Illustration: Konyukhova Yuliya

Robert returned from university and immediately realized his father was home: he greeted him with a welcoming glance from the living room. With a conciliatory smile, even though they hadn't been arguing, Vadim asked:

"Have you been to the library yet?"

"No. I'll go later," Robert replied.

He walked leisurely into the room, his hands in his pockets. Faces flickered across the television screen: a large-eyed blonde woman and a refined dark-haired man engaged in an atypical conversation:

"We build ships that traverse space at the speed of thought," she said. "They don't run on your fuel. They require the pilot's intent to fly."

Vadim, interested in the film, chuckled lightly and invited his son to join him. Robert glanced appraisingly at the sofa and sat silently.

"You're early," he said, glancing at Vadim.

"I've handed in my reports; the rest is tomorrow."

Robert studied his father's profile: his brows were determined, but his eyes were a bit weak, and when he wasn't at home, he always preferred to hide them behind glasses. Robert stared intently: how different they were, and suddenly he was met with his persuasive smile again.

"I'd take some books home and read as much as I could."

"They don't let you take all the books with you. That's what they have in the reading room."

A silence fell between the characters on the screen, and the earthling's alien girlfriend now looked at him with a sharp, shining gaze:

"Who raises this boy on Earth doesn't matter to them. But I know it's crucial to instill in him all the best values that exist on this planet."

"Then you should settle him in some developed region," the brunette said fervently. "Where nature is protected, where reserves are cherished, and where there are every opportunity for development..."

"I would be at peace if you had raised him..."

Robert declared in a steady tone:

"The movie is interesting".

He left behind the wall-sized screen and his father, buried in pillows, and walked into the kitchen, bathed in midday light.

Placing his coffee cup on the windowsill and picking up a sandwich in his other hand, he watched the sunlight play across the expanse of the courtyard. Suddenly, a young figure with a guitar slung over her back appeared in Robert's field of vision and crossed the landing. He ate and drank, watching her enter the entryway with a springy step. Robert glanced around the windows. A transom window opened on the third floor. He took another sip from his mug, rubbed his palms, and began to get ready.

Robert leaned over the stack of books with interest and ran his finger along the spines: biographies, recent editions of the best books in the genre.

"Haven't given up on the Faculty of History yet?"

Robert glanced from the books to the librarian. Valentina Arkadyevna put down borrowers card and looked at him intently.

"No... We work a lot on presentations and speeches. If worst comes to worst, I'll become the host of the Sunday program."

She smiled warmly and slyly.

Leaving the library, Robert paused by the window, frozen in the afternoon. Why he felt so sad every time he left, he didn't know. After looking through the glass for a moment, breathing on it until sweat appeared, Robert remembered the books and continued on.

Having timed it perfectly and assumed a perfectly indifferent demeanor, Robert managed to strike up a conversation with the girl from the neighboring house. Alternating between confusion and distrust, he walked at her right hand, unable to believe he'd been so deceived: despite her lively personality, she seemed constantly apologetic in her thin voice, and he couldn't see any creative side in her, afraid to guess why she needed a guitar.

"So why do you need a guitar?" he ventured.

She laughed. Her name was Inga.

"I play my own songs on it. I'll record an album one day. I play keyboards in the band, and they're reluctant to let me do vocals, even though I can... Actually, there's not much time to prove myself in the studio. We're just trying to get along and not fight."

Then she asked about him, and Robert told her he was reading books, studying, and living with his adoptive father. Inga watched his expression for a long moment then asked quietly:

"Is your father married?"

"No. We live alone."

"So, you're the only person close to him?" she reasoned timidly. "Perhaps he really wanted a son and took you from the orphanage?"

"Not so. He was in love with my mother, and then she disappeared, and then he took me in. I don't even remember her at all."

One day, alone at home, Robert was dusting the shelves and, removing the patina of time from an old album, sat down with it in a chair. He tilted his head and flipped through to where he knew he'd found a treasured photograph a portrait of his mother. He stared at it for a long moment. It all seemed deliberate: her neat blond haircut, her open, trusting gaze, her soft, narrow smile. It was as if she'd taken a special photo for him, ready to board a train and fly away forever. Where was her real life?

"I only knew she was an out-of-towner. I didn't know her relatives; it was as if they didn't exist... I didn't know where she'd lived before: sometimes she'd talk about the capital, sometimes about a neighboring town... There was no one but me who could have reported her missing to the police. And then I had to spend a long time proving that I had nothing to do with it..."

His father's words, pieced together from fragments of memory, swirled timidly in Robert's mind. He stared ahead, his gaze hardening.

"Why not?" a daring thought flashed. "Such a convenient victim... So convenient to hide her behind glasses for the rest of his life, and obscure her with movie screens! No, she simply couldn't disappear!"

Robert put the album aside.

"Right now she could just ring the doorbell."

The doorbell rang. Robert, casting a frightened glance into the hallway, stood up.

The doorbell rang incessantly, and Robert walked slowly toward it. The sound was deafening, bubbling and shimmering like the trill of migratory birds, crackling like the silence itself late at night, and it seemed as if one could live forever with that sound. Without opening the door.

Robert looked through the peephole: the strange figure kept his hand on the bell. He opened it. The ringing stopped; a woman of indeterminate age stood before him, with marbled skin and a crystalline sparkle in her cornflower-blue eyes. Perhaps the most distinctive feature of this stranger was her long red hair. Her leather coat glistened in itself and from the rain: rivulets of water ran like snakes down her shoulders, ran under her belt, found the edge of the hem, and splashed on the tiled floor of the entryway.

Robert looked at her from under his brows, and then she said:

"Your mother sent me to you. She misses."

"I miss her too. Where is she?"

"Far from here. So you could see her, she gave you this."

A hand reached out to Robert with an envelope. He opened it: it contained cut sheets of paper.

"What is this for?" he asked, almost indignantly.

"Spread them out in your room. Then you'll find out why this is necessary. Spread them out, spread them out."

Robert rushed forward toward the retreating figure, shouting, "Where is she?" but the door slammed shut in front of him. The lock wouldn't budge. Robert twisted the keys in the lock, his insides torn apart by the knowledge that this woman would leave, and he would never get any more information.

The jammed lock gave way, but no one was in the building anymore. Robert cursed, slammed the door, and angrily glanced at the envelope. He rushed to the window to catch a glimpse of the figure walking away from his house, but the street was deserted. The only thing he discovered was that it wasn't raining.

The musicians were saying goodbye in the studio. Robert had been standing in the doorway for some time, waiting for Inga to finish getting ready.

"You play great songs," he said as she rushed up to him.

"True. But I want different ones."

Inga then approached and whispered:

"Tomorrow is an audition at a center. I'd be glad if someone would come with me, but I didn't want to invite my musicians."

"If I can be of any use, I'll go with you."

She brightened up and let out a sigh of relief.

"Of course, I will I won't be so afraid. Listen," she said to him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Could you watch me play then? A second opinion is very important..."

"Of course, let's go right now."

"Right now?" she breathed out with a hesitant laugh.

"If you're not tired," he said, looking at her with a lingering gaze, immediately tempered with a warm, friendly smile.

Inga rested chin on her shoulder, smiling.

They walked out of the cool building and onto the street. As he let the girl go ahead, into the mercilessly blazing sun, Robert thought regretfully of how easy it was to control her.

The frail, pale-skinned girl, who only an hour ago would have been embarrassed to play her own songs in front of him, had chosen a very crowded spot for her first performance: pensioners were strolling in the riverside park, children were frolicking, and workers were returning from lunch.

Robert glanced around the wind blowing off the river tickled his cheeks. Inga tossed her hair back with a determined movement of her head. Robert took a closer look: as she settled herself on the stone bench with her guitar, she showed no sign of nervousness or embarrassment, and her skin didn't flush in the slightest. She merely gazed intently at her fingers. Her hand, cuffed in a light blue shirt, moved along the fretboard. A man's shirt. The fourth time Robert had seen her.

Inga sang. No, he was mistaken: there was a great deal of talent there, but it had been misplaced. And no one stopped to listen to the song about a world crisscrossed by roads, which God has given us the power to traverse. Unbidden revelation of truth is an unforgivable act.

"She could have sung about ecology too... about ozone holes, for example."

Robert's imagination failed him: he burst out laughing in surprise.

The sound of the guitar stopped.

"What, is it really that bad?" she asked, neither alive nor dead.

"No, what are you saying!" Robert hastened, throwing up his hands. "But this is simply hysterically outrageous: no one turns around, no one stopped!"

Inga, her face filled only with thirsty eyes, looked around.

"This song is about them, and they didn't even want to hear it!"

Inga's thin strands of hair swayed in the wind, and her downcast gaze glided somewhere down the embankment.

"They were not obligated..." she said quietly.

"It's a wonderful song," Robert interrupted. "You performed it beautifully, but it's not for everyone. If there's anyone on the committee who still has a sense of purity and honesty, you'll be lucky."

He said this as if he'd just finished his own concert. Fear flared in the void that had suddenly appeared in his mind: what if he had lied after all?

"Works on Mineralogy," Valentina Arkadyevna read from the spine and looked questioningly at Robert.

"That's my father's book. Although I read it. He asked me to return it... But he borrowed it for me, I'm sure."

The librarian reached for the borrowers card.

"Did you like it?"

"The biography yes. I can't say anything about the rest. My father knows something about that."

"He's an intelligent man. It runs in your family."

Robert couldn't hide a slight smile.

"Yes, why not," Valentina Arkadyevna said calmly. "Do you think it was a coincidence that he dedicated his entire life to you?"

"That I don't know."

"It's important for a person to take part in another's life. Especially when he's left alone."

She retreated into the labyrinth of cabinets, and Robert felt a strange twinge of shame: either because he'd suddenly spoken of himself, or because he sensed that this woman understood all his vague and complex thoughts without words.

He bowed his head and waited for the librarian to return to her desk and place an unfamiliar book in front of him.

"Mirages of the future social order?" Robert read amazedly.

"The works of Tsiolkovsky - are idealist's paradise. This is from me," she smiled conspiratorially and wrote the title on the form card in her crooked handwriting.

Robert's face lit up, he glanced sharply at the book, and, saying goodbye, left the reading room.

The next day, Inga led Robert to her audition venue. He followed her at a measured pace, his backpack slung over one shoulder, gloomily surveying the corridors he'd just walked through: the steel and glass building doubled, multiplying the sound into a pile of shards. Suddenly, he caught sight of his reflection: he was met with a wall completely covered in mirrors.

Inga glanced back and, annoyed, discovered that he'd stopped somewhere again, but her attention was drawn to the mirror, and she forgot everything else again she returned to it. Standing next to Robert, she glanced at herself with dismay, ruffled her bangs, straightened her striped shirt, and they both set off again.

Inga left him to meet the organizers. Robert looked around: a boy with a guitar leaned against the wall nearby, a girl pacing in circles, repeating the rhythm, and somewhere an accordion thundered, interrupted like thunder. Suddenly, and this made Robert flinch, he heard a thin, faint cry. He turned toward the voice: a small, blond boy sat nearby on a bench, shuddered sadly.

"You'll see, next year it'll definitely work out!" the adults accompanying him reassured him.

These simple sobs were very familiar to Robert: each time he shed a tear, the boy looked up with blue eyes, as if saying to himself, "It's not there! It's just not there, that's all!"

Inga's silhouette, her radiant face and breath ragged from running, shot up like a fire nearby.

"What happened?"

He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest.

"I'm going on stage in 20 minutes. Don't go anywhere!"

She disappeared into the crowd again. Robert spotted a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye; he frowned and walked straight toward her.

"Let's go outside. It's impossible to breathe in here."

Nodding, he followed her. Her red hair swirled before him; after only a moment's thought, he turned back, unable to resist letting that figure pass again.

The stars sank into the pale evening sky, dissolving, leaving no trace. The woman led him outside and finally turned to face him. Robert immediately began asking her about his mother. The stranger's eyes were no longer strange: she looked at him vividly and intently. Robert noticed her hand slip into her coat this time a white, drapey one.

"Take it," was all she replied, holding out her hand.

"What?" Robert exclaimed, stunned, staring at the object.

Her palm held a small, completely empty face cream jar. Robert knew perfectly well: it belonged to his home, and it was the very one that had once belonged to his mother. She had used up the expensive, silky cream and kept the jar, intending to buy another. But apparently, this was the last one.

Shaking her hand meaningfully in the air, the figure spoke monotonously and instructively:

"Take this jar and apply it every evening. Where your mother awaits you, everything is different, and you need to prepare yourself."

Awkwardly accepting the object from her hands, Robert felt as if he had finally revealed his mother's secret it had been so simple she was just from another world.

In the room, where the lamplight shone silver, Robert dipped his fingers into the jar and ran the invisible substance over his cheeks, neck, and wrists, trying to spread it over the most exposed areas of his skin. He couldn't see for sure, but it seemed to him that the ether emanated a pearlescent shimmer. Completely convinced of the jar, he closed his eyes and lovingly turned it over in his hand.

Vadim entered the room at that moment, and because of his son's back, he couldn't see the jar in his hand. Having received "yes" and "no" answers to some pressing questions, he suddenly fell silent, lost in thought.

"Where did you get these sheets of paper?" he asked, and was about to gather them up from the closet, the table, the nightstand when he received Robert's excited reply:

"Don't touch them... What are these sheets of paper?"

Vadim looked at him and sighed:

"These are your mother's. She cut up these sheets to write invitations to the performance. "

"So, these are invitations..." Robert drawled admiringly, unaware that he was standing in front of his father, rubbing his forehead and neck.

His father stared at these strange movements for a moment longer and, not daring to ask, left.

Smiling quietly, Robert turned off the light. As his eyes adjusted, he made out those white rectangles in the darkness: like candles, attracting beacons, they formed a chain and swirled in a single, sacred current. Robert lay down under the covers, snuggled into the pillow, and sank into a doze.

From the depths of his mind, he heard himself, as if a radio announcer were raspingly whispering the weather forecast to him, from prehistoric times to the present day.

"Even if I fall off the edge like this and into the abyss, no one will jump after me... On the contrary, they'll say, he was a fool, why had he done that? He should have flown, but he...

Inga's hands are thin; she wouldn't have flown, she definitely wouldn't have flown... She bandages her hands every day, so that's why she needs these men's shirts to hide her weakness..."

Then he saw Inga, his father, himself, everyone he knew, flapping their arms, but not taking off, as if breaking through something strong and viscous. Robert was leaving behind the entire world he knew, which he questioned, and now flying was truly free and joyful.

What did his gaze reveal? A small ball, glowing with a blue, unknown light. There it was, growing: its orbit and horizons growing larger and larger it was a planet! Its sweet, pearl-like glow makes it clear: it is pure and beautiful. Otherwise, it wouldn't have such lush forests and crystal rivers, and all living things wouldn't live in harmonious proximity. He approaches the people, smiling welcomingly. They are waiting for him, dressed up and at peace, for everything here is according to rules and justice, and tasks are distributed according to their abilities. And among these faces is his mother...

One day, returning home, Robert saw Inga in the courtyard. She was standing at her front door, arms folded around her shoulders, staring into space; she didnt have her guitar that day. Seeing Robert, she snapped out of her reverie and, hiding her face, disappeared behind the door. He thought it would be better to catch up with her, but the door had already slammed shut, and he didn't want to ring the bell. She simply flashed through the kaleidoscope of the day, reminding him of her presence and carrying with her something he might never know.

He entered the apartment, and the hallway, dark as a grotto, greeted him in semi-darkness. His father was, of course, already home, and Robert only wanted to understand why he was sitting silently in the kitchen instead of watching another sci-fi film on the big screen. Robert hung up his jacket and walked forward.

Vadim looked at him with a look that made Robert's blood run cold. He had never seen a more devastated, gray face.

"They found your mother."

Robert stared ahead tensely.

"At the bottom of the river all that remained. Robert, it was a long time ago..."

Robert went into his room. He lay down diagonally across from the bed and stared fixedly at a three-liter jar containing goldfish: two pensive little fry glittered in the water. As one fish rose to the surface, the other dove deeper into the depths so the thoughts in Robert's head followed one another. Only one circumstance suddenly stood out. He barely blinked before speaking into the distance:

"So, you're not real..."

"Who will decide that? Those who said your mother isn't here? You can hear my voice, I gave you instructions. Do you really want to give up on seeing her?"

Robert, staring motionlessly ahead, shook his head.

"If you give in to anything, you'll never see her again. Do everything as I said."

The voice faded, leaving only a thin strip of light from the lamp and a deep ceiling lost in the twilight.

Robert continued to smear himself with the jar, but the ritual no longer brought him any pleasure. The former ether, now this substance smelled of earth and dampness. Obediently running his fingers over his forehead, neck, and arms, Robert felt a heavy feeling.

He gathered up the books he'd borrowed and headed to the library. Valentina Arkadyevna wasn't there, so Robert returned the books and headed home. As he was leaving the building, he ran into the librarian she was just returning from lunch. She was surprised to learn Robert hadn't borrowed any more books.

"I have exams soon I can't be distracted by anything else."

He wanted to confess this directly to Valentina Arkadyevna, but he couldn't. As he left, he muttered in his head:

"I just don't know anymore, why they write about things that don't really exist."

The day passed easily for Robert; he quickly fell asleep, forgetting everything. He saw himself in a dark, hopeless world, where a proud, detached figure wandered before him, glowing like porcelain, her red hair whipping around her shoulders. She pierced him with a transparent gaze and took his hand, and he, as if unaware of another world, allowed himself to be led through charred corridors, beneath leaden vaults, and onto broken, unguarded balconies. He raised his eyes to the sky, but saw only black smog and two giant birds on the horizon.

Later, he realized they were winged people, or what appeared to be. The images male and female circled in the air, fighting, piercing each other with swords. The sparks from their weapons burned away all living things around them. His companion looked up at him, but his attention was riveted on the celestial battle. The scene was imprinted on his retinas in fiery silhouettes.

Robert made his way home from the university through the studio, knowing full well that Inga had a rehearsal that day. As they approached the building, she noticed him and stopped. They'd mostly avoided each other in the shared courtyard; Robert's appearance here could only indicate that he'd come specifically for her.

"I'm sorry it happened that way," he began.

"What are you talking about?" She looked at him with a simple, slightly surprised expression and brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

Robert reminded her about the audition, and Inga pretended to be indifferent and waved her hand.

"If I'd known what they'd call me about later, I wouldn't have gone myself. I dont want to be distracted from music, and I will continue to work with my band."

They chatted a little longer, and as they were about to say goodbye, Robert remembered the empty cream jar he'd been carrying in his backpack. He was so moved by the girl's kindness and trust in her honest tone that he wanted to give it to her.

"Are you kidding me?" Inga asked, but it was clear she wasn't going to be offended any longer.

"No, I'm serious," Robert said, carefully covering the lid with his palm. "It contains stardust, which unites all people in the Universe. Everyone who has ever existed."

Raising her eyebrows, softening her stubborn gaze, Inga accepted this strange gift, and in Robert's eyes, she became even more mysterious and beautiful.

"Okay," she said good-naturedly. "I'll put this cream jar on my shelf, among the shells and sea stones. I have a real altar there. Will you come and see it sometime?"

Robert nodded to her, and she smiled at him again through her peachy cheek, bathed in the bright rays of the setting sun, and they said goodbye.

Spurred on by the gentle breezes, Robert walked along the wide street as if inspired. Everything he encountered along the way brought him joy: it was pleasant to step in his sneakers on the warm asphalt, the bare tree branches seemed to tremble in the crimson light, ready to burst into bloom. Robert's relaxed gaze rested on the sun's disk, catching a glimpse.

The shimmering spot refused to disappear. It followed him like a shadow, and at some point, Robert saw a figure in it. A woman with bright scarlet hair winked at him, flashed a snow-white smile, and said,

"See how simple it is! And you thought she didn't understand you at all. I want you to know one more secret!"

Robert shrugged in surprise and smiled. She suddenly leaped so close to him that the folds of her floral chiffon dress she was wearing it today almost brushed against him and kissed him loudly. She removed her hands from his neck, but Robert wasn't ready to let go; he accidentally grabbed a handful of her hair, but suddenly noticed he was clutching a flowing scarf in his palms all that remained of the sunken sun.

Robert pensively wandered home through courtyards and alleys. Darkness suddenly descended on the city, like a furry moth settling on the concrete jungle. Ashes fell from its lacy wings, and somewhere in the depths of people's thoughts, a restless lava simmered.

Robert closed the door behind him.

"You were gone for a long time," his father said tensely.

"I was out for a walk," Robert replied, looking at him.

Vadim stared at his son's neck, his eyes narrowed. Shifting from foot to foot, he asked in a changed tone:

"What is this a scarf?"

Robert patted the light fabric and answered thoughtfully:

"It must be Mom's."

Vadim rubbed his hands nervously.

"So, you kept walking around town with bloodstains?"

Robert frowned and unfolded the cloth in front of his face. Indeed, the spots he'd initially mistaken for red flowers on a pink background were dark burgundy and had no discernible shape. They looked more like bloodstains. Spreading his arms wide, ready to say he didn't understand, Robert looked up at his father and didn't recognize him.

Vadim pulled his glasses off his face, revealing his eyes: shiny and piercing, like two vents.

"Where did you get this scarf?"

Without a second thought, Robert dashed out the door. He flew down the stairs so fast it was impossible to catch him. He raced through the trees and bushes, turning around for a moment: the beast that had hushed above the city now spread its wings and, like a thunderous, corpulent body, was gliding toward the world.

A torrential rain began to fall.

Robert wandered unsteadily along the shore. From here, the distant horizon was usually visible, but the rain had blurred everything river and sky.

He walked, shivering slightly, arms folded across his chest, helplessly wandering along the cobbled embankment, seeing and not seeing ahead. Suddenly, something glittered in the murky water, then sparkled again. Robert ran his hand over his face, brushing the water from his eyelids, but it flooded his eyes again. In vain, he tried to discern what was happening beneath the river's surface: it was deceptive, like everything in this world. But no here too, the glitter began to repeat itself, playfully drawing zigzags in the depths.

Robert shook his head in surprise, thinking: goldfish! A whole school had washed ashore. The fish raised their gaze to him: wise and attentive. Silks darted underwater; there was no longer any doubt that the fish were large, and that they had human forms. Suddenly, one of them turned her golden head, casting aside its red glint, and looked directly at Robert. He had met her many times before.

"Well, our turn has come. We circle the world to pick up our lost travelers."

"And my mother? Is she with you?"

The mermaid turned back, and Robert saw a familiar face in the depths of the water. It was no longer a photograph; turning halfway around, she spoke to him, inviting him with both her gaze and her gentle speech, muffled by the impenetrable surface.

The red-haired mermaid looked at Robert, awaiting his response. He raised his eyes to the sky in supplication.

"Hurry up. Our rounds are coming to an end. We will never see each other again."

Robert didn't fight fate. He dove headfirst into the cold, steely water, swallowing him along with the golden reflections, but not taking him to the bottom. He traveled on a swift current, side by side with aspiring souls, and with him was a pink-sprinkled scarf.

When they saw this scarf where he arrived, they immediately understood who he was and why he was there. They removed it from his neck he graciously allowed it and realized it belonged to his mother. Blissfully raising their eyes to the light, they said that through his suffering, he deserved to be with her.