NOVEMBER'S STORY

I.

They say that when you're young, the days fly by, and the years seem to fly by at all. But at the end of your life, each day seems to last twice as long as normal, but before you know it, another autumn arrives and the leaves are falling from the trees. But that's probably not the worst part of old age. You lose the will to live. Maybe if you walk this earth for too long, it becomes easier to say goodbye. Your bones ache, your back can't straighten, and your hands tremble as if someone were deliberately moving them. You only feel sorry for your loved ones, who will remain in this world, but once you've buried everyone, nothing holds you back.

Wroński stared out the hospital window at the storm raging outside. The rain was lashing down so hard that at times it seemed to be falling almost horizontally. The wind whipped hundreds of dried leaves from the ground, invisible from where he was standing, flying skyward, only to fall hard to the sidewalk a moment later. It must have been cold, but here, on the hospital bed, it was warm. He twirled a cigarette in his old, sinewy hands. He was desperate to smoke. The doctors wouldn't let him, they'd told him to quit, but whatever. What was left of this life? Not much, just enough to inhale smoke. And if he could die? He'd die soon anyway, so what difference did it make?

The corridors were empty today. Only those who had to stay were left. It was a holiday. Although what kind of holiday was this, November 1st? Whose? Those who had passed away? They didn't need any holidays. Perhaps it was more of a day of redemption for those who trample graves in the mud of cemeteries. Wroński broke off the filter and stuck the cigarette between his blue lips. He felt the scent of tobacco in his nose, which he loved so much. It wasn't the same scent as before, before the war, when he first smoked cigarettes, but what could he do? Nothing was the same now.

He straightened his back with difficulty. He felt good, even very good for his age, but in this weather, old bones played tricks. He felt in his dressing gown pockets for matches, but they must have fallen out somewhere, because he couldn't find any. He got out of bed and went to the metal cabinet. He yanked open the drawer, causing the entire table to shake. The browned photograph in its dark wooden frame on top wobbled and fell on its side. Wroński gently took it in his hands and carefully set it down. He looked at the woman in the photograph. Surely, if a stranger were looking, they wouldn't see much. It was an old photo. Taken not long after the war, somewhere near Kazimierz, when they'd been out for the May Day weekend. She was on a tartan blanket, holding a basket of thickly sliced ​​sandwiches. In the background, a Russian bicycle leaned against a tree. He remembered exactly how he'd taken the photo. The warm wind from the Vistula River brushed against his face. How the smell of grass irritated his nose, and how she looked at him then. And still does. From a photo. And for a few years now, from heaven itself.

When she passed away, he buried all her photos, and he almost burned that one. It hurt him so much to look at them. He held them over the lighter in his trembling hand, but perhaps God himself stopped him. He tried to forget, but after so many years together, it's impossible. You have to live with it, even if you don't want to. And when the worst of the grief passed, he dug out everything he'd hidden after her death from the sofa, and the photo even returned to the sideboard. Exactly where it had been for the last forty years. People are like paintings. Even when they suddenly disappear from our lives, a mark on the wall still reminds us they were there. The only difference is that you can hang a new, larger, and more beautiful painting on a nail, while you won't find another person like him.

There were no matches in the drawer either. The tobacco, wrapped in tissue paper, was just begging to be lit. Vroński combed his still thick, but completely gray hair back with his long fingers and leaned down to check the floor. Perhaps where it had fallen? He pushed aside the chipped duck, which no one ever used anyway, and carefully looked around. Everything was empty. He moved a meter to the right and glanced again. A gentle smile curved his lips. Behind the square bed leg stood a box of matches. He grasped them confidently and shook them. They rattled amicably.

He sat back on the bed and adjusted the cigarette in his mouth. Soon, a spark would brighten this dreary day. He would inhale the sweet smoke, and for a moment, his thoughts would drift back to the old days. He pulled out a match and was about to strike it against the box when suddenly the entrance door to the hall creaked. Instinctively, Vroński wanted to hide the evidence of the crime he was about to commit, but the matches leaped from his hand, bounced off his knee, and landed in the very center of the room. He froze. He wasn't afraid of the doctors, but he didn't want to listen to their endless explanations. None of them were over forty. How could they understand him?

He stared at the door, but instead of a doctor or a nurse, a small, boyish head appeared in the crack. Smyk was about eight. Well, maybe nine. He peered inside timidly. His eyes darted around the room until they met Wroński's.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." he stammered.

He wanted to duck out the door, but Wroński stopped him.

"Wait, kid, can I help you?"

The boy hesitantly slipped inside, but still held onto the doorknob like a lifeline. He was wearing a navy blue bathrobe, with two red pajama legs peeking out from underneath.

"Because you know what? Because I think I got lost..." he stammered. "Well, I went to... well, there... and then to look at the kiosk, and I don't know how to get back."

Vroński took the cigarette from his mouth and reached for the matches. With his right hand, he patted the empty bed opposite.

"Come, sit down."

The boy cautiously stepped inside and climbed onto the bed. His small, slippered feet dangled comically a few inches above the floor.

"What's your name?" Wroński asked.

"Michał," the child replied. "And you?

" "Władysław, but you can call me Władek. "

The boy's white hand, wrapped in alabaster leather, sank into the old man's bony, ash-gray one.

"Where did you come from, remember?" Wroński asked.

"Right. From the internal medicine ward," he recited, like a child saying his home address.

"Well, you've come a long way, buddy!"

Michałek smiled broadly. Perhaps because he was called buddy. Or maybe because the old man seemed so nice to him. Completely different from the others.

"By the way, it's also a surprise that you've come all the way here. Don't you have to come back? Today's your day off; maybe your mother will drop by for a visit, huh?"

"No, she won't come," the boy said sadly. "She left with her new father. She'll only come when they open my belly. "

Wroński looked at the boy carefully. He looked like a sad man in hospital clothes on the bed.

"Are you afraid of this opening of my belly?" the old man asked.

"No, just a little. The doctor said it wouldn't hurt at all," Michałek replied, but fear lurked in his night-black eyes, like a stray dog ​​in the corner of a dumpster.

Wroński didn't quite know what to say. He instinctively put the cigarette back in his mouth and reached for the matches. He wanted to light it, but he withdrew his hand. It seemed inappropriate around the boy. The little boy looked at him curiously.

"I thought smoking wasn't allowed in the hospital," he said.

"But doctors smoke, right?

" "Well, yes, but you're not a doctor..."

Wroński smiled. A devilish thought crossed his mind.

"I am," he said. "I am a doctor, just in secret."

The boy's expression was so astonished that the old man almost burst out laughing.

"But how do you mean..." the little one asked. "You're wearing a dressing gown, aren't you?"

Yes, dressing gowns and medical coats were like uniforms on the battlefield. They distinguished individual military formations. Wroński, like a spy, glanced around and opened the left side of the lapel. A long number and the name of the hospital were embroidered underneath.

"I'm on a secret mission," he whispered to the little boy. "But I guess I can trust you, right?

" "Of course!" the little one exclaimed enthusiastically, but then immediately covered his mouth with his hand.

Wroński put his finger to his lips and made a quiet "pst." Michałek nodded, indicating that he was familiar with the principles of conspiracy. The old man leaned toward him.

"I was sent on this mission by the Department of Secret Affairs of the Ministry of Health," he said quietly. "We've heard disturbing rumors..."

"What kind?

" "We've just learned that someone is supposedly spreading disturbing rumors on the hospital grounds. Do you know anything about that?

" "But what rumors?

" "That the procedures performed here are dangerous! Apparently, the patients have become afraid!" Wroński shook his head, agitated. "For so many years, there was peace, and suddenly someone is saying such things!"

Michał looked at him with astonished eyes.

"I, I think I know who..." he said. "I know, but I don't want to be a snitch..."

The old man looked at him menacingly.

"Michał! It's your duty," he said. "Besides, you have to fight the untruth! Tell me who's spreading such nonsense.

" "This one Rafał, he's thirteen years old and he's still talking about how other people die in hospitals."

Wroński rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

"Well! Finally, my investigation is coming to an end!" he said with a smile. "We'll just make sure there's no one else as stupid. "

Michał looked at the old man.

"But you know what?" he began uncertainly. "Are you sure it's not true?"

Wroński was clearly offended.

"What are you talking about!" he said. "Do you know how many years I've been doing this?! And I've never seen anyone get hurt or have anything happen.

" "But you know what... It wasn't just this Rafał who said it, but others too...

" "You're listening to idiots," the old man said in a firm voice. "They just want to impress you by pretending to be so brave. You have to promise me that when you're done, you won't act like that. Then you'll know you were scared for nothing.

" "I promise!" Michał said eagerly. "I definitely won't tell!

" "Great!" the old man smiled. "In return, if you're ready, you can also become an agent! You'll be my subordinate, but you'll be serving independently in your own territory."

The boy's face flushed with emotion.

"I'd really, really like to," he said.

"Well, you have to take an oath." Wroński's voice was serious and dignified. "Repeat after me." I vow that I will not be afraid of stories that are not true, that I will be brave and courageous, and that I will help the doctors in any way I can.

The little one completely twisted the words of the oath, but when he heard the last word, he felt almost like a hero.

"From now on, you must obey my orders, understand?" Wroński asked decisively.

"Yes, sir!"

The old man lit a match and put the flame to the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs, and then exhaled a blue-blue cloud. He tried to do it so the boy wouldn't have to inhale it. However, the boy paid no attention.

"Do you have any friends in the hospital?" Wroński asked.

"I had...one, but he left," the boy said sadly. "The ones left are older and don't want to be my friends.

" "So you don't get bored here, huh?

" "Sometimes you do. I had books, but I read them, and Mom didn't bring any new ones.

" "Do you like reading?" the old man asked.

"Very much," Michał's eyes lit up. "Very much, although I'm still a very slow reader."

Wroński stood up and went to the dresser. He opened the drawer and took out a book. He sat down on the bed again and thumbed through the yellowing pages.

"Do you know this one?"

The boy took it in his left hand and, using his right index finger, read it.

"Twenty thousand leagues under the sea...

" "Sailing," he corrected him calmly.

"Yes, sailing. No, I haven't read it. Is it good?

" "Very good.

" "What about?"

Wroński smiled.

"Lots of adventures here and full of incredible feats of brave people.

" "Great!"

"Want to listen?

" "Sure!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "Because you know what, I like it when someone reads to me..."

The old man stubbed out his cigarette in a specially kept tin can, turned on the lamp above the bed, and leaned his tired back against the wall. He licked his finger and solemnly turned the first page. Michałek slid off the bed and climbed in next to Wroński. He leaned against the wall beside him and stared at the book.

"Are you going to look over my shoulder?" the old man asked.

"Me? Nooooo..." the boy said, and immediately looked away.

Wroński cleared his throat and began reading.

Outside the window, the blizzard was gaining strength, but in here it was nice and cozy. The man's warm voice wafted through the room like a beautiful scent. Michał rested his head on Wroński's shoulder and listened as if spellbound.

II.

As long as I've lived, and I've lived for quite a while now, scents have accompanied me. Various. Some pleasant and some unpleasant, pretty and some unattractive. Commonplace scents and those that evoke memories from the farthest reaches of my memory. There aren't many of the latter, but I can tell you about a few. The first of them, probably the earliest I remember, is the smell of a car. The car my father had when I was a really little tot. It was an old Trabant, and in the summer sun, it smelled in its own unique way. Try to smell one of those cars sometime on a warm day, and you'll understand what I mean. If you can still find a Trabant in the flood of new and shiny cars. I also remember that on the rear ashtrays it had two stickers that accompanied me on long journeys: a yellow duck and a smiling sun. How well did he find one for a kid like me back then? To this day, when I pass by one of those cars and smell that specific scent, a gate to the past opens in my mind. I glance at the ashtrays, but I know I won't find a duck or a sunflower there.

The second scent also comes from my early childhood and has stayed with me for many long years. It's the smell of the garage at my grandparents' house. A garage where no car had ever been parked. At least not in my memory. My grandfather had transformed it into a DIY workshop, so much so that my father resented him for not even being able to use the pit to tinker with his Trabant. A large wooden table with a sturdy vise stood in the center, making it impossible to even drive into the garage normally. I don't know where that peculiar smell came from, but I've never encountered anything like it. Perhaps its uniqueness stemmed from the adjacent cellar full of Grandma's preserves, or perhaps something else. Nevertheless, it's a scent I miss so much. After Grandma died, they decided to sell the house and divide the proceeds equally among the family. I was on vacation at the time, and upon my return, there was no garden, no house, and no garage. Others had taken over my kingdom.

After many years, fate would have it that I was passing by. I stopped at the gate, which remained the same, changing only in color from dark green to light green. I looked at the house and the giant walnut trees lying on it. Many things had changed, but it was still the same place. As I stood there, I didn't even notice that in the corner of the property, an elderly woman was sweeping leaves from the lawn. Since I hadn't left for a while, she approached me, and we started talking. At first, I was afraid she was telling me to leave, but she turned out to be a lovely person. I told her why I had stopped, and she invited me in. You can't imagine how weak my legs were as I climbed the steps to the house. In the hallway, which also housed the garage door, I could already smell that wonderful aroma. Faint, yet overwhelming. I wanted to go downstairs immediately, but it didn't feel right. I dutifully drank my tea in the kitchen, but my mind was elsewhere. When I asked if I could go into the garage, the landlady was surprised but didn't object. She led me through the hallway and left me at the door. She stayed in the apartment, and I went downstairs. I was very grateful for this. I could delve into the past in solitude. For a moment, I was afraid nothing would smell the same, but after climbing the first few stairs, I knew everything was in its right place. Of course, a lot had changed, but that wasn't the point. I sat on a rickety stool and inhaled my childhood in the darkness.

I don't know how long I sat there, probably too long, because eventually the woman came down to get me. I must have completely lost track of time. I apologized politely and left the house. I stood for a while on the other side, staring at the building. I'd never found a smell like that anywhere else. I also knew I wouldn't. That was the first time I thought about buying this house. It was well located, and its outdated architecture didn't bother me at all. I wanted my children to be able to grow up there. Climb the same trees I climbed, hide in the same attic, and rummage through the same garage. That same day, I learned the approximate real estate prices in that area. I didn't have even a fraction of that amount, but I had many years ahead of me. I haven't bought that house to this day, but I resolved that one day it would definitely be mine again.

There's another scent from my childhood that I remember perfectly. A scent that tightens my throat and brings tears to the corners of my eyes. A scent I can never find, buy, or recreate. The scent of a man who passed away many years ago, but still lingers somewhere in my mind. It was so long ago that his face, which I still remember, probably isn't real. But everything else is still almost tangible.

In our family, everyone ended up in the hospital for the same thing. Grandpa, my father, and me. Sure, if there were a hospital nearby, my great-grandfather would have been there too. Appendicitis. It doesn't seem like a big deal, but when you're nine, even the shadow of a wardrobe on the wall seems terrifying. The worst part was that things weren't great between my parents, and instead of taking care of me, my mother took care of her new husband. Later, he turned out to be a decent guy, but then I hated him. I sat alone in the big, cold hospital and listened to the older guys' stories about how people ended their lives on operating tables, how surgeons sewed rags into their stomachs, and how patients endured years of suffering and death. Yes, yes. In hospitals, the worst enemy isn't the disease itself, but the fear of its consequences. And then there were the roommates, especially when they were teenagers and took pleasure in scaring the younger ones.

Doctors tried to fight it, but what could they do? They gave me a teddy bear pajama and a cheerful book. Too little, too little. When the lights went out, monsters awoke in the deathly silence of the hospital. They penetrated my head, and new ones hatched there. I couldn't sleep, and when I did fall asleep, it was worse than being awake. I think the doctors knew what was happening to me, but they couldn't cope. One of them had an idea one day that probably worked better than he could have imagined. He noticed I was already a pretty good reader for my age and slipped me a book. I remember it to this day. The Incredible Adventures of Marek Piegus. My first book, which I read by myself from the first page to the last. One of the early editions, I think. Full of Butenko's quirky drawings. A book that took me away from what was happening around me.

The subsequent books they gave me weren't quite so good. Sure, they were wonderful books, but not for a nine-year-old. Well, the doctors probably didn't have much to look for in young adult literature back then. So I waded through novels that I sometimes didn't understand, but which opened up a different world before me. I might not understand individual words, but the descriptions came to me. People, places, landscapes. Sometimes I felt like I was reading with my eyes closed, because as I read, I saw everything in the book before my eyes. Trees creaked, animals scurried past, people turned against each other. Sometimes I'd look up from the page and not quite know where I was. Because I was in a completely different place.

My roommates bothered me whenever they could, so over time I started sneaking out with a book under my arm. I wasn't really allowed to do that, but I preferred the nurse shaking her finger at me to having my entire world snatched from me by some overgrown twelve-year-old. I most often went to the second floor, where there was a TV room. It wasn't really a room, just a widened section of the hallway with plush chairs and a television on a high shelf. The television was broken, so practically no one came there. I'd sit by the window, with my back to the hot radiator, and drift off. One book lasted me a long time because I read very slowly, but I guess the doctors decided that such reading wasn't suitable for me. They stopped giving me new books, and I had to read the same one over and over again. Until then.

One day, the weather was awful, and for some reason, all the chairs in the TV room were taken away. I had to find another place. I wandered the hospital corridors, unsure where to go. Large hospitals are like the Minotaur's labyrinth. I'm an adult, and I still get lost sometimes. Even more so then. I went to a newsstand to look through the window at a newspaper, then somewhere else, and somewhere else. Suddenly, I realized I had no idea where I was and felt a bit like a character in a book I had under my arm. Because it was November 1st, everything was completely empty. There was no one to even ask for help.

When I was cold and sick, I started opening all the doors one by one. Most of them were closed, some rooms were empty, until I found Him behind the next ones. I remember the scene to this day. It's a bit like an old photograph, faded in places, but I can see him sitting hunched over the bed. He's wearing an old hospital gown, his white hair falling over his face, and deep, vertical lines on his face. He's so old. Children don't like old people, but he had eyes that inspired trust. A fire gleamed in them. I remember his strong, though at times quiet, voice. With a characteristic hoarseness. He could speak almost without opening his mouth. I was afraid then. I was afraid to go inside, but I also didn't want to stay in the empty corridor. That step I took into that room was one of the most important steps I've ever taken. And yet I could have panicked and run out.

Sometimes you like some people less, others more. Who knows what it depends on. Wroński, for that was his surname, was a magical man. I know it's just a childhood illusion. A dream that over the years became reality in my head, but that's how I remember it. Even though he lived in an ordinary hospital room, it was different. I can't even say why, but when I crossed the threshold, I felt like I was entering another world.

The day I met him for the first time, he took me on one of the most wonderful journeys – a submarine voyage with Captain Nemo. It was also then that I first smelled that scent. The scent of an old man. Sweet and tobacco-like. A mixture of that extraordinary cologne you can't buy anywhere these days, cigarettes, and God knows what else. A scent I'll never forget. I rested my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes, and listened to him read. The room was dark, and only the bedside lamp surrounded us in a circle of light. I also remember falling asleep. I don't even know how I found myself back in my bed.

From then on, I started coming to him regularly. Every day. At first, I wasn't really allowed to, but over time, I think they saw it had a positive effect on me. I also think everyone liked Vronsky. They always spoke to him with extraordinary kindness. They even allowed him to smoke, although occasionally a doctor would give him a hard time about it. I remember one day, after hearing all the bitter words, Wroński got out of bed, put his arm around the doctor, and leaned in close to his ear. I didn't hear what he said, but from then on, the man never shouted at him again. He probably knew how to use the right arguments, but for me, back then, it was magic.

Most importantly, he read. He had a lot of books in his cupboard, and he read them all to me. We had a whole ritual around it. First, Wroński would break off the filter from his cigarette, I would light it for him with a match, then he would make me promise never to smoke (I still don't), and then he would inhale deeply. He loved it. After a moment, he would drown in clouds of smoke. He tried not to blow on me, but he wasn't very successful. Besides, I wanted to capture as much of that smoke as possible. As much as possible so that I could still smell it in bed.

After smoking the cigarette, we would turn off the overhead light, and Wroński would sit under the lamp above the bed. I would tumble next to him, burying my face in his rough robe. One ear was always pressed tightly against his body. Thanks to this, the old man's voice penetrated me almost completely. I could sit there and listen to him for hours. He read beautifully. The text came alive in his mouth. Dead characters spoke with their own voices, and gunshots echoed in my imagination. I had never heard anyone read so beautifully.

But we spent time not only reading. It may be hard to believe, but he could talk to me as equals. At least that's how I remember it. He told me a lot about the woman in the photo. Her name was Maria, and he loved her very, very much. She had died many years earlier. The frame holding her photo was incredibly wobbly and often tipped over when he opened the cabinet door. To this day, I remember how delicately he put the photo back. His long, strong fingers brushed the frame as if he were touching her hair. I didn't understand what he was saying at the time, but I felt it was important.

"It's like this with people in life," he repeated, running his index finger along the glass of the photo. "When they're there, we rarely appreciate them, and when they're gone, it's too late. Remember, always tell them how much you love them, because there might not be another chance."

I sat on the bed next to him and watched the tears squeeze through the narrow lines of his wrinkles and hang in sparkling droplets on the tips of his gray beard. He pondered for a moment, but there was no time for sadness. Vroński would almost immediately wipe his face with the back of his hand, a broad smile spreading across his features, though his eyes were still sad. He would turn towards me with a mischievous expression. He would reach out and tickle me until tears of laughter filled my eyes.

Christmas was coming, and I decided to give him two presents. I'd been preparing the first one for a long time. Now that I think about it, I know it must have been awful, but at the time, I put my whole heart into it. I made a new frame myself, which might have been clumsy, but it didn't tip over at all. And the second – a beautiful Christmas card with a large, hand-scrawled inscription: I LOVE YOU.

III.

Time...time...time. So many banal words can be said about it, yet for so many they mean different things. One thing is certain, however – it flows. For some, slower, for others, faster, but for all, it flows ceaselessly. It turns trees into ash, children into old men, plans into great works, smiles into the sadness of faded eyes. And even if there's no clock anywhere to mark the merciless march of its hands, the world has been measuring it continuously for millions of years.

Here, in the hospital, time is measured by breath. Often shallow and ragged, snatched greedily from the atmosphere. If it's absent, the rhythm of time passes in the squeak of doctors' boots on the rubber carpets of the corridors. Sometimes, it's cigarette ash that spills onto the floor in an empty room where there's no longer any human breathing.

We meet all sorts of people in life. Very different. The vast majority of them are like a gentle breeze. We don't even notice them. They float past and before we turn around, they disappear into the emptiness of the horizon. There are also those who, like an autumn storm, fell the trees of our dreams, and because of them, our fates turn into a bottomless desert for years. But there are also those who resemble a spring rain, bringing freshness to our gaze and the joy of every moment. These are the ones we love the most. These are the ones we look forward to on the horizon of our lives. And these are the ones we pity the most.

The doctor's hand twitched, and another portion of ash fell to the floor. Wroński was like a summer downpour. He washed away the heat of everyday life with his monotonous calm. Afterward, one always breathed easily and pleasantly, at least until the fever of events again choked one's throat. At least that's how he perceived it. He treated Wroński from the moment he arrived at the hospital, and he felt it from the very beginning. It's something only some people possess at the end of their lives. Peace. Complete, unbroken peace.

The room was already empty. All the belongings associated with its previous occupant had vanished. A faint scent and a shiver of air remained. After leaving, nothing would remain. It's hard to close the door behind you, knowing that what's left behind will never be the same. It's hard to say goodbye to people, especially those you rarely see and who have no hope of finding their like. The cigarette's embers began to slowly consume the rusty filter. His fingers trembled slightly, as if frightened by the approaching fire.

The doctor's quiet, almost inaudible footsteps echoed from the hallway. He glanced toward the door. In the crack just below the doorknob, a mop of flaxen hair and a chubby, boyish face appeared. The child's eyes quickly darted around the room and landed on the doctor.

"Mr. Władek's gone?" he asked.

The man looked at the boy. How he had changed during these visits to Wroński. Once frightened and intimidated, now, though still polite and kind, he felt at home in the hospital.

"Come in."

The boy, seemingly reluctant to open the door further, slipped inside. He held a large plastic bag behind his back, trying to hide it at all costs. He glanced at the bed and immediately scanned the room again. His expression, full of joyful excitement, hardened.

"When will Mr. Władek be here?" he asked again.

The doctor dropped his cigarette butt onto the cold green linoleum. A red freckle took on a vibrant color and flashed across the floor. The man stared at him blankly for a moment, as if unsure what to do, then slowly extinguished it with the tip of his heavy wooden sandal. He raised his eyes and looked at Michał.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked.

The child, however, seemed unaware of the question. He ran to the doctor, freed his right hand from the bag, and tugged at his sleeve.

"Where is Mr. Władek!" he shouted in such a voice that the man felt every hair on the back of his neck instantly touch his shirt. "Where is Mr. Władek!!!

" "Easy, easy..." the doctor whispered to the boy, but probably also to himself. "He's gone. He's gone.

" "Where is Mr. Władek..." the boy's voice turned into a silent prayer.

The doctor wiped his eyes with his left hand and took a deep breath.

"Mr. Władek..." Mr. Władek..." has been recalled," he said. "He asked me to wait here for you and tell you about it.

" "Called off?!

"Yes, yes," the doctor continued. "The secret mission he was on in our hospital has ended, and he had to immediately go on another one. This time in Silesia. "

He watched as the boy's eyes filled with tears.

"But... but without saying goodbye... because I brought him here, you know, I made such... but he won't come back? Because..."

"No, he won't come back."

A huge drop detached itself from the corner of the boy's eye and ran down his cheek like a misbehaving puppy. It was followed by another, and another, too many to count. The doctor put his arm around the boy and held him close. And he did this only to hide the drops that were forming in his eyes. He felt that small, trembling body against him, looked at Wroński's room, and something choked him in his throat. Choked him so hard he could barely contain himself. He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself.

"Mr. Wroński left something for you," he said. "It's a reward for helping him on his mission. There's a special dedication inside."

The boy hesitantly picked up the book. Jules Verne. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. The first one they'd navigated together. Their favorite. No longer new, but with wonderful illustrations. The book he'd dreamed of. He opened it to the first page, where a few words of dedication had been scribbled in blue ink. The boy's teardrop landed directly on the first letter, dissolving the ink there. Over time, the teardrop dissolved almost completely, but a trace remained.