and simply muttered, "Aha." His thin face, with its strong jawline and narrow nose, resembled a marbled visage. He wasn't angry, but he seemed to want to be.

The day, constantly buffeted by wind, mercilessly lashed by rain, and smothered by an ever-present grayness, weary from the struggle, finally began to settle into a well-deserved sleep. Henry returned to his empty house, steeped in the grief of the loneliness so close to them both. He took a shower, standing for a long time under a strong stream of hot water; it soothed him, loosened him, calmed him, and acted like a balm on an open wound. Then he made himself a stiff drink, put on some soft music, and sat in a soft, comfortable leather armchair. He wondered if he should call the hospital to inquire about Emily's condition; he wasn't entirely sure that was her name, but it fit her, and besides, all the facts pointed to it. Fate is a strange creature with an unfathomable soul. He had lost his wife and two daughters; she had lost her parents. They were both now left abandoned and alone in the world. Somewhere on the distant horizon of his thoughts, a desire to embrace the small creature, wronged by fate, appeared. He quickly pushed her away; she seemed irrational, unattainable, even immoral in some way. After all, she had just lost her parents, her world had fallen into a pit of tragedy, shattering into fragments of lost hopes at the bottom of pain. It had fallen, just like his had three years ago. He took a small sip of alcohol. Only he was an adult, and she…

The opening notes of the tango "El Choclo" echoed softly throughout the house. Standing in the doorway was Sheriff Moneo from the local police station, a large man with a stocky build and a kind, calm face. He held his hat in his hands, and his worried features revealed that today had been a difficult and trying day for him. As he always claimed, his greatest flaw was worrying too much about every case he encountered. When a few years ago, a vagrant murdered the local priest, stealing whatever he could, the sheriff wouldn't rest until he caught the culprit.

"Hi, Henry, can I come in?

" "Sure."

The sheriff was very concerned about the accident and, as it turned out, had come specifically for that purpose. Henry recounted, as thoroughly as he could, all the circumstances surrounding Emily's discovery (it turned out that was indeed her real name, as confirmed by the documents). She was eleven years old and the daughter of the Spretor family, the same couple who, as the doctor correctly suspected, had died in a car accident. They came from the northern part of the country, from Evileye, and were relatively wealthy, running a chain of small restaurants. It turned out that, as a result of the accident and the shock, Emilly had suffered amnesia and couldn't remember anything. She couldn't remember her name, who she was, or where she came from.

"Maybe you should visit her?" the sheriff asked. It wasn't a question or a statement, more of a loud thought expressed in words. "I don't know. I don't want to involve you. I know it's... not easy for you, but...

" "Okay, I'll go see her. Tomorrow morning.

" "Thank you. I'll be going now," he said, straightening the brim of his hat.

Henry escorted the officer to the door.

"You're the only one he remembers," he said as he left. He nodded, got into his official car, and drove away.

Henry followed the red dots of his taillights for a moment longer, then closed the door and returned to his seat. The music CD reached the end, and the first track began again. "You're the only one he remembers," he repeated the sheriff's words in his mind. Hmm, was this fate?

The next day, the weather seemed to improve somewhat. The clouds were no longer so impressive, and the still pale blue of the open sky broke through them. As promised, Henry went straight from home to the hospital. He was led down a wide corridor to a small, sterile room painted white. There she lay alone, her small body in a large bed, covered by a pale quilt, so that only her head, hair scattered across the pillow, and one bandaged forearm were visible. He sat down on a worn chair to one side, his hands folded as if in prayer, and silently gazed at her face. Her even breathing and closed eyelids gave her face an expression of angelic peace; as if nothing had happened, as if the world were a single, joyful experience, and everything bad was just a dream from which anyone, at any moment, could awaken.

She shuddered and sighed, and a quick spasm ran across her right cheek. Her fingers tightened on the white folds of the duvet, and after a moment, as if hesitantly, she relaxed. Henry, unsure why, partly against his will, took her hand in his. He felt the warmth, the gentleness of her touch, and once again in his life, he felt there was something to live for. Our existence doesn't end with any of our loved ones; it continues for us, for others whom we may not even notice, but who exist. Just like the death of Icarus, which went unnoticed by many, even though it was tragic and incredibly painful for his father. And he was like the biblical Job. He had everything and lost everything. He constantly wondered why this had happened to him, why he had to suffer this cruel fate. He never expected an answer. He didn't speak to God, and even if he could, he wasn't sure he would receive any response from Him. But perhaps the point is simply to relive what happened to him, to feel the pain, to understand how much we have when everything goes well and how much we lose when tragedy strikes in our lives. Humanity is both greatness and smallness at the same time. Yet, for as long as he can remember, he has been tormented by one question: "Why did God have to prove anything to Satan?" We are magnificent beings, capable of creating beautiful things: magnificent music, breathtaking images, and emotionally stirring novels. We have souls—this is our greatness, but it is also the source of our weakness. We become angry, often unable to forgive, taking action solely to satisfy our own desires or to bring down our enemies. We love and hate, we laugh and cry; sincerely or not. It's easier to understand our own mistakes than to understand someone else's, for the simple reason that we can justify our own in one way or another. We can then hide behind a real, but unfortunately often invented by ourselves, wall of more or less false beliefs.

Emilly's eyelids slowly opened, and her gaze rested on Henry's face.

"Is that you...?" she whispered in a soft, airy voice. "I knew you'd come for me. You're my angel, aren't you?"

Henry felt a sudden pang of bitter regret squeeze his chest, choking his breath.

"Yes," he whispered through a tight throat. "It's me." He saw so much in her eyes; a depth of emotion, from regret, to uncertainty, to sad joy at his visit.

He was certain then. He knew, he was convinced, that he wanted to keep her, that he wanted her to stay with him. He didn't know if he could succeed, but he was certain he had to try, even if nothing came of it. He had discovered a small greatness within himself, and he had to try.

Adopting Emilly proved to be a relatively simple and quick process. The most difficult conversation was with child psychologist Barbara Peritus, who had justified doubts about whether a man who had suffered such a blow from life—the loss of his entire family—was capable of raising a little girl who required special care and appropriate attention. Fortunately, she was a very competent person, guided not only by scientific formulas but by understanding. Moreover, as Henry noted, she had a wonderful gift for finding positive qualities in people, hidden goodness, and even a very shy desire to do the best she could.

"You should be a priest," he told her as he left, when it was clear that the positive decision regarding Emily's adoption was merely a formality. His eyes welled with tears, not of pain, but of happiness. He felt a pressure in his chest, a heaviness that nevertheless brought him joy. A pearly tear rolled down his rough cheek and, after a brief hesitation, fell to his chin.

"That's what convinces me I made the right choice." "She said quietly, a smile on her lips and joy in her gentle gaze.

The Spretors' restaurant chain was on the verge of bankruptcy. While they were alive, they had fought for their business and somehow managed to survive. However, when news of their unfortunate accident reached their creditors, they pounced like hyenas on carrion, tearing everything apart. Nothing remained.

They were together. The house brightened, as if it had its own separate soul, and he was truly delighted by the arrival of this little creature, illuminating his inner self with her presence.

It was early morning, and Henry, as usual, sat at his desk with a window overlooking the ocean. Sudden inspiration struck, he picked up a blank sheet of paper and held it close. He hadn't written in three years, not a line, not a single word that reflected his thoughts or feelings. He picked up the pen and, for a split second, paused on the pristine whiteness of the innocent page. He touched the nib and wrote in an even, calm hand:

Greatness and smallness at the same time are present in the essence of our soul.

Still tarnished by deeds whose value has crumbled over time.

Our faith, our thoughts, so close to us and so important,

exist in our lives, sometimes silently or boldly

. Who we were, who we are, and who we will one day become?

One day we will all know this, in our greatness.

Like Job, let us persevere in our faith, tirelessly and without complaint.

When, like Icarus, we strike the reality of our faith.

I know today, in our greatness, created from the momentum of life.

That though it is small, yet with its smallness it is power.

Henry put down his pen. A delicate breeze swept through the slightly open window, swirled, stirring the restlessly drawn curtain, and ran across the thin pages of the open Bible. They rustled softly, as if to hold back their unexpected guest. The pages, with a whisper of change, turned gently. Frrrrrr............. Henry looked at the open book and his gaze rested on one of the many lines of biblical verses:

"I know that you can do all things; whatever you set your mind to, you can do. He who obscures his purpose without understanding..." - [Bible, Book of Job 42:2–3]

Fate circled again with Destiny, smiling at time, which flowed at its own steady pace, containing within itself the greatness and smallness of every particle of the human soul. Two fragments, two sad souls, stood on the edge of a cliff, gazing at the sun rising toward a new day. Emily timidly took Henry's hand, still gazing at the golden circle slowly moving upward from the horizon.