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"Excuse me..."

Usually, when someone accosts us on the street, we either glance at the stranger, waiting for a question, or we instinctively roll up our left sleeve and check the time so we can answer before the question even comes. When approached by a stranger, John Script would reach into his pocket. He didn't have a watch there. He didn't wear one at all. He didn't need one. In the right pocket of his gray coat, he kept only a pen. A brand-name, ornate fountain pen, writing in black ink.

The man stopped at the sound of a woman's voice just ahead of him and took the pen out of his pocket. He removed the cap and only then looked up at the stranger to hear—as he expected—her asking for her autograph. If a man had accosted him, he would have asked, just in case. However, with women, he had developed such a strong automatic reflex that he would have signed his name in midair if someone hadn't thrust a note, a photo, or a copy of a book at him. During his daily walks, women in their thirties, teenagers, and elementary school girls alike would approach him—sometimes even run up to him—and with trembling hands, hand him the book, open to the first page. They would point with their fingers where he should sign and to whom. With flushed cheeks and wide eyes, they watched as the ornate pen wrote their names, then the author's signature, with the exaggerated S next to the surname—a flourish that looked almost like a figure eight, or an infinity sign. It grew larger and larger—at first proportional, twice the height of the lowercase letters, but eventually it began to take up half a page vertically. John noted with amusement that in another fifteen years, he'd either need a separate page for that S, or two, or he'd force his publisher to publish his books in album format. He smiled every time he thought of it, and the fans smiled back, then bowed and thanked him, and walked away, clutching the autographed book as if it were a beloved dog. It was almost always one of the fifteen volumes of Aurelia Morning's adventures.

"Yes?" John Script asked. He stood for a moment, the pen trembling in his hand. The girl, her hands clasped in front of her, seemed to be expecting something. But she didn't hand him the Aurelia book or any of the six novels he had written before this series.

John Script had been writing since he was a child. Basically, ever since he learned to write—to make marks on a page—he had longed to write... something. SOMETHING. He began his first novel—for children, of course—at the age of eight, and abandoned it fifteen minutes later, having written two sentences. The next one, meticulously planned and designed to last a dozen installments, never came to fruition. The young author didn't write a single line. He pondered the first sentence for three weeks—and never came up with it. As a teenager, he wrote several short stories about two friends, and then—while writing another—considered he'd exhausted the form. In the end, he admitted to himself with embarrassment that the series had been a huge mistake from the start, one he just wanted to forget. In his search for worthy subjects, he came close to writing an autobiography, which he quickly abandoned, not because he had nothing to say, but for the prosaic reason that he was ashamed. What terrified him most was the thought that someone in his neighborhood might read this would-be autobiography. In a panicky escape from this possibility, he ventured into the realms of fantasy. For several years, he spun varying degrees of success stories about dragons and orphans with magical powers, each of which more or less consciously veiled autobiographical threads. After about a year, he decided with unwavering self-confidence that this time he was ready to write a novel. After another ten, he finally finished it. In the meantime, at the age of twenty-five, he published his first book, and thereafter submitted subsequent ones to publishers on average every nine months. The one he began writing at eighteen appeared – his fourth publication – as he was approaching thirty. Critics and readers unanimously declared it the weakest work of the author, then known only to a handful of fantasy fans. Two more followed – appreciated by a small circle of admirers, but which, however, did not translate into a rustle of money. Fame—and with it, big money—came only with the novel "Raindrop in a Chocolate Cup," the first volume about Aurelia Morning.

The woman standing before the writer seemed familiar, though he had no memory for faces. He'd seen so many that he'd stopped paying attention. Even if someone insisted that John Script had spoken to him and could provide the date, place, and circumstances, the writer would apologize politely and assure them he couldn't remember.

A veritable frenzy, in which the then thirty-one-year-old writer had been completely lost for a while, erupted within days of the publication of "Raindrops," after the first enthusiastic reviews. The entire country rushed to bookstores, and the pounds he had once had to search for at the bottom of one pocket now burst at the seams of every pocket he carried, spilling out with a soft rustle wherever he went. He brought his parent publishing house a fortune, which was used to ship Aurelia to all corners of the globe and teach her to speak fifty-three languages. Overnight, John Script became so rich that if he took all his money out of the bank, tied up in bundles like bricks, he could build a two-story villa with it. And he could burn the pounds he earned in the fireplace as he went. And although the soda water briefly went to his head under the influence of his spectacular success—he moved to London, attended parties, received honors, and drank himself into a frenzy in the highest circles—after an unpleasant awakening on the sidewalk outside a fashionable club, covered in his own vomit, he quickly returned to his old life. To a small, bright apartment in an old tenement building—and to writing. In his cozy cottage, on an old typewriter, John Script was writing the second volume of Aurelia Morning's adventures—"The Hole in the Parasol." He felt downright embarrassed by the noise the first book in the series made, and he couldn't even spend the money he'd earned—but writing drew him. Writing about Aurelia. He wasn't bothered that subsequent volumes only deepened his embarrassing fame. He no longer wrote fantasy. He somehow got over the fact that his former fans had cursed him for his first adventure novel. The narrow circle of fantasy writers ignited with anger and hatred for the author, whom they considered theirs forever—their property, their exclusive possession—even though they were unable to feed him. They spat venom at him from the pages of every fantasy magazine. And he continued to write—about Aurelia, and only about her. A reviewer of the third volume of Miss Morning's adventures, "Red Leaf in the Pocket," theorized that John Script had fallen in love with his heroine. The writer denied this repeatedly, over the years, in hundreds of interviews for radio, television, and print—and even then, everyone knew what they were talking about. He never married, and over the course of fifteen years, he had only a few short, fleeting affairs, which he either ended himself or his panicked fiancée fled him straight into the affectionate embrace of the press. For a price, she confided that as a partner, he was at best cordial, and as a lover, he was nonexistent. As if, for some reason, he was faithful to Aurelia. As if he were watching over her. Over the course of fifteen volumes, she had several lovers—but she either abandoned them, utterly bored and blasé, or they perished one way or another. Miss Morning belonged only to him. Only he could create her, shape her. That's why he never consented to filming her adventures,Despite being offered staggering sums of money and presented with completed scripts, for which the biggest names in the industry were hired. Michelle Pfeiffer, a devoted fan of the series, called him, begging him to let her be Aurelia on screen. He politely told her no—but as a gesture of sympathy, he would send her a set of fifteen autographed books that same day. He wouldn't hear of any visualization of Aurelia. He didn't want any films, and he strictly forbade illustrators from putting her face on the cover. He ordered cover designs for every issue sent to him from every corner of the globe. Seeing a fragment of Aurelia's reflection in a mirror in the illustration for volume seven, "The Cracked Mirror," he flew into a rage. He dialed the Dutch publisher and berated them in broken, accented Dutch. He shouted so loudly that people on the street stopped and stared at the upstairs window, wondering what could be happening there. He turned up his nose and scowled at the sight of readers at author meetings clumsily disguised as Aurelia. In beige coats, with coffee-colored suede gloves, with long blond hair with straight bangs. Only he knew the exact shade of the coat. And that Aurelia's bangs were diagonal. He never wrote that down.

John Script's eyes widened.

Before him stood a long-haired blonde with side bangs, wearing a beige coat and coffee-colored suede gloves.

She didn't want an autograph.

***

Aurelia Morning and John Script walked slowly, smiling thoughtfully. They didn't speak. They glanced at each other furtively—shyly, fleetingly. The rhythm of their steps echoed and echoed through the empty street. They looked like a father and daughter out for a walk. He was forty-five, with her first gray hairs. She, just like fifteen years ago, wasn't yet thirty. The writer never specified her age. He only hinted that she was in her early thirties—and with that, millions of fans had to be content all these years.

"Here," John said.

With a spring in his step, he climbed the five steps and stood before the door of a white, two-story tenement building. He opened the door and nodded invitingly at Aurelia. He let her pass and followed her up the steep steps.

"First floor," he added, explaining, as she paused on the ground floor and looked at him expectantly.

With light, graceful steps, the girl entered the second floor and, seeing the brass plaque on the door to her left with the inscription "J. Script," she pressed the round bell. A loud "boom-boom" sounded.

"No one's home," the writer explained. He walked up the stairs calmly, unhurriedly. "I live alone."

Aurelia raised her eyebrows slightly, which John didn't notice. She moved away from the door a little so the man could open it. The keys jingled in his hand. Two locks clicked loudly, and the door opened with a creak. John let the girl pass again and followed her in. As she unbuttoned her beige coat and slowly slipped it off her shoulders, John left the door ajar and ran to her.

"Wait, I'll help you!"

He gently took the coat's lapels and, without unnecessary force, helped Aurelia out of it.

Incredible, John thought—not for the first time that day. Not only the color and cut, but even the material of the coat matched exactly the image the writer had of it—an image he had never shared with anyone. He had given Aurelia Morning to millions of readers—but it was only a sketched Aurelia, whom each could generally imagine as they wished. John Script had his Aurelia all to himself.

He hung the beige coat on a rack in the long, narrow hallway and invited the girl into the living room.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said shyly. "Would you like something to drink?

" "Hot chocolate," they said simultaneously, then laughed. The writer slapped his forehead and shook his head.

"I've known this for fifteen years, and when push comes to shove, I make these kinds of blunders... Remind me what that disease was called, because I don't remember..." John laughed softly. "Hot chocolate, right?"

Aurelia nodded with a smile and leaned back in the comfortable armchair, a look of bliss on her face.

***

John and Aurelia sat in silence for a few minutes. They both sipped their hot chocolate. He couldn't remember whether he liked the drink because she liked it, or the other way around. He drank it eagerly, like most of his guests. He wasn't sure about them either, whether they drank it out of adoration for the heroine of his books or because of the hot chocolate itself.

"Is that really you?" John asked quietly.

The girl looked at him, surprised. Not confused. She was surprised he asked, and she didn't think twice about the answer, because it was obvious to her.

"Yes," she replied after a moment, nodding.

"Hmm... Because, you see, here," John said, placing a finger to his temple, "you're Aurelia Morning. Just as I imagined you." One I wouldn't let anyone else recreate, and no one ever did. And I don't know how you did it. I've seen thousands of girls... women, desperately trying to look like Aurelia, and at first glance, I knew it wasn't. And now I've been looking at you, for several minutes now, and I can't see a single flaw. You're my Aurelia Morning. But tell me, are you Aurelia because you've read all my books, or because you are?

"I'm finishing reading... the seventh one..." the girl said, counting in her head. "But my real name is Aurelia Sophie Morning.

" "How old are you?

" "Twenty-six. How old should I be? Maybe I haven't read it yet?"

"I never wrote it," John shook his head. "But I always imagined you were twenty-six."

Aurelia smiled triumphantly.

"The problem is, I created my character... you... as twenty-six sixteen years ago, and then you were... how old?" Ten years?

"Except I didn't know about it then," the girl explained. "Not then, nor for many years afterward.

" "What?

" "And did you know about me? That Aurelia Morning lived somewhere far away? I don't think so. For you, she lived somewhere else. Only in your imagination. And you can't deny my existence in relation to the book's heroine, because I was born first, as Aurelia Morning. Except that few people knew about it, and those who did, forgot—or at least I hope so.

" "I'm sorry... I can't keep up..."

"Do you know what a tragedy it is for a child to be named Aurelia when everyone around them is called Maggie, Mark, Tom, Anna, or something else, but so... ordinary? Until I was six, everyone knew me as Aurelia, and I don't even think they remembered my last name. Then we moved a thousand miles away, and I became Sophie Morning. I begged my mother not to have to be Aurelia. And over the years, I stopped being Sophie. Everyone called me Sophie, even my parents, and that's how I thought of myself, and that's how I signed my name. I almost forgot there was an Aurelia Morning—even though, nominally, I was always one.

" "Yes... But books about Aurelia have been published for... fifteen years.

" "And you think ten-year-olds read adventure novels about twenty-six-year-olds?

" "I liked reading when I was ten...

" "And I liked wandering around town." And certainly not in bookstores," Aurelia stated, a little embarrassed. "Besides, in your books, I'm usually too busy to read, watch TV, or listen to the radio.

" "That would be true... But you've never even heard of the bookish Aurelia Morning? Has anyone compared you to her?

" "I haven't watched TV, I haven't read newspapers, at least not the ones where I could learn something about books. You know, there are all sorts of interesting things in the world, and you're not stupid just because you don't pick up the daily newspaper from the doormat... Right?" She looked at him, almost pleadingly. "And has anyone compared me to her? No. Everyone knew me as Sophie, as I said. There was no obvious kinship, like between Theodore and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, for example. Besides, I wasn't always twenty-six, and I didn't always look like that. Until a certain point, no one had the right to associate me with a book character.

" "Meaning?"

"When I finished high school... It was one of the towns we lived in. I finished elementary school in one, my first year of middle school in another, and my second and third year in another. Then we moved on, and I graduated from high school in a new place. My parents stayed behind, and something... drove me further. North. So when I was eighteen, I decided to become independent and move. North. I had some money, strong motivation, and no specific goal. And no preparation. I took buses further and further north, and when it started to get really cold, I stopped in one town—I don't even know the name of it—for a few hours and went shopping. I bought that coat and gloves there.

" "So it was a form of self-creation," John pressed, still incredulous.

"No, it was completely spontaneous. I bought that coat because I liked it, and those gloves because they felt nice.

" "And the hairstyle?

" "Meaning?"

"Slanted bangs. I never wrote that the bangs were on a slope, although I kind of pictured Aurelia... sorry... you.

" I had my hair cut like that by a hairdresser friend right after my final exams, before I left. I hadn't cut my hair for a few months before my exams, so when I finally had the chance, I decided to do something crazy and style my hair differently than usual. And I liked the angled bangs so much that I stuck with them. And then I went north. And that's where I fell in love with chocolate. Chocolate is good for your health when you live in colder climates.

" "And in those... eight years... nothing? In all that time, when you looked like Aurelia from the books, no one... ever... even mentioned it to you?

" "A coincidence?" she shrugged. "Indeed, it might seem like a piece of cake, but that's how it was." I think I simply flew through the places I'd been too quickly for anyone to notice me, let alone speak to me.

"So, why are you here now?" John Script raised his eyebrows questioningly. "How did you find out?

" "It might have been... two... maybe three months ago..." I stopped in front of a display window. I got lost in thought, staring. And then a girl approached me. I don't know, maybe she was eight, maybe nine, and asked, "Aurelia Morning?" which scared me... You know... No one had called me that in twenty years! I felt at least as if I'd seen a ghost! I looked at this child, who couldn't have known, couldn't have known me, and just mumbled, "No. Sophie." She gave me a dirty look and said, "Indeed, you're not the woman in the book." She walked away, and I stood there frozen for five minutes, trying to understand what she meant. And when I finally got going, I went to the nearest bookstore and asked if they had a book about Aurelia Morning. The saleswoman laughed and showed me a whole shelf full of your novels. I timidly asked for the first one. The woman looked me up and down, and before going to pick up the book, she asked if I was sure. And I felt incredibly stupid.

"She just mistook you for a fan," John smiled. "It probably didn't occur to her that, looking the way you do, you might not be a fan of my books. She's probably seen hundreds of imitators, good or bad, coming in every day asking about unpublished volumes or buying up the entire run at once, and she mistook you for one of them. She couldn't have known you were simply Aurelia. It's like Charlie Chaplin. He came in thirty-eighth in a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest, I think."

"Hahaha! That's funny... I understand how he must have felt! Just a doppelganger of himself... Hahaha!" Aurelia choked on her hot chocolate, which had cooled slightly in the meantime and was now only lukewarm. "But it's sad when people think you're just pretending to be yourself. Then they don't take you seriously. I've sometimes seen those ironic smiles from ordinary people, and the knowing glances from more or less successful doppelgangers. And sometimes I didn't know who was the real Aurelia: me, because I am her, or them, because they've read all fifteen Aurelia books and I've only read seven...

" "Coming back from author meetings, I sometimes start to think I'm not engaging enough with the entire series. People come there who know most of my books by heart and can quote entire chapters by heart. I start to feel ashamed around them, because I only see these stories and write them down. But that's just your paranoia and mine."

"You're right...

" "Call me John, Aurelia."

***

It was late afternoon, around four p.m., when Aurelia Morning and John Script were walking the same route they'd taken in the morning. This time, however, they were heading in the opposite direction. The writer was escorting the girl to the hotel where she was staying. For the past few days, she'd been staying in a nice room in a cozy hotel. There she'd left all her luggage, including the seventh volume of her adventures, "A Rare Coin Found in a Puddle," she was currently reading.

"You have to sign it for me, John," Aurelia said firmly. "You have to sign all of them!

" "No!" John shook his head, but smiled. "You're just like all the others!

" "Excuse me!" the girl pouted. "I simply can't imagine meeting the author of the books about me and not getting his autograph!

" "I'll sign them all. Even the ones you're about to buy.

" "With a personal dedication?

" "With a personal dedication."

Walking slowly through the city, Aurelia and John ignored the people passing them. They watched them—or rather, her—and sometimes smiled faintly, sometimes shook their heads. They couldn't have known. They probably thought it was a particularly persistent fan pestering their favorite author. And while Aurelia was indeed his admirer and indeed demanded his autograph, she was, above all, Aurelia Morning, the heroine of his books. And the people passing them on the streets couldn't have known that.

"This is it," the girl said, stopping. "This is my hotel.

" "So, Aurelia, before you go, I wanted to say that it was an incredible pleasure to meet you. A completely unexpected meeting, and I still don't think I can believe it's true.

" "I feel honored! To meet a writer in person! And such a wonderful writer!

" "Will we see each other again?" John asked.

"Oh, right! You have to sign these books for me!" Aurelia laughed.

"Oh, right! So when?

" "Let me think... What do I have to do? Why did I come here?... Oh, right, to see you!" she remembered. "Can it be tomorrow?

" "Great!" John beamed. "Come get you?

" "That would be very nice!

" "At eleven?

" "Perfect!

" ***

"Sign me!

" "Same, like all the others," John laughed.

Aurelia nudged him and pushed open the eighth book about Aurelia Morning to the first page. "A Small Key in a Big Lock." John looked at her with a sneer, and after a few seconds of thought, wrote: "Aurelia Morning, a quite good, if questionable, copy of Aurelia Morning." He signed it with that characteristic, enormous S in the shape of a figure eight, or a vertical infinity sign, and then handed the book back to the girl.

"Snarky!" she grumbled when she read the inscription. She nudged John again.

"At least it's humorous, personal, and unforced," John explained.

"It could have been nicer!" Aurelia said indignantly. "What did you buy?" she asked suddenly, completely changing the subject.

"'The Tin Drum' by Gunter Grass.

" "Do you even have time to read? I'd think you spent all day writing and at night, instead of sleeping, thinking up what to write the next day.

" "Don't try to make me out to be some cultured ignoramus!" John laughed. "I read, like anyone else. I may not devour fourteen books a week like Liam Neeson, but I don't neglect reading.

" "And how's your writing going?

" "It's going," he said curtly. "But..." he added, more impulsively than consciously, "I'd rather meet you."

They'd been seeing each other every day for a few days. Usually around noon, John would pick Aurelia up at the hotel, and then they'd walk together in any direction they wanted. The city was large, with plenty of attractions for the two of them—and besides, the two of them were so absorbed in each other that the whole world might as well have ceased to exist. They talked for hours. They laughed and teased each other. He gave her a nice women's watch as a gift, and she gave him a kiss in return. He blushed, and she laughed at his embarrassed expression. And they went to the flea market.

"Which book is it?" she asked.

"The sixteenth.

" "What's the title?

" "Everything you'd want to know," John snorted. "Soooo much the same as all the others.

" "I just wanted to remind you that this is a book about me, so I need to know what it's about to authorize it."

John stopped, stood in front of Aurelia, and looked at her intently. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen!" someone shouted.

The writer and the girl in the book turned in surprise.

Then a flash went off.

The next day, that photo—a photograph of the writer with his young friend—was on the covers of most of the tabloids in the world.

***

"You know what, I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm terribly ugly.

" "Don't exaggerate!" Aurelia kissed John on the cheek. "You're handsome!

" "You know, I never attached much importance to it. It didn't matter to me," the man shrugged. "But now, wherever I turn, my face stares back at me, and it's not pretty."

"They got you wrong in the photo, that's all! Besides, be glad you're popular!

" "Screw all that popularity..." the writer muttered.

"The press never made much money off you, did they?"

"A few times..." John Script admitted bitterly. "But you know, a writer isn't the same as a movie star. The biggest media frenzy surrounding Stephen King was when he got hit by a car." We're not beautiful, and we don't get married or divorced every week, so we only make the front pages when the paparazzi spots us with a pretty woman, or when we have an accident.

"Let them enjoy themselves," Aurelia smiled. "After all, how often do they get the opportunity to write about a writer dating a heroine?

" "Apart from biographers, I think rarely," John laughed.

However, the photo wasn't enough, and reporters called John day and night, asking for interviews. The blasé writer consistently refused. He hung up the phone as soon as the culprit presented his case, and finally disconnected the phone. Only his agent, while discussing the sixteenth volume of Aurelia Morning's adventures—"Moon in the Cellar"—talked some sense into him, and John agreed to a press conference. Aurelia also agreed to the idea and showed up at the meeting. She sat next to John, and together they answered press questions. They denied it where necessary, but they didn't deny the obvious truth. Yes, we're together. Yes, my name is Aurelia Morning. No, we don't live together. We don't know yet; that remains to be seen. Yes, I'm a fan of John's. They questioned her primarily. About her age. About who she was. Even about her bangs. John emphasized that that was exactly what they were supposed to be—angled. And he stipulated that no portraits of Aurelia were still in effect. She was his alone. He put his arm around her. A barrage of flashbulbs erupted. In due time, they politely thanked each other and concluded the conference. Representatives of dozens of newspapers—both serious daily newspapers and tabloids—returned to their offices with a valuable piece of news.

John, Aurelia, and the writer's agent, Sidney Smith, went for fries at a nearby restaurant. After half an hour, Smith said goodbye and left the writer and his friend alone.

"You know..." Aurelia asked as Sid disappeared around the bend. There was a tinge of melancholy in her voice. "I want to leave..."

John shuddered when he heard this.

"With you," she added hastily. She saw him flinch. He probably thought she wanted to leave him. "Only with you...

" "Where would you like to go?

" "Fly... I don't know where... Somewhere... Does it matter?

" "Doesn't it?

"

Aurelia tore her eyes from the book and looked at John. He was dozing off in the armchair next to him, his Discman headphones in his ears. Rhapsody in Blue was lulling him to sleep. He woke up as the brass section launched an assault on his ears.

"You're amazing, you know?" the girl sighed. "I'm reading the next volume," she said, lifting the book in her lap and showing him the cover. A coffee-colored suede glove lying on the sidewalk.

"How?" he asked.

"Amazing! I can't put it down! Definitely the best I've read so far!"

"You know, I'm really glad you like my books," John said, sounding relieved. "It would be sad if you didn't like books about yourself. And I'd be sad if someone with me didn't like the way I write.

" "John, you're a great guy and a brilliant writer."

The writer took her hand and kissed it. Pressing a lingering kiss to her hand, he relished the fact that her skin felt exactly as he'd imagined it. He'd imagined those small, delicate hands holding a cup of hot chocolate a thousand times—and that's what they were like. He stroked her smooth, straight hair with the back of his hand—pleasingly cool and silky.

"I'll have to hurry up with the writing," John mused. "At this rate, you'll read them all in a week.

" "Then hurry up, dear!

" "You know what, I don't know why, but... I don't feel the need... I'm in no hurry!

" "Are you short on ideas?"

"No, no... I just... I don't even think about them... I'm taking a break from writing...

" "I understand..."

From the moment he met the real Aurelia, this bookish one, John hadn't spent a single moment. He hadn't written a single line of the sixteenth volume in a month. He had already planned two-thirds of the material for this novel—about two hundred and fifty pages—and he was in no hurry to finish it.

"I'm happy for you, Aurelia."

The fans were, of course, disconsolate. They knew—or at least guessed—the reason for their favorite author's tardiness. John Script smiled at them from the covers of the tabloids—though it was the embarrassed smile of someone who had so little contact with the tabloid press that he wasn't used to the spotlight. He was happy with his heroine. And that drove the fans crazy. They didn't want John to be happy—they wanted him to write. They hated Aurelia—the real one—because she was taking away their writer. Their writer. They loved the bookish Aurelia, and they couldn't forgive the writer for cheating on her with her substitute.

***

John and Aurelia strolled through the sunny streets of the cozy town. They'd landed earlier that afternoon, taken a coach to a small town south of the airport, left their bags at the small hotel they'd booked before leaving, and, despite their exhaustion, went for a walk.

"We have to go in here," the girl declared firmly, stopping in front of a small bookstore. She was eyeing the next installment of Aurelia Morning's adventures in the window. "Oh, look, there it is!

" "I'm telling you, you're becoming like all the others!" John shook his head. "Maniac!

" "What, does it bother you now that I like your books?"

"Well... No, of course not! I just see it's turning into an obsession, and I'm a little worried. If this keeps up, the next Aurelia book will be about her reading the previous books in the series, with their covers on the cover.

" "Will you write about us too?"

"Maybe," John smiled mysteriously.

"Okay, now sign! Here!"

"Soooo much the same as everyone else..." the writer sighed. "

To Aurelia Morning, the heroine of this book, the love of my life," John wrote on the first page, and beneath it he signed his name, complete with his characteristic, enormous S.

***

Aurelia and John were getting ready for bed in a cozy hotel room. He took the bed to the left of the entrance, she opposite, on the right. The writer lay on his side, smiling, gazing at the girl intently reading the tenth volume. Crazy girl, he thought. The real Aurelia Morning had only recently learned of her literary existence, and first became her own fan, and then fell in love with the one who created her. She found him and made him fall in love with her, and herself became completely crazy about the Aurelia Morning in the books.

Suddenly she froze, a look of utter astonishment on her face.

"You... you're brilliant..." she muttered.

"Thank you," John smiled.

"I can't stand it!" Aurelia exclaimed. She put the book aside, pulled back the covers, and sat down on the bed. "Come here, my genius!

" "Excuse me?"

"Come here!" she said, patting the space next to her on her bed. "Or lie down! "

Before the writer could say a word, Aurelia had leapt to his bed in two bounds and jumped onto the blanketed man. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his in a passionate kiss.

"Aurelia!" John exclaimed, finally letting go, intoxicated, of him.

"John, do you have any idea how amazing you are?" she whispered passionately. Her long hair fell over him and spilled over the covers.

"Aurelia...

" "Oh, John..." Aurelia purred, slowly unbuttoning her silk, seductive pajama top.

"Aurelia?

" "Yes, John?" she asked, clinging to him. Their noses were almost touching.

"What are you doing?" John Script exclaimed in utter terror.

"What we both want..." she whispered. Her eyes glittered.

"I don't want anything!"

John jumped out of bed with such force that Aurelia, who was sitting on him, somersaulted backward and fell to the floor. Meanwhile, the frightened writer fled to the bathroom.

"John..." Aurelia groaned, rising. Limping, rubbing her sore buttock, she followed him to the toilet. But the writer had locked himself in the room and wouldn't let her in. "John...

" "I don't want anything," John Script shouted in panic. He was shaking and trembling. His lips quivered. He could still feel the warmth of her kiss on them.

"John... Open...

" "Go... go read the book, you like it so much!

" "John... Please..."

But the writer was relentless. She didn't open it. Finally, Aurelia gave in and went to sleep. Only after an hour did the writer hesitantly leave his hiding place. He struggled to fall asleep after two more.

***

He was woken by the clanging metal clasps of a suitcase being opened.

"My head..." John groaned. "What's going on? Aurelia, what are you doing?"

The girl was silent for a moment. She struggled with the suitcase.

"I'm moving.

" "What do you mean? When?

" "Now," the girl growled.

"But, for God's sake, why? And where are we going now?

" "I don't know where I'm going! And you... you go wherever you want! Stay here if you want, or go home! I don't care!"

"Aurelia... What happened?

" "What happened...? You still have the nerve to ask what happened?!" Aurelia exploded. She turned her crimson face toward the writer. "John... You found yourself in a position that thousands of men would envy... Thousands of men I didn't even look at... and you threw me out of bed and spent half the night in the bathroom!!! That's what happened, John!"

"Oh, yes..."

"John... John... A man shouldn't do that... Do you know how much of an insult that is to a woman? Do you have any idea how I felt, groveling before you at the bathroom door, just so you could hug me? Jesus, John, what man does that? I could have had a ton of men, but I didn't want them because I knew that's all they wanted from me. I didn't want them because they were shallow and stupid... But you... You're brilliant... Eloquent, smart, funny... The perfect man... And I wanted to give myself to you, do you understand, John? What irony... A whole army of commoners who would kill to have me, and an ideal who doesn't want me...

" "I want you, Aurelia... I love you..."

The girl pushed her suitcase aside. She stopped packing her things.

"And if I try again what I did yesterday... won't you run away?

" "I'll run away...

" "Why?" Aurelia asked reproachfully, wringing her hands.

"Because I love you. With my heart and soul. I'm not worthy of you. To make love to you..." John trembled as he uttered these words. "That would be a desecration to me. No one can conquer Aurelia Morning... That's why I'll run away.

" "Too bad..." the girl said bitterly. "I'm running away. Goodbye, John."

With that, she zipped up her suitcase and set it upright. She walked up to John and kissed him on the cheek.

"Goodbye, John," she said, standing in the doorway.

"I love you, Aurelia," the writer said, standing helplessly in the middle of the room.

"I love you too, John," Aurelia Sophie Morning replied, and left.

The door closed with a soft but decisive click. Aurelia's footsteps in the corridor faded until they were silent. And John stood there. He didn't move toward the door and didn't give chase. The girl left the hotel through the glass revolving door and went out into the world—and he remained in the empty apartment. He stared blankly at the closed door for a long time.

He packed his bags and drove to the airport that evening. He flew over the Atlantic and arrived at his house in the middle of the night. In the kitchen, in the dark, he took a sip of tea—and at three in the morning he sat down to write. He tapped away at the keyboard until noon. He wrote the last few sentences before falling asleep. And when he woke up six hours later, he threw himself back into work; without breakfast, without even a sip of tea—and that was unbecoming of an Englishman.

Within a month, he had completed the sixteenth volume of Aurelia's adventures. The publisher breathed a sigh of relief and smiled with satisfaction; it was good: interesting, fast, funny. The six-hundred-page tome soon hit bookstore shelves, where in a single day the record-breaking print run wiped out its tightly knit legion of admirers. No one had ever sold so many books on their first day—including John himself. And none of the previous fifteen had been as popular as "Two Halves of One Ruble."

Then there were eleven more volumes. And then—a few weeks after the release of the twenty-seventh—John died.

Aurelia smiled bitterly to herself as she read one windy day on the beach in Palmizana. "A Footprint in the Sand" told the story of what had happened to Aurelia Morning on the Adriatic. And something was always happening. At any moment, her world was about to collapse on her head—but she didn't know it yet. She had just arrived in Palmizana—and was going to the beach.

In the book, she was forever twenty-six. And John lived forever; forever smiling from the back cover. They were immortal.

Immortal, like the hatred of science fiction fans.