The Pearl

...to my Atanasija. To you, for whose sake I have survived...

Instead of a Foreword... a question?

Does a life exist that does not have its meaning? Does a love exist that does not have its day? Can one escape one’s own time? ...for a pearl is always a pearl,..for somewhere out there exists a seashell, which somewhere out there... knows its own life. Without secrets, would everything not become just... a secret? And without the sun, would every embrace not be missed? Does every word not have its own paper? ...for if it was worth it, then it remains and is worth it.

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant seeking beautiful pearls. And when he finds one precious pearl, he goes and sells all that he has and buys it. — Gospel according to Matthew, 13:45-46 (Translation by Emilijan Čarnić)

Interpretation: This parable is commonly interpreted as an illustration of the great (invaluable – intervention by the novel's author) value of the Heavenly Kingdom (pearls were of the greatest value at that time and are not today) and thus shares a common theme with the story of the buried treasure. The precious pearl is the "work of life" (deed of life – proposal by the novel's author) for the merchant in the story. However, his trade implied renunciation of all other goods. Therefore, only those who believe in the Heavenly Kingdom enough to lay their entire future upon it are worthy of the kingdom.

Source: sr. m. wikipedia. Org

The Pearl is a lustrous (of a noble luster), nacreous substance created in the soft tissue (most precisely the mantle) of mollusks, pearl oysters or other animals such as Conulariida. Just as the shell of molluscs, so is the pearl composed of calcium carbonate (mostly aragonite or a mixture of aragonite and calcite) in a small crystalline form, which is deposited in concentric layers. The ideal pearl is perfectly round and smooth, but many other shapes are known, called baroque pearls. Natural pearls of supreme quality are highly valued as precious stones and beautiful objects for many long centuries. Therefore, the pearl has become a metaphor for something rare, fine, marvelous and worthy. We most often find pearls in colors: white, rose, silver, cream, brown, green, blue, black, yellow, orange, gold, purple... The refraction of a pearl is always uneven, and its scratch is always white. And all shellfish feed by waiting for food to come to their mouths thanks to the movement of water. (In filtering and recognizing usable food, the gills also play a significant part.) Then the shellfish open the lids of their mantle which otherwise protects them. However, it happens that on that occasion a grain of sand or some other indigestible body or even an entire such living being falls inside the shell. And some shells, such as the oyster, then cover that body with a layer of mother-of-pearl (nacre), with which their inner surfaces are otherwise lined. In this way, they prevent the grain of sand or some other sharp object or even an entire such living being from wounding their soft body, i.e. tissue. Thus the pearl is born... and in its center it always contains a grain of sand or some other body or even an entire living being. The nacre is secreted from the mantle. The highest quality nacre is secreted by the shellfish of warm seas, Meleagrina margarifera, however it is also produced by some freshwater shells such as Margaritana margaritifera.

Source: Generally known scientific facts compiled, and collected from many and various generally available public sources.

The events in this book do not relate to any events from texts that are not an integral part of this novel and are entirely unique as the fruit of the author's fiction. Yet real is their potential to participate in reality, but any correspondence with real events is entirely unintentional. Certain generally known facts from real life are nonetheless taken only as a framework for the whole story and are to a certain extent adapted to the story itself. The characters in the novel also do not correspond to any personalities from the real world, whether from the present time or from the past, and any resemblance to real persons is entirely unintentional.

Author of the novel: Lav Atanasijin

Once upon a time, . . there was a land of stillborn name, of those same people, stolen away into the long-ago dream of their blood.

Once upon a time, . . there was a land of a lifted brow, of an exalted countenance, and of an ever-worried face.

Once upon a time, . . it was My land.

‘

......................

‘ . . Through her there still lived in celebration and song, many of those great and beautiful tales. But already weary of evil, tormented by a grim fate, they who were forever deaf and mute, could not bear them, so they set fire to my land without any conversation and while she was dying in the flame, from it were sown sparks, which still knew how to illuminate yet here and there a beautiful and great tale... Mirjana Mahovic ("Vilinpero" - 20th year.)

I – The Wound

It was the year 1991 of the twentieth century and there reigned a quite dubious time (whole as a leaf of poetry in the wind, and a poem of late autumn) – but events did not reign (for the history of one day is not dreamed before dawn. . , it already shines from midnight). And the year preceding '92 was happening.

There. . . In one of those great, . . bazaars, but at the same time a bazaar of the then still great land – a name which was neither reality nor just a dream – one great family, of which there were still many then, began (was) to see strange things in their courtyard. Yes, those were the Mahirovi children. In that, . . and in this city where everyone lived as if they were kin to the other, that was their name and their surname. (For then still very little was lived from secrets and mostly (anyway) from the everyday.)

That day. . . The sun burned in the air, . : spilled touches of heat went forth to every and each face of the Mahirovi city. (:and all suffering comes from the earth, nor does any come from man.) And

Wherever one turned, everywhere... it was heavy, like breathlessness... the afternoon napped. And under the sun – somehow just so: – in disquiet. The banner placed there had been spread out, with a ceremonial (though even then there was much sorrow, . . (but still) somewhere there on the side) rite left over from the years, upon an oak staff adopted from the long-since aged wall of the house of forgotten lives. But here it was consecrated, . . above all bowed to by the loving inhabitants of that great house, surrendered to children without a home. Yes, a banner burnt by time, (in this place. . .) the grateful inhabitants of that truly great house had on that one place, there where only the heart always dreams so quietly, prided themselves... for they still deeply believed in humanity (it was enough for such deeds to fall before their eyes)... yes, there everyone was (still) a child, for even those who were not, . . wished only to live their life. But he had nevertheless sunk deep into the Mahirovi, those, cooled by countless winds, dried by many, . . yes, harried from all sides. Before these days, before then unknown a face... he felt! An image had emerged, somehow dim... seething, like from a wound, like from some abandoned, long-forgotten ban, in which children no longer (... .) gathered chestnuts: yes... that above the canvas from the clear, the sky had clouded (while) in the middle of the canvas, . : that was spilled milk (it) had seeped through and burned (all the smell of insult, the smell of pain...) and below (when it already falls to the bottom...): that crimson blood (for wine is still kept by many) had congealed. And only in the very middle of the middle there was still (burning) one (there some...) star which (now,) today already possessed that color, . . of those great cosmic stars at exhaustion, so-called and known to science “Red Giants”.

(And,) Above all that time, let it be but a minute: for rarely do heavy (but open to all that is warm) hearts and deep (and closed to all that does not smell good...) thoughts meet: two, . . – those were embers, like peat, – two black ravens cruised the sky stretched above the flag. Through the window half-open, he had observed them then still Friend Mahir, chief by paperwork but host for everything else and everything, yes... before so many people, a father to children whom many had abandoned, – for many among the inhabitants of his great land – in one of the most charming cities of their and his state. And he reached for his white, theatrical binoculars to present to himself more closely those there high above – and higher than all surrounding peaks – the two dark birds... Yes, the first white one he recognized and it was ringed, for it bore a familiar face, but the second was foreign in face. ... Their gazes seemed to have (been) left behind somewhere there behind those so often blue hills on the rim of this still warm and (to the point of numbness) drowsy city. No, he was not one to sense evil, and Mahir, with the ominous significance of this moment, scorned the whole afternoon. (That is not our afternoon, his soul had concluded.) And for the time of the world, in the long courtyard of his only home, everything, as if it were now in the power of that some trembling, silence, which somehow always smells of fever.

The cat Selen, who through so many nights had been moon-charmed, had just found himself in a half-sleep, and he otherwise was one of the Mahirovi children’s favorites. Slowly he (was) moving with the sunbeams that even now still loved him dearly. This afternoon. But that some lead shadow of those, today, like hanging clouds, like that some evil fate, had nevertheless little by little (been) overcome him from the back (even if it would conquer him entirely). And already months were passing as these two today likewise long-ago brothered beings, the dog Arsenik and the cat Selen, to whom the same yard had been assigned back then, do not snore together, backs to backs, under the now already known afternoon sun. For years together they had represented a dangerous path for all those small beings – and perhaps, only such souls – which would have turned with bad or heavy intentions into that lovely courtyard of the children’s home.

Uncle Maha, as his own children called him, the caretaker of that home for me and perhaps for many the warmest home in that entire) land which so many and many had left. And so he too taught his children to call their and, their – is it even possible otherwise? -, most beautiful land in the whole world, had noticed that since the previous winter, the dog Arsenik and the cat Selen, do not taste, do not try, . . milk from their common bowl, assigned many years ago precisely by his hand. And everything had begun when the dog, whose fate had (then...) already (been) reached by the leg of some (that) very cold winter day, had been polluted by a bite for which they had eaten together, drunk together (all) so many years. And the ashamed cat, as if due to such, beyond all, . . (and) his measure, intolerable act, had been – as they say – called a beast of character... he, that yellow (but in the evening thick, but always dim) minute, and in that (and such) outburst of fury had scratched the face of Arsenik and made a red notch on his always dark, always wet and always sad-smelling nostril. But that time, at that moment everything had finished just as Arsenik, with those opaque gazes and through the turmoil among his steps, (was) withdrew. But, Friend Mahir, how everyone (for all of them in his, in his home – although everyone among them there somewhere in the silence of the heart, (was) acknowledged (and) for a father) Mahir was called by the majority among all those outside his home, had nevertheless only assumed all these and such qualitative events, in which his pets had (been) found after he had found certain enough visible proofs for such his assumption (...even if any of them – according to his natural being - would certainly have found one such, . . a similar suspicion). But behind such backgrounds, it was somehow: as if by itself (although it was never quite so), - nevertheless remained that one image... just of those some (always) dark nuances, which Mahir more than all that already mentioned did not dare to allow the attention of his otherwise (anyway) quite penetrating eyes. And since spring, . . ...there had appeared several brotherly images between (the) two Mahirovi house pets. Nevertheless, Arsenik and Selen were no longer eating together and no longer drinking together because Friend Mahir had assigned another bowl to Arsenik.

But to Mahir, a man with (many) weathered years upon his shoulders and on his shoulders, even after all the events which had preceded, had nevertheless remained somewhat intriguing that Selen, as the Mahirovi children called cat Selen, was sleeping more and more (and more) and there were fewer and fewer small rodents, with whom they in earlier times, sometimes through pains had fought, there and in that their only yard. Somehow it reminded him greatly (because of something...) of stories of those ships on the distant open sea... But he still today, (was) preparing to lead his children to the garden of good hope (for often it was thus called that their favorite place then). That one house of living beings different from man, where they still had a peaceful dream, and he was still not after everything ready to accept all those heavy thoughts in which he found himself through the whole afternoon. . . Convincing himself that perhaps in the zoo of this their always great city he would nevertheless find the truth of a different face. Step by step... . . . and step for step, the ragged pedestrians moved through the city through whose air above the streets crossed those one some soft spears of fragrances (of those then (still) warm and always in abundance of strength) of old-city breakfasts convincing the small children’s heads (for they still had great hearts) that there was no reason for unnecessary worry. For in those streets the thoughts of Mahirovi boys and girls would become butterflies (yes, . . of those which most easily swarm in those years)... and the noise of the city had not (been) frightened them. He would always walk a step ahead of the front, and they were all together... Having the right to their own column. Nevertheless Leo, one of several Mahirovi older boys, was today thinking much more on the more pleasant than on any other way, diverting his wondrous, destiny (which you, many among adults mention) intrinsic vocation towards the world of technology, wrongly followed call on that massive (heavy in the hand) black telephone of the secretary of Mahirovi’s home for abandoned... children. For there Leo, compared to the eyes of everydayness, by chance of randomness had found himself in the opportunity to answer to the same, by lifting that (. . . and such) receiver. And so he had heard according to him fairy-like beautiful voice of a girl, all with that some for him always spring-smelling fragrance of spring – yes, but probably because of all that strong translating and diverting into electrical impulses he had not (been) recognized it... (Yes, for that was such a call.)... That was a call intended for the hospital on the hill, as the Mahirovi children and many others called it, and which in some, for him ill-fated occasions had been visited by Leo himself. But to a man unknown by the act of alchemy, - the phone number of Mahirovi’s home without the city code and its surroundings was then: 251-991 and the phone number of the hospital on the hill: 251-992 - of life, and most commonly hidden thoughts from God, this call had wandered to Mahirovi’s home and that was not (such) the first time. But that fact was not known to Leo... ... Yes, that hour Leo, thinking about that received call, gently (just so, as if a child had released a paper boat into one of the great, rivers) through the lips let out: — How much truth is there in those words of Grandma Petkana? – and thereby he had provoked Vitomir, his and otherwise closest friend and boy from the bunk above his to find his understanding (that, somehow always, . . - but not insulting) of those words: — You really remind me of Uncle Maha because he often just so quietly talks with himself.– and above such words he also shared (...although with restraint.) otherwise both dear persons: — Aunt Fatima says that he is a dreamer. – with his closest brother: And Leo, . . relying on (those) words of his brother, concluded: — That is why he tells such wonderful stories, Vito! – with a gaze today poured into the distance, such as possess only those who know how to dream (but many of them know how to hide) and left space for Vitomir to with such words of his brother assume his: — Maybe he makes them up then. – which brought for him special interests and yet not weakened by that questioning tone which Leo had transmitted. But the whole of Leo’s answer had remained only in that some gentle enigmatic smile (-Yes, that was that one thin smile.) released under the gaze this time poured enchanted into the distance. And that gaze was this time even crowned with raised eyebrows which somehow as if to fence off that sweet significance of mimicry in which he participated. In such an expression of his brother’s and great friend’s face Vitomir had read only a “probably” although on the same much (, much) more (was) written.

And friend beside friend continued to pour steps (among the small) brotherhood on the earth paved in some way and lost even in that at least sweet, - and let it be warm – uproar of this always wide city. And that cheerful noise in a small, how they themselves in the eyes of those, before whom they had found themselves, was nevertheless built only of still weak children’s lives. Yes, two or three boys or girls united if only by everyday closeness, made wagons. And the locomotive was represented by some always elegantly compressed body of their friend Mahir. And while those always lively wagons of Mahirovi’s composition were clanking and whistling through the warm streets of the city filled with various fragrances, through the nose of the locomotive was emitted smoke of wide and deep scents of tobacco which as if it had somehow melted dully on Mahirovi’s lips. Such a composition, not introduced into all those unofficial great state railways, somehow could not but be found in the eyes of their fellow citizens and all those with whom they share their day in that city, after they had been caught at the step almost always dressed in whatever measure. To awaken in them all those dormant in all their chests memories tied to childhood. And many greeted them directing those one gentle gazes which are otherwise - most often - kept for special occasions. And so it was this time too, even though this time was nevertheless somehow, and in one measure, . . shyly, and more fearfully and through whatever li all that quiet crack, that Mahirovi train (had) reached them very familiar street, yes, the one which leaned on the zoo in that still mile-long city (for even today all that does not fit into a song, was still felt on that place...). And then Uncle Maha, as Mahir himself had proposed to his children to enjoy him, almost already in the spirit of some secret (but of that pleasant fragrance in the soul) ritual had stopped by (his) friend with a French cap on his head, just looking, only another street vendor of little kokice whom with his gentle joy still lagging child’s soul and in them, that sweet taste: in the crack of popped corn – and tried to buy for his stomach yet another new comfort at his old friend’s. And his children would always at such ceremonial moments (been) gathered by the wall of the garden, where Uncle Maha through that some (and such, only their) time, through which he would have hired their always heated attention, briefly in spirit let go until the others feed under the shade of the trees, with all those riddles available to them or otherwise dwarfs in the eyes of those which they had (already) seen for many many years ( - . . . and whether was it truly all so?). And Maha would through that time exchange those quiet, . . (which were always however, in some way in a secret for the uproar of everydayness and above the boulevard and somehow so always smelled...) words with the man with the French cap, his friend of olden days, while he would sit with a harmless smile covering his pregnant head. But through those and such quiet words would reflect most often all the great events of that time.

But that conversation of two for a whole autumn of life gone friends was driven by a thought of one of those Mahirovi boys, who in many things resembled him.

Yes, Leo had somehow always been attracted to at least listen to those they always so (-somehow just so-) significantly talk. And today he had found how this was just one of those moments (for which he had long yearned), all as created just for one such act. And he did not need much, for already through a few of his gentle steps he had perceived their words: . . . — Blaž, do you see how today the sun somehow flickers? It flickers...(with a pause for a sadly bloody and sincere gaze such as is not given to everyone) as... and everything in me. And why is it so? (although in reality there existed not a single sign of punctuation) – Mahir ending his some... yes, from that some satin touch of words – wrapping in them in that and such satin his own soul now widely open before the eyes of his friend – yes, perhaps by that question of a simple but not under the skin of his being to the friend, otherwise for many, always reasonable interlocutor, answered: — My dear, . . friend, for us (such - which he did not say now), to whom clouds extend through the eyes, it always looks as if the sun flickers.– but such words ( - only reminders?) Mahir, old friend with the courtyard... for (that) face... of that sorrow fallen in Mahir’s eyes. (But,) Mahir had nevertheless accepted it, and with his previous words sought strength for eternity, through that one (and) raised (and not only elevated) tone, and for every meaning strong accent, those, . . of his following words:

— Ah,(-as if something had been unspoken,.. that divides two sentences – ) friend, the more years gnaw at me, the more clearly I see that they will never leave my eyes. – and Mahirov (that) truly great friend was and in all those words found a message truly that ( - those, some -) some magical magnitude, and with the words which followed, from him (was) brought his vision, or at least hearing towards the same: — Perhaps I could say that dreams which do not come true, never pass. I think the two of us know that well, . . excellently, my old man. – and although in that all-wholeness of Mahirov’s words he had not recognized that message of a young face which in such moments of his that somehow clumsy (yes, and in that something, unknowing) and probably insufficiently solemn stumbling upon great memories, had overgrown Mahirov’s, then always somehow southerly dreaming eyes and through the next few moments which would come, those heavy gazes from his now already wet eyes, escorted yet another, . . and this his solemn statement: — Yes, on that message my heart (still - but even more not spoken) sent... long ago... But I do not grieve (and he did not say “all those”) dreams which never lived but I grieve, . . one great dream which I know, . . at exhaustion. That is why, my old man, today, the sun shines more flickeringly than ever. – and her today Friend Mahir (although somehow all out of a gentleman’s suit) had brought out of his lips, burnt in the kissing of everything upon his wide heart, worthy of that, as solemnly as they knew (now already) the citizens of the middle (but still of middle) class of one great socialist state before-

With the gaze of one who almost fully understands those and such Mahirovi words, today Friend Blaž will nevertheless try, and will endeavor to at least buy comfort for his dear friend with words no less (or at the very least: not much less) elevated than his previous ones:

— (without “but”) . . . It is not so sad when one dream ceases (all – unspoken and all-present) as it is pitiful that we never even dreamt of it. – and then in the silence born of the contact of those words, a thought spoke of itself judging by all for a task intended for the duration of humanity: — Once truly someone (did not say “great” – for that was implied) said that all we see is nothing but a dream within a dream. – and then allowed his friend a moment through which his soul composed, . . carefully composed (one) such word (...he felt it necessary for him), and crowned them with words, full of romance and passion, now in a raised and heartfelt tone, through that some destiny-like and special accent: — Ye are dreamers of humanity, my dear!

And after Mahir, almost fully accepted the words of his friend for his own and portrayed (just such a) reflection of his eyes, and through all the beauty and intoxication of the same he nevertheless extracted today a particularly sober lesson, found in the opposing to them and nevertheless (because of many other words different from theirs) harsh reality:

— Yes. (with that gaze into the distance into which one does not enter often...) My soul perhaps fully agrees with that which my dear friend said, but (there was a pause instead of however) I fear that the significance of that which will (afterwards – unspoken) come covers like a dark shadow the significance of my own dream. I would love it to be real, but my thoughts always tire at the exhaustion of one (too great – he thought) great dream, resembling great night seas... .

Yes, . . those years, always of some that light sugar, and those always secretly dreamy everydayness, that was (one) such a job for which it was lacking little to wear a suit too. ` . . . Truly... Having heard much (and more than that) of all those words which two, yes, truly great friends exchanged, with all those forebodings but nevertheless finally found those some great, words, . . (which since early morning of all those his days above that place (somehow and had been) nodded at)... ’ . . . but it acted upon Leo beyond every measure sufficiently, longingly, . . just as only a refined mystery smells, . . almost magically the very word dream itself which the two friends took greatly for their conversation, hidden from the eyes of the majority of the inhabitants of their beloved city. It carried his already somewhat burning thoughts somewhere behind... those his so often foggy eyes.

’...Leo with his somehow always slow but deep step (long ago in only one such had found his peace... yes, already losing the first memories) withdrew towards the rest of Mahirovi’s children. There he was awaited by his closest in everydayness brother, Vitomir, with a question although much more inquiring, woven with that gently feigned and that somewhat acted (for the sake of laughter...) curiosity (which one often sees among those older than himself): — Aman, where are you wandering off to, lad? – and Leo had answered him without words, just so with one, that one, somewhat mysteriously feigned enigmatic smile (- and because of cheerfulness and that (one) air which still shines in them) and with one such movement of the eye from which remained everything else (now already,) those great words of Mahiro and Blaž. And. While children’s hearts (at every their top) were burning in that small measure of their own patience (towards silence and absence of living attention from the side of (all that around them, ) life), they began to forgive those two old friends and at the end of their words just so humanly patted each other on the shoulder and then parted, . . scattering all those nervous and hungover, or perhaps (nevertheless) hungover and nervous thoughts, and still so burdened with all those lead forebodings. But already through the next few moments, Mahirovi’s composition had again surrendered to its soft steps so that they would finally lead it, and to the gate of the garden of their sweet hope and perhaps the greatest garden of that city. By the gate the gatekeeper, long ago gone into deep and under that sky always massive years, easily spotted them, so that with that specially gentle movement of the hand (which is most common in a wise old man), he would show them under his official and to them somehow always festive, and now raised cap, his gray hair. Uncle Mahir returned to him with a gentle bow and the younger Mahirovi people quickened, and finally found themselves in that one of their heavenly gardens... but many similar to this one from this and other cities. But he was far from heavenly gardens. Yes, he was found just on the earth. . , surrounded by people now much. . , largely, poisoned (mutual) misunderstanding, where the same as if no longer found reasons to change anything in the situation (- or carousel spinning among themselves,-) in which they had found themselves. For all those and some events (and all their scenes) which already someone (. . . but truly how many?) bring and carry a face through that always particularly destined land, did not look like they could leave the walls of the garden of good hope. For their hands nor all their deeds, did not have (such) strength, . . to build a wall behind which would remain all those events far from human likeness, just as that garden of good hope was impoverished by the same (at least that much. . .) as the streets, as all those sidewalks of Maho’s city, impoverished by that something of its most precious treasure, the widely famous desire. And in that seemingly unreal situation, . . of some magical outlines, somehow so entirely of ill-fated nature, under which as if that very (, . . that) good hope which existed on the whole space was being extinguished, . . and likewise somehow more and more (as if one by one) disappeared and all still living inhabitants of the same. And so, the garden itself, more and more, like ravaged by some, coming from man evil (. . . somehow from everywhere from where spring dirty and some heat), began to eat that (one) wasteland sprouted also in the souls of those who created it, and habitats created by such and such human hand for all those living beings different from men and of much simpler souls than the same, today already gave only an appearance of life and the majority of those enchanted visitors of today already truly greatly dilapidated garden began... whether to imagine, . . how today’s grey, something colorless, gnaws and more and more conquers the once most beautiful space in today already truly! Dejected city. But those younger Mahirovi people (even) at such a heavy setting of things and events, found somehow still joy in that perhaps at times most dearest place of their and Maho’s city still not recognizing all that hoarseness of the sun’s shine in the measure in which the same had been found in Mahiro’s eyes. But, . . nevertheless they among them, the oldest, Leo, Vitomir and Sinan, those three brothers of the house of forgotten lives, recognized it (nevertheless)... Yes, they recognized that ever greater (newly gained but ever greater) worry in the face and above the face of their father and teacher, as Mahir would have also liked his children to call him. But, nevertheless they had not (been) sensed how animals too can perhaps just so, maybe even, . . more clearly and strongly, feel worry. And the truthfulness of such stance was contributed to greatly by the picture visible and to the eyes themselves. For already among the permanent inhabitants of that garden of good hope today had withdrawn into their burrows. As if they had hidden there, as if they were hiding there... from something, . . from everything. There they had hidden also their mournful utterances, which was mostly somehow like that some whimpering which is only in unquiet dogs. Only some always rare beasties had remained on that heated air of this today by everything great city and into the air of the same scattered those some ominous cries which resemble those (some) there, . . of African jungles before a lion attacks. And the boys most likened them to what . . , roars of Leo’s which were only from time to time heard there down in the distance... ’ But in all those cries which were lost under the sky, . . and above the noise from the streets was woven first the groan of people who with their ideals build every one of those tenderest pictures of this already greatly tired city and no garden today could hide from that rain, and every such weeping. . . ‘ . . . But among all those sounds already very distant and little known to man meanings, had hidden these Leo’s words: — You do not suspect how beautiful a voice of some girl I heard! – recommending to that pair of brothers who followed in step. After that one of them, the many times mentioned Vitomir, called by brothers and sisters as Vito, had awaited him (but also escorted) with the nevertheless by all expected question: — Leo, where did you hear it? — On the phone,.. (stopping, leaving a little in himself -) in the pantry of Uncle Maha. – and Leo hid nothing, had not hidden (. . . for the heart is something solemnly felt, something joyful... . . just so towards life). But, then, after that Sinan carried by whatever li all that... longing (and in his own-mutually different, but certainly there somewhere... mutually similar.) whatever arises from time to time was created in all and one heart, which does not feed the deeds of his neighbors on the first day, had awaited him before all with the assumption: — Maybe she was looking for someone of hers from here among us and that just someone of us. – to then nevertheless find only something that keeps silent about joy, keeps silent about hope, . . and nevertheless again most reminiscent of the world, in these Leo’s words: — She called the hospital on the hill. – with such Leo to himself under his previous in that boyish grief gathered (pressed) lips, all with that particular brotherly piety found above the knowledge that he will nevertheless with such his words at least (be it that) most quietly. . . but nevertheless like many before him, sadden again. But even in such, somehow widely unpleasant moments, Vitomir was nevertheless in that his ever-present wit of soul and mind, found for many occasions unserious and in his that un- seriousness, always somehow witty situation, `because of which it is worth asking: — Why don’t you present yourself as a doctor? – everything as a recommendation to Leo, with that one theatrical tone which such moments somehow always in depth follows. For everything else would remain only fine sugar and chaff of air from the surroundings, to which only all those were accustomed. Although it is not that at the same time, still at first hand, (- certainly -) wanted to dispel grief which so somehow wetly (was) stuck among the trio of brothers after those previous and wandering and lost words. And Leo by all that nevertheless returns to that his closest warm shade (in him present in his own way still from there somewhere, those first wise days... – for a man must be born with some milk to be born) again through words:

— Viiito, she was looking for her grandma, you mangup old guy. – explained falsely, . . or perhaps gently reproaching (for that was not only for his soul!) tone, at least the public state of things among which he had found himself, by dialing Maho’s phone. — Eh pass, when you know the world, you can search for it too.– (for there is in children something of destiny so even when they don’t know they speak) Vitomir continued to leave words in everything similar to all those his previous, and Leo answers: — When I have some harder reason to do that, maybe I will search for it.– all in boyish murmur of youth, in that to him otherwise own way of a young boy often carried away into the distance of his thoughts and still (and further, . . there) after them... And exactly in such distances this time he was persistently stumbling over all those some words of Aunt Petkane (although they liked most to call her grandma – although she was not of that many years of age... so that only based on her experience life is born, but there was first much other things), Uncle Mahirov’s truly very good friend, and who to Leo all those words had first brought out while she observed (but nevertheless watched!) how he holds a cup in his hand of his first drunk coffee (for there was not yet word of some image from local tas-ee-ography but there was something of strength and experience of those decent women who live lonely in the silence of the big city). For... . . she had spoken it out! (and at that time it had the strength of prophecy) that in some time he would find himself in the opportunity to certainly hear to him for the first time in some way, unknown voice of a girl... above all the distance perhaps because of something and only in himself, how gloomily similar to him such a voice listened to his whole life.

But... At the end of all those special moments such as they had found in the garden of good hope, (although saddened by the ill-will of the new modernity) Mahir returned like his younger sons and daughters by paths and tracks which every day recognizes. And after they had left that some- time, one of the truly most beautiful gardens of their common city, they prepared and readied themselves to all go together to lunch at Mahirov’s friend, Elmira, in a restaurant beside which, as had been recognized by the majority of inhabitants of their city, was prepared the tastiest lamb in the whole state... ’ Yes, in such a setting of reality, to the majority of those who had managed to get to know a little better one of the warmest people (. about whose greatness to many it is easy... . ) which borne city inscribed in paths of river of many lovers, (for somehow such were its bridges, and somehow such were its banks), it would have seemed as if Mahir celebrates something but that was not so. Not in such a way. (which many and many easily recognize) but he wanted to light a candle! for every future warm joy and wealth of life, . . of life, to seal (in wax to thicken) all that in which they believed, together built, to which they hoped in this hour, before every other hour which might come. ’ . . . but, . . already on the very way to his for every food, destination, they meet as through a collision, to every eye visibly, whole by disquiet, Grandma Petkana: yes, certainly Mahirov’s best friend and more than that, who now, with her some miraculously stiffened steps had circled all her doomed grandchildren and approached her friend with that one gaze, that wind: “you must listen to me”. Gently but surely, and as if firmly grabbing him by the hand and separated him to the side from the convoy crisscrossed with life. (And) After all her ceremonial words: — I was by you, Mahire. – but so that nevertheless not hear all his children nor those drawn out words of some very heavy tone. But even though they were quiet, everything in them was of significant tones. And then followed the question: — Petka, did something (without “there”) happen? – All quickly for trouble prepared Mahir. — A nasty (she almost never used superlatives and somehow always since she had lived longer in eternity) scene happened between Arsen and Selen. – and just because of such perhaps only seemingly euphemistically answered Grandma Petkana but that was Mahirov’s home, today his everything, so nervously, and for himself untidily he immediately demanded some much closer and clearer determinants, : — How ugly? – words, nevertheless through a thin man whose mind already knows every pain, every hurt, because just that as if it was already expected... . and although he had long known every their look and every their step. — Selen’s lifeless body Fathima has drowned in formalin in your office while the veterinarian put Arsen to sleep... They say that’s how it had to be.– explained Petkana

with that coldbloodedness performed from dignity (for she is not at fault that there is no better word). All that she had found (now already) too in Mahirov’s gaze. But his gaze was this time nevertheless much more false. After everything... To his children upon return it was explained but only nevertheless said that their pets had fallen ill from some today still incomprehensible disease (and) so it was not good nor right to approach them, and so because of that they had removed them only in time from the yard. Maha had found for them such words so children would most easily accept them fleeing from all those misfortunes which would by truth have been found in their hearts. And so it had been... . In day and night they would come... Their hands, still not occupied with all those non-transparent deeds, nevertheless still, long after, often (were) echoing of many joint ventures which their Uncle Maha would propose to them. But (nevertheless) nothing anymore was the same to the end... . For friend Maha had always, since their first days, been planting the spirit of travel (at first glance opposed, . . believing that just so in them he would most firmly build every love and that warmth for their home... , that so fastest all that they would find in themselves and by themselves. For Mahirov’s home for children - whom many had once abandoned - had nevertheless possessed wide material means – thanks to a strong knot of hidden circumstances but also only partly tailored and always skillful Mahirov’s hand. And consequently Maha had been able to often organize picnics with his children across the whole their great land. Often he found also more possibilities so he would then assign them the opportunity to choose one between several different travels. So Mahirov’s children had learned to vote (and raise their hands.). (For.) There were still some sunny days... . And towards the end of the year 1991 of the twentieth century Maha had even from the side of the school council received recognition for the most responsible father and that certainly was not only because that year he had been present at even twenty-seven parent meetings. Yes, because of something he was truly extremely proud of the assigned to him (then already) title and that which by no means loved public recognitions and by no means loved (any) from the office, rewards. (Yes, they were... .) Still passed seemingly happy days.

But alas (nevertheless never days are alone)... With faster, quite already breathless and wholly ominous some steps of time had arrived also the year 1992 of the twentieth century. And the land, . . that land in which lived the great Mahirov family was no longer so slowly as ever faster dying, sickly sleeping towards its name. And everything somehow looked as if that spirit of unity of its once by the land proud inhabitants by every side had been bitten by swarms of whatever li those, . . malarial mosquitoes (Yes, may it be forever hot to me!). And the world as if tirelessly signified only bad. Unrest reigned for days and days and days... across the whole city. People became hurried. They began more and more to hide conversations one from another. And today already (nevertheless) greatly a gentleman, Maha nevertheless at the end found impression that the peace deposited by many years in his city – yes, that city with which he conducts love since he knows for himself – is now scattered into a multitude of bubbles (and each is only for itself.) – like spilled soap foam... above hot pavements... (and) under steps which tread. But, to his children was still little of that suspicious as much as it was to all in much heavier years than theirs, but nevertheless they as if had somehow foreboded what kind of . . . crowd (for this expression poetry does not recognize) in their lives, . . They began much more often of their own accord to gather at Maha’s in the office, there that closer to his massive and now already whole from oldness sofa which to them had always somehow so warmly radiated. And his office was to their great joy very spacious... . (One of those sometime salon.) And there they would often watch animated films on their famous Mahirov’s television while Mahirov’s gaze would run away from the same and surrender itself to those many and many his fairy tales written... by his, just Mahirov’s hand... . For a short time, gentleman Maha had built into himself every seed of television because of that he had begun more frequently and more frequently to listen of bad news from his only land from the same. No, nevertheless if not for whom other then there for the sake of all his children at the same time, in the moment and moment he had to find courage also for his own heart, and to turn gaze also towards such news, and in that their face, for him personally more than from ugly, as what is it always, evil poisoned human eye. And to ensure that nevertheless truly (was) happened, worried most firstly their grandma Petkana who in her own way of love, every day regularly was reporting to the rest in their great land and nothing less in their city. And Leo had indeed known much of Maho’s fairy tales which Maha most and most often used to recount to the children, but much younger than him,.. before sleeping. But, he thought often - whether to him too to others - he gives in that moment some way, . . already from long ago somehow been deafened... . with everything that is too extensive to fit into a fairy tale. For outside the fence of their home, truly somehow as always, was little days and too much everydayness. (And perhaps was therefore then school everywhere in the whole state, most, more than anything, failing.) But Maha had nevertheless taught all his children that a beautiful fairy tale is a value for the ear opposite every life age. Yes, his stance was that every one of them carries within themselves, not one but many sleeping stories but, among them always that one, which anyone among people could in that some fairy tale-specific way, find among his life and (that) if prematurely learns of it, then when he already (will have found) and finally finds, will know at least whether to adopt it or lose or in the end change. in one of those last (but nevertheless only at first glance) peaceful days, in their once great city, but still rich like a river... of waste, was for every child’s heart, in a cruel way for them (without any for heart preparation) interrupted a children’s animated film which they in that one warm crackling pleasure (which smells of candies and smells of cakes), whole in attention, been watched ( - Mahirov’s children-) and submitted to be without announcement (as if someone there somewhere just pulled out some wire of current) that somehow as it only happens in the army, news which were reporting about them in the whole of horror event, from that ’92 year. Those were heavy pictures, . . pictures of murder done among for a long time in much of life, brotherly peoples, and they brought (those some many) bitter words – for how else to speak about everything that is of that. And to Maha and Mahir in the whole that smallness had somehow stench of the horror of that event pressed, and then stretched whole that his great, and carved by many whirlwinds heart after he was (as if only at once) recognized all horror of the whole that moment. He realized that precisely... children’s souls (that one his silk) heavy up to poison, (were) gnawed by all that burning mud, spilled from one old-old volcano which no one anymore and never will to the end extinguish. For his roots reach (. . . yes,) even to the earthly hell. As if everything in him had of one sudden begun to discern outline of catastrophe... which could perhaps reach even that his last life deed. And everything of one sudden had been transformed into a scene like from some war hospital (but that is a cry which is not heard, weeping which does not flow, and everywhere sharp movements of souls – from everyone where it seeks urgency)... . Nevertheless tears had gone... . Innocent are those still hearts. If not today, . . will soon many pearls roll in the mud. There will be still many of those who are unworthy to receive them. Both Maha and Mahir had known and felt. Somehow he had to steal from such... . attention. And he decided to do it to them by telling them yet another of his fairy tales. One of those great. How otherwise to defeat this moment? Thunder... . has (been) struck. And rain, sand and small hail had from everywhere. Yes, now also the older among his children, (were) rebelled by unhappy news, been wished to hear it. And Maha this time had sat like that some old teacher of olden times, in his own sofa, which today had aged him more than it had before. And him had today, and this time, surrounded all his children, kneeling on the floor, above warm and white carpet, sleeping under some evening colors. And so (was) began to weave the story: Born on wings of spring they had been returned to their home from distance. From the warmest continent, one among them had brought under its silky white wings a seed of some flower. And in the midst of those always hot summer days, from the same a flower had somehow grown the most beautiful flower with a whole face of a Forester as all those flowers from its lively kingdoms were their neighbors, that dull-green kingdom. And having seen it, . . after they had seen it, all other flowers had presented it a face of contempt, . . In it were ash-gray somehow always closed petals, in every time of sunny day, which was particularly bothering to other flowers. And... In the height of summer almost all flowers in Forester would with their winged princes organize entertainments. And there would be found many lords from all those kingdoms between sky and earth, from respectable bumblebees to ever diligent bees, from ever colorful butterflies to those wicked hornets. And among them particularly stood out one prince of the kingdom of butterflies. He was incredibly beautiful. By his silky wings spilled a dull purple color. And on the tips of them shone little stars, and all were telling that he is crippled for the world, for the Dandy had spilled into the summer ray, for he was from the family of Dandy. His whole name was Merlin Dandy. And those entertainments, those balls which flowers of Forester would organize were always incredibly lush. Invited were by their side of their flying guests to ‘Merriment’. They danced in their fresh lively colors and flying princes would kiss until sunset their languid princesses in Leoish halos drinking from their hands always so sweet nectar. But Merlin would always arrive at the end of the ball. And rarely to whom flower would agree to a dance and nectar from no one had he even tasted let alone drunk. And had already begun stories from the side of some flowers as well as their flying suitors that he is conceited. But he was only seeking his flower. Yes, that magical prince otherwise spent empty summer nights sailing through the night air in his velvet cloak. And he would talk to the moon, faithful companion of all lonely souls in the night, how hard it is to be alone... . And... The Moon’s pale face always hides millions of secrets and hears everything, especially still if nights are starry... . And... Thus passed days and passed nights. And when hot summer already had scorched, one of those summer nights, the moon had been so strong that by its pillar one could clearly read its map in the middle of the night and without lamps. The whole Forester had then clearly been seen. Could hear then clearly and see flowers in blooming colors how and where they rest from their toilsome day. Only one most beautiful flower in Leoish dress of color lilac with speckled burgundy stars would be even then awake, looking into the sky. It seemed as if it pre-counted many stars. And in one such moment had he noticed also Merlin while he was by who knows which time lonely been cruising the sky. And Merlin descended from height so that he would dare to ask for a dance from that what kind of, . . intriguing flower. But the only awake flower in the night had not immediately agreed to a dance speaking of the fear of cold nights, but, Merlin had told it that it also fears cold nights and that no one has ever yet spoken to a magical flower for a dance... . And that flower originates from somewhere from African savannas where rest its relatives spend many and many hot summer nights. It was from the family Luna, night flowers, and had no name. ... And Luna had danced been with Dandy and in one night by some magical beautiful smell had poured into the night. And enchanted prince from the kingdom of butterflies played as never until then, while from tender petals of the African flower drank pre-sweet nectar. The whole night pipes made of grass had under their steps to them been scattering some special summer rattles. But when night already had begun to redden, Luna began to beg him to leave. To Merlin it was very hard fallen but she had promised him that she will wait him and the following nights... . And he had agreed at the end to withdraw... . just as measured as he had approached.

And so it had been. The following night again she had appeared. And repeated many nights and nights but not all those nights and nights were pleasing to the loving prince,... he had decided to discover how his beloved princess spends also her days. He had stopped early in the morning to his linden meadow still alone preparing for its ball. And it not more than surprised by his arrival. That very same many ugly flower of gray color which smelled ugly, was now sleeping there near Forester. And although it found itself at the same place where his princess had always waited for him, he had not recognized it... . (many would say:) and how would it. And he had not found his flower and that had saddened him greatly for he thought that his flower had withered or by some careless child’s hand had been torn from its root, of that multitude immobile in which every flower clings through the earth. And saddened, he had gone to drink angry juice of nettle so that maybe he would forget all those magical nights. Other princes who had often feasted by those nettle nectars from ancient times, had looked at him only suspiciously but nettles had approved Merlin’s company.

And... In one moment, asked him the princes from the kingdom of white bumblebees why he is now so sad why after everything nevertheless drinks nettle nectar when every other flower would give him sweeter juice. And Merlin – had given from all those nightly joys – naive, told his story about his beautiful night princess. But ever cunning bumblebee had then told him how some flowers serve also by mimicry. And directed him how he will reveal Luna’s secret. But sent him had only been hellish fate. And from that day was nothing different... Merlin already next night for his divine wonder nevertheless again had found his magical flower and following bumblebee’s advice, made as if nothing had happened. They had begun to play their magical game as never until then, but when dance already had come to the peak of beauty and then when nectar already was the sweetest, he exactly then fell asleep in Luna’s embrace. She began to wake him and wake him but nothing helped for Merlin had made as if he were dead. And when dawn already had begun to redden, she closed her petals and he remained to sleep among them. While... sun rose to the highest point of the sky, he had woken up. And flowers in their beauty had already begun their ball by known sign. And Luna had held him for fear. And in one moment Merlin had turned to her, after he had already woken up. Asked her to let him out onto the field. She had told him that he must not do that, but it was not worth, everything was in vain. He was already suffocating and could not be otherwise. She had had to let him out onto the field. And when Luna on the afterflight had opened her velvet petals, in that moment..., all flowers had seen until then unseen beauty.

A great jealousy had begun to brew. And still at that moment they had seen also Merlin how all gloomy pulling himself out from under her halter, preparing to fly, the other flowers had been burning from bitterness, burnt from envy... . They were not able to believe how someone so ugly on the outside can be so beautiful inside, nor had they believed that such a one had succeeded to conquer the heart of Dandy so they were white because their time for the ball was not respected. ... . And they had decided that because of that they will punish both saying nothing of that to their princes because they after all highly valued Dandy, and because of something they were willing and exceptionally valued his presence... and were enchanted by Luna’s beauty. And they had summoned, and summoned and summoned the herald of Angry Frost, the king of winter, the black raven, and explained to her how this evening in the middle of summer night ice would fall frost for a short time while all would be sleeping but only as much as is necessary, that they themselves would not freeze. They had told her that for that they have all a very strong reason and that in return they allow Angry Frost, the king of winter, that winter this year starts thirteen days earlier... And the world they had done, only under the effect, that ever poisonous envy. In that, for their last and unique sins, two enamoured beings had forgiven one another mutually completely as otherwise sincerely enamoured do and began by who knows now which time their magical night, not suspecting what is being prepared for them... . For such is joy.

And while they whole absorbed by their dance were playing, in the middle of the summer night had begun cold rain and from everywhere suddenly it had gotten cold. And Luna, very frightened by that which is happening, again allowed Merlin to hide himself completely under her halter so that he would save him from the icy rain. But the night had been becoming colder and colder. And two unhappy lovers had begun to freeze despite their warmth which was burning in their now from love terrified hearts. And tomorrow the night had already become extremely cold and to everyone was breathing the breath. And before they froze, two in love trembling had said one to another that they love. And before dawn both already were lying deep in mutual embrace. But neither to the other flowers had remained much time to rejoice because Angry Frost, the king of winter, when he had understood what he had done, enraged and punished also the other flowers. For... Winter had continued and it had already begun to blow strongly. And all the other flowers had remained snowed and one by one were freezing and their faithful princes hungry had gone to winter sleep. But... The king of summer, South Wind, had sat sorry on the two summer lovers who had so tragically finished their life and revived them both and put them among stars so that at night they shine to some other dancers in the night, while the king of winter in return had taken three more winter days from him than what he to him had let, and if the next year summer had begun earlier. — And here, children, is the end of this story. – Uncle Maha had finished, whether only by his measure, his greatest fairy tale. And followed a pause. Closed had been not only of his younger sons and daughters, but that sound had been from some depth – yes, there was something in it from those moments which are remembered for the whole life. (For... . something stirs in them.) And from that of history... . Such occasions were not rarity. (But this one such never had been... . (Never had happened.)) True rarity was only when someone in all that interrupts them. For... At that moment to the sofa had approached Aunt Fatima, and after he had looked at her with that one, (as only his,) gaze, firm, foundational, whole from his soul and (one their that) color “you know everything... .”, without alive reproach but all with strong expectation... , then to him quietly but not whispering, although said, nevertheless communicated (as if only she so knew) how this time in no way from the announcement on the phone in his office. Namely, Maha had not loved that they deny him the company of his children, by any to him unforeseen obligations and every previous time he would have despised every such attempt which would come from any side, but this time, .. it was to him completely unacceptable to do such a thing because on the other side of the wire had been found Grandma Petkana, . . all with an extremely serious request that to her precisely now they answer the call. So Maha had done: — Maha at the phone (puts (he somehow) ceremoniously belonged to history – for both had still remembered the sanctuary). – fulfilled her wish, and fulfilled greater than the wish. — Maha, I would like if you would today come to me for coffee to talk seriously about everything which is happening to us. – Petkana with such, exactly such her words invites his great friend and more than that, to a conversation of two people to some measure nevertheless responsible for events, . . and for the situation in which they had found themselves today as much for the fates of all their of living from their own children. But with such words as if with some thread still and was gluing hope onto Mahirov’s today and now, already greatly nervous soul: how will he maybe (after everything... .) nevertheless and also, just she offer with these their today’s conversation some more beautiful... some happier vision (of) future and of this and that, his... So encouraged by them, Maha arranged a meeting: — Naturally that I will come. Just tell at what time? (—... one of them.) — Today am I whole day at home. and maybe day had been completely measurable such an answer, but the measure of time in words had been of those great, .. only if it is not counted also the day which will come. — I understand... . – because something had cleared up in Mahirov’s sound. Even if in such way precisely he had adopted this proposal. And through several nervous hours.

What they had found Mahirov’s beloved city and what he had found Maha’s beloved city, had come a warm April evening. Gentleman Maha had used it to ceremoniously prepare for largely different: towards many and many everydayness to which he had for a long time been accustomed – a meeting with: and still today, at least outwardly – friend Petkana. For such a spirit had guided him already from the far, . . already from early youth. And led him through now already far years. ... . once, he had (in what all similar... ?) so prepared for romantic meetings with already mentioned friend. Because of that and because of that, namedly never with meeting with name never and had led no one from his children so not even his, by that some... . festive depth of a favorite (for he never among his children had truly had favorites, only for himself, out of weakness, biased... .), Leo. Romantic bond between Maha and Petkana in that some as if only her own peculiar, and then serious look, had not managed to notice also their far years, beside which both already had found themselves in youth... . Namely, friend Maha had always been by her understanding of things, a romantic, . . that one all to the end and great (for her too great) dreamer, as she often and knew to call him. Moreover friend then said that, as always sincere towards oneself person, devoted to that in which believes... . (quite characteristically to her time,) time of her youth, socialist had observed happenings around herself. And friend Maha had it then, .. (simply always) been hungry, those particular romantic golden dusts. Yes, whole eyes had been to him under it, . . as under a spell. And... friend Petkana had then seen only as a weakness, . . which can take from him only every strength towards the present moment, and over the present time. ... . but, they had remained friends and more than that, for the whole life. Often they had found themselves in the same company. And hey... . through the whole time, friend Petkana nevertheless knew to momentarily also inhale a little of that same golden dust (and only to the skillful eye: dust) for which all romantics yearn... . And the same had Maha asked for whenever his soul had sneezed. And knew to do it somehow always decently and in some always overly fine way. And with years Petkana had nevertheless been intoxicated with the same. But she had not been on that some strange way woman of words and never for all that time had she broken promise to remain only friends and not today more than that. And because of something, .. (maybe of today’s), both had been silent. But today was nevertheless one of (those) great days of Mahirov’s life for he from himself (and) today, and, now... , had been... . found that feeling (-which he never never lets it anywhere far from him go) how his only Petka (will) be able to help him and this time overcome (overcome.) newly arisen, nor for anyone favorable situation. He had gained it already then there, once (today already long ago,) through many moments, events, and times when she would become living support and help, . . first of all with advice because rarely from anyone can for that get: yes, in every of great, social crisis, that burden of history above the life of anyone - friend Maha had remained first and foremost because of that on the surface of waves, which over time had caught their deep, densely built and from every earth made community, whole of difference which one to another resembles, because even if friend Petkana today (today) already long ago had sunk into those his always intoxicating dreams, . . but she had screened them (nevertheless) even today, somehow still through that same socialist sieve inherited from youth. And... Stopped a red automobile (one of one) design from the fifties, in front of the gate in the street South Wind (Because this city never could without song.). It was already late evening and city lights of that today, greyish-yellow truly socialist colors, mostly like those in factories, had already been spilled and pouring along long wrought iron of that one particularly count’s color while from him had been exiting a man in a mantle of sapphire color walking on the pavement somehow tonight specially present, .. in his own that street, with wrapped heels of the same color... . But neither of the mentioned parts in his clothing had been (that so much!) his personal symbol, as much as it had been the scarf which instead of a tie almost always... . and in every moment had been hanging around the neck. (A.) He had them almost in all colors, first had he begun to carry from there, from those old days while by the great desert of the hottest continent had been walking doing good will works. With it he had then protected from fine sand which there almost always carries the wind through whatever of all trails... . always that desert air. And now today it was only part of that visible picture of him, . . or perhaps above all nevertheless something much more than that. ...He had passed through the courtyard which in that moment had vaguely creaked, announcing instead of strongly drowsy and deeply sleeping now already in deep old age dog Pluto, his arrival. Through the whole her courtyard, spread... . and to his eyes, and under the nose had been poured deep fine scent of roses exactly everywhere around planted, on the whole surface of her yard, entirely surrounding the house, one of those lovely and warm, (ground-floor... .) built in the sixtieth years of 20. century. And the yard walls of stone could not hide (although somehow as if they had tried – and you see only its one part) whatever of gypsum, of cement, of stone that one lovely figure of a dwarf, stopped in the step just so... . , as if peeking under roses, and flowers, . . under leaves, seeking something around stalks, brightly observing. and heal, feed, cut something and chase away invisible and something from us. For someone’s it is after all a fairy tale. And whose is this truly house? And the house had been almost entirely built of wood. It reminded by the picture on those there, above... . far on the northeast. Where there is for it truly a tradition (and where many to them, still today, still call them). Windows and the roof had been carved resembling exactly those... . , those which are still today at such houses. And at the very entrance, in the great and massive clay pot had been planted a lily, for it is not that one of those... . living symbols of one faith, of one life, and of people with the same memories. For so it had happened (in that some other novel – which respects the freedom of this one.). Yes, by it had been recognized houses of doctors of good will from Mahirov’s circle same. And Maha had it planted also in front of his home for children without other parents. And as he had already stood at (only) a breath from the same, . . from the very door, Maha had knocked with his left hand, holding in the right a bouquet of blue far eastern roses, exactly those which his Petka among all that multitude in the whole that his some from mystery ban, had not had planted... Yes, among flowers in her yard. And in the blurred and thick glass of the window of massive wooden doors, had imprinted the silhouette of Petka. And after she had already opened the door to her... always dear guest, had spilled themselves into the air around them, for them both, words of strong meaning: — Ah, but some things never change – and they had been colored by the readiness of Petkana because of the moment dense and warm (chaos and smiles), of the whole life for herself, which had won despite every objection from any side from which comes – for there will not be intermezzo! (hear you what dark clouds you always bring with you)... . And to almost everyone among the inhabitants of their common great city it was known that friend Maha almost always behaved as a great gentleman. And that he did not confirm it to them also at almost his every step, and that official and that private, and in the great and in the small.

 “Will you permit me?!” Mahir conjectured, gently weaving a broken stem of a blue rose into Petkana’s hair. Upon this, she offered a pleasant, benevolent smile, as though she were observing the entire universe from afar... though in truth, it was not so at all (yet customs remain... for she had always thought of others, and of all those left on the margins).

Petkana, in accordance with her years and the traditions that cloaked them, possessed immensely long hair. This had only eased the task for her great friend—and more than that—as he sought to fasten that eternally beautiful and fragrant, thorny blossom into her tresses. Across and through her hair, shades of coal-black and snow-white seemed to wrestle in a hushed embrace, cascading one beneath the other.

She was most frequently accompanied by a black-and-white gown, a vestment woven from multiple drapes... multiple circles. Thus, with a vivid presence impossible to conceal, she conjured the likeness of those women from the southern, burning west—where the ever-skilful dancers perform that entire choreography born of pure passion. Yes, a dance akin to fire, akin to a multitude of leaping flames.

Indeed...

She had given her solemn vow to all her children, those adopted for Mahir, that she would be their grandmother. Yet, she bore no resemblance to the grandmothers known to the majority of children in those days—those who lived a life shaped by many arduous afternoons. She, nevertheless, was a different kind of grandmother, and every child within Mahir’s home knew this in their own unique way... and felt it deeply. (And it was only their daily will that she ever listened to).

She possessed many of those wondrous arts that are ever dear to children. For their palates, she conjured remarkably delectable pastries and warm, tranquil, sweet nourishment—yes, of that very taste and restorative power possessed by water in the mouths of utterly parched souls. Another like her was entirely unknown in this city. The ladle, it seemed, simply clung to her hand.

Sometimes, she would even begin to sing through her loom... yet, that was ever and solely for them, and in such a hushed manner that no other soul could catch the sound.

But above all else, the children held the highest reverence for her eternally warm healing arts. For she had always, in that singular way, alignment and care for their somehow ever-tender and sensitive bodies. Gazing into the distance with a tranquil countenance, she would foretell—through words that were quiet and, in those moments, filled with a grace-giving benediction—precisely what the official emissaries of medicine in Mahir’s city would later declare to them. In those days, it was still a vast and, in a manner known only to her, long-powerful state... yet, those official men spoke in words immeasurably colder and, above all, utterly incomprehensible to the young.

And all those others, the great ones in their eyes, frequently esteemed her nearly as much as the children did, even when they never spoke of it aloud. They, too, knew something...

She possessed the divine gift to interpret dreams. After various souls, drawn to her, would bring her those dreams—broken and corrupted by bitter memories—she would unravel within them so much of that which weaves a precious tale for the lives of those who had merely noticed them in the stillness of their nights.

“...And the doors closed... somehow as if by their own accord. Mahir was touched by a somnifacient, warm fragrance of the hearth, punctured only minutely by the patina of time...”

Indeed, certain hosts even believe... that if they were to somehow condense this fragrance—by what inscrutable secret, through what alchemy?—they would gather a certain remarkable, aromatic oil (hovering ever between mystery and reality). By pouring it over the flame of life of any family, they would prolong the centuries of its very hearth.

“...The air, nearly entirely strewn with it, yet subtly interwoven, still existed and lived within almost all the ancient houses of that epoch...”

And the house of Grandmother Petkana, as much from the outside as from within, bore the countenance of a tale sprung from an Eastern fable.

Yes, there was truly an abundance of woven carpets... as though they had been spilled across the entirety of the house, yet every single one rested precisely in its destined place. And upon them, it seemed as if volumes had been inscribed from all those folklore tales preserved in things that smell of oranges and lantern-smoke. Thus, for the sake of the imagery and the memory, the carpet prostrated beneath the quietly fragrant table in that ever-warm dining hall was entirely woven from the likeness of a summer night’s sky—beautiful to the eyes, magnificent to behold—divorced from any horizon, stretching above a vast, burning, and colossal continent... where, in the very heart of it, lies the Sultan’s magnificent palace with all its myriad towers. Upon one of them, a princess of unspeakable beauty releases her gaze upward, into the violet depths, losing sight somewhere beyond the stars of a flying chest and her prince within it...

And there was, scattered above and around them, a multitude of chests of various dimensions and hues, likewise seemingly lost throughout the expanse of the house—though in truth, it was not so at all. Within them, they guarded treasures specifically set aside, forever bound to the room, to a precise spot within it, or to the things resting in the immediate embrace of the chest itself.

Within those dower chests of considerable size, resting in close proximity to the beds, lay the linens (some among them preserved for years—needing nothing but a simple bar of soap and the fragrance of certain wild, unharvested herbs). Meanwhile, within the smaller caskets, some of which were of a snow-white purity, were kept plates and bowls adorned with decorations verging on true artistry. Yes, that was the special tableware, hoarded for extraordinary occasions, possessing a grandeur far greater than any solemnity the glass display cabinets were waiting to hold. Only within those chests of rugged countenance, crafted entirely from wood of coarse textures that had seemingly always stood there, beside the hearth in the grand salon of day and evening, was there guarded the firewood once harvested high above, in the mists among the mountains... in the twilight of every autumn, just before the arrival of the first snows. Yet, even they were not opened very frequently in this house.

At last... after all of this, an abundance of candlesticks of myriad forms and statures were stationed upon various solid surfaces throughout Petkana’s home. In many places, they were carved with miniatures and unyielding imagery—all of it inscribed with words that seemed to have climbed up directly from the woven carpets...

“...in that grand and ever (somehow) southern-scented city. Mahir, after so many... after what vast measures of time, today and after everything, recognized it remarkably well in all its accessible intricacies... in all of its peculiar aromas. Yet, each time he would drink it in anew, drinking it down not merely with his lips but with his very heart, like a fine, warm cup of tea. All while he awaited the crowning spice—while he waited for his Petkana to brew him a coffee, warm yet scalding, distilled from dense aromas and the most distant of memories.”

Yes, so it was that today he had nestled himself into that comfortable armchair (placed there, as if solely for him)... with its embroidered slipcovers bearing a million arabesques. He had long since become acquainted with every single angle facing it, and somehow it was as close to him as kin; yet, it was a particular delight for him to gaze upon it all anew for the umpteenth time. (“Ah, if only there had been more time.”) But, could this be the fragrance of coffee made from roots, brought from right over there, from those heights of the Dark Continent...?

For it had been sent to his companion Petkana by her friend, Mr. Bekele—a physician from those faraway lands down below, yet high upon the ridges. Yes, both of them had made his acquaintance during one of those charitable missions, up there in that distant country.

“...the entire house seemed to bow before him. And not much time had slipped away... when she appeared, bearing a copper finjan in her hands, from which steam forced its way through, carrying those intoxicating yet ever-warm aromas. Yes, Mahir’s nose might have been steadfast, but ‘what shall I do with my soul’.”

Copper and cups, and within them, coffee. A true miniature artistry of the moment. In the midst of it, she sat down. For even before that, she had drawn those heavy drapes, casting the entire space into twilight, out of some deep, almost magical, yet symbolic reason: as though she wished, as though she desired that all their words today would not be scattered by the daylight across the bazaar, but would remain forever within these four walls of theirs.

Thereupon, yet without any particular transition, shifting from words of a gentle or otherwise light countenance to those of a heavier stature, she brought forth a theme as grave as death itself:

“Maho, among friends, there is no room for ambiguous responsibility.” (Without intense descriptions—for with her, it was ever so in her speech).

“I believe in that, Petka.” (Ever since the day I met you – remained unspoken) — without a tremor in any sound beneath the sound of his words, her old friend, and more than that, replied.

“Do you see where all the occurrences in our city are leading.” (Yes, a full stop instead of a question mark.) Her inquiry was of a rhetorical guise. She did not even permit him to answer. She continued:

“Those who thirst for peace shall be punished, my dear friend.” These words flowed from a certain disenchantment—born of the heart, rather than the mind... It was as though they had all gathered within a single, solitary breath. And her eyes, even if it were only for today (though in truth, it was measured by a far grander scale), gazed with absolute solemnity upon everything that was unfolding within their city... within their state.

“What am I to do, Petka?” he asked, as if through a final point, as though everything had condensed into one singular moment—as if she were truly his wife... the one upon whom the entire house rests. For today, he desperately needed precisely that kind of counsel from her:

“First, lead the children out of the city—if you cannot manage to take them out of the state—until much of this is resolved. We both know that, by all good fortune, you possess the means for it.”

“They, though different in years, still find joy, ever-smiling, among every tree beneath these hills, and they await a touch from every word they encounter.” Whether through words alone, Mahir had attempted—if only for a fleeting instant—to erect at least a token fence, if nothing more, to shield the life they had led until now.

“The children know nothing of what is happening. You and I have weathered many evil times. The situation is dire, and I fear it will grow viler still.” The words of the now-noble lady Petkana crackled ominously today, as though brilliant sparks were flying through the air of the house. Words and bullets alike... Mahir’s faith was wounded—every silent, gentle hope—yes, as if blood, in that very moment, had begun to flow down his eyes.

“This city still nurtures their purpose in life.” He could find no other shield save for this soft canvas—embroidered with what had today already become illustrations of dust—to deflect all those fierce blades of Petkana’s words... No, this was no longer his time.

“Merciful heavens, man! Their very purpose in life might be lost, and perhaps solely so, within this once-wondrous city of ours.” But Petkana, through words laden entirely with doom, as heavy as the earth for any light heart, tears into him like a lioness over the throat of a reckless antelope in some distant savanna, miles down below.

“It is not well, but perhaps, by some deeply tragic chance, you are right... yet I, I must wait a little longer still, to see from a closer vantage where all that is unfolding within our city might ultimately lead us.” Mahir, almost entranced by a faith that transcended all reality, allows his ominous words to ricochet off destiny. And those words, coming from such a man, his Petka escorted with only that singular, delicate, wistful gaze—the kind most frequently belonging to a soul who is itself sorrowful for having to be right...

Thus, in the subsequent fleeting moments, through the desert birthed from all those myriad withered words, only silence drifted by, dispersing nothing but the weary, heavy glances (as if stifled under steam) of two souls newly awakened to one another by adversity.

Yet, after that certain unmeasured span of clearly defined time, defying all those waves of silence, there nevertheless trod through it those ancient caravans of today's light, still summer-scented, and variegated words (and could that be a gramophone echoing somewhere from the margins?). For one had to taste of honey before the grand wound—let something of this sorrow belong to God alone.

And such words, exchanged between two betrayed lovers beneath the heavy burdens of all that was unyielding amidst their sorrows and all those already estranged years, lead away into the dark night. Yet somewhere out there, as if a mere minute before midnight, Mahir suddenly and all at once startled awake... for he remembered that his youngest children were awaiting him... waiting for him, after everything, to tell them yet another of his own fairy tales, this time, before sleep.

And soon...

He bid farewell to their Grandmother Petkana... there on the porch of her house, taking her delicate neck in both his hands and gazing into her as he once did, back then... with a youthful firmness yet a grandmotherly tenderness, while he released words woven perhaps from an unrealistic and romantic—perhaps naive?—but hopeful spirit:

“Ah, everything will be alright.” He spoke in that unique, ever-rich manner born of a vast soul.

Yes... he was that kind of man: “There is much love within me, and frequently it is warm, rarely is it cold; it overflows above the fountain of my stomach, and let it be as people say, if only we remain alive.”

...And so, let everything, if nothing else, at least retain the scent of the canvas of a theater belonging to an already abandoned state... and to that singular stage upon which dust is gathering, elegantly, yet in measured amounts...

...And... Yes... that is indeed the Truth—that singular one... which belongs to the greatest depths of time. Yet, toward him, at least for this fleeting moment, she had remained silent. Just as she had, once upon a distant time, remained silent toward his youthful love. (For she was a woman, and he a man).

And only tonight, (but only tonight)...

Nevertheless, after that conversation with her—that conversation perched high above destiny—as he was returning toward his ever-grand house, Mahir noticed... he looked upon the images of a city unrecognizable to him...

People were rushing. They were led by those anxious, hurried steps. From everywhere, there was little song, and nowhere was there merak to be found anymore. Above the streets, emptiness reigned. Where were those sidewalks now, once filled with bustle, driven by joy... entirely made of tiny pleasures, sufficient for a single day? Yes, some back then would still have asked: do semi-empty sidewalks even exist? Free men were coalescing into small groups (resembling puddles...) hidden by the dark. And the free news that would occasionally reach them would remain imprisoned once more within their own pockets. Only human values (though today already shattered) remained lying along the sidewalks vacant of mankind. And upon them trod lewdness, and everything that arrives from unconsciousness... And less and less remained of life.

Everyone seemed to simply fear, in some manner, the fact that everything was moving in a direction that the majority among them did not desire... And within everyone, there was present only that certain feeling that, once upon a time, someone had deceived them.

...And when, after everything, he had finally stepped into his grand home, all his children had already fallen asleep. They did not manage, on that evening entirely born of neurosis, to hear his last-written fairy tale until now. (And he had almost finished it... And in that very moment, he had only softly said to himself—in that singular voice which others could rarely hear—yes, in that one voice intended only for that which is grand... and for the inevitable):

“Yes, it is difficult to build a home upon the site of a tavern.”

“And something tonight was indeed being forged somewhere out there... For from the very break of dawn, those certain days, shrouded in pure suspicion, began to pass...”

Everything within them was consumed by neurosis and the bitter sorrow of men, born of fear, born of helplessness... Few were those who offered any resistance to evil. Already, over many a day, the light of the sun was stifled from every quarter. And the air, in its entirety, was a choked meaning. Heat over fumes! And within it, as if burning unto death, lay the lost truth of all the inhabitants of this grand city, whose aromas were today already concealed.

And though it might have lost its color, this current light—this sun—scorches every back from all directions. Every day had transformed into a burning ember... Lead and a certain immensely heavy air mingled within them from every quarter. It was as though those winds, from whichever mountains in the world, had overloaded it with all the filth from the streets of myriad upon myriad of all those other distant cities. Breathing grew heavier and heavier in Mahir’s city. An arduous labor... and mere labor. It was as if everyone, instead of air, sought to breathe one of those pristine mountain rivers.

Yet, what drove all the denizens of Mahir’s city deepest into fear and unrest was that moment... when they would notice upon the chests of their neighbors that aforementioned surging... when they would behold chests rising in a sudden spasm, as if by their own accord, and slackening in a spasm as the strength ebbed away—all of it moving in those unfamiliar rhythms, inscribed by misfortune.

Yes, everyone bore those days with immense difficulty, along with the anticipation of something that must arrive... yet which no soul desires.

Their eyes were simply being gnawed by that particular light of the sun... shackled as if by a wrath unique unto itself, clothed in what manner of absurdity. And they had already turned a bruised, livid blue. And that light, a sun precisely of that nature, entirely beneath soot... entirely in grease and in steam... when even the wind no longer smells as it ought... had seemingly always loomed before grand occurrences bound in chains of evil. And everything somehow appeared as though many were lowering their window blinds, solely to protect themselves from its gaze.

Everyone cloistered themselves within their dwellings. Yet their walls—their very plaster—seemed to be crafted from that ultimate darkness of the day. Yes, and behind precisely such walls, neighbors equal in heart and thought gathered into circles of their own unique kind... And there, today, they would surround the television set just as their distant ancestors once surrounded the fire of the hearth in ages past, exchanging thoughts entirely inside the fire and born of the fire. And just as the hearth back then was never extinguished, so too the television set among them was never turned off.

But within those circles of that unique kind, to the profound sorrow of all those others residing around them, the truth was endangered more than anything else. Everyone dressed in whatever they could reach, and ignorance covered their hair instead of a cap. And ears grew painful. Above them—yes, upon them—there tore the infamous roars of that colossal waterfall, whose sheer violence is lost within the abysses of history.

Yes, in such times, even every shallow rivulet can cause a drowning.

And here, there exists one such... an entire secret, swift as sighs, a riverbed crafted of fine and soft stone. Yes, far too many bridges had been built above it.

It was merely a matter of a fleeting instant before that water of hers, entirely akin to liquefied mountain crystal, would alter its hue. And it became wholly ominous, draped in scarlet... sweeping away all the lovers of her shores into the foul vortex of a civil war, wherein a brother is no longer a brother to his brother.

“...and Mahir was waiting... He desired to better discern their true countenance. And he did not even divine how utterly hideous it truly was, until he beheld it from the most agonizing vantage.”

And it was then that Petkana’s words finally caught up with him...

The muffled thuds of combat from the surrounding hills cascaded through the air, falling heavily upon him. Detonations began to spill across a ruby-colored dawn over a city held fast beneath a nightmarish slumber. Bloodshed commenced within one of the most fragrant republics of their already deeply wounded, grand country. A cancer had begun to spread across its length.

And somewhere out there, beside the once ever-sunny and carefree courtyard of Mahir’s home, chaos reigned among souls and their fleeting touches. Mahir’s children were boarding the bus of salvation...

Namely, there now existed a design in Mahir’s mind to lead them out of the inferno that had already thoroughly engulfed the city. And he believed that he would succeed in this solely if he drew them out—even out of his own native land (for both Petkana and he seemed to guard something immensely precious within themselves, so blood could by no means be permitted to spill here)—and to do so through those regions still untouched by the tempest of war...

For certain territories of this eternally heterogeneous republic still resisted the flames of war, and while the tempest of conflict raged everywhere around them, many children similar to them retreated through those very areas as if toward oases of peace and sanctuaries of salvation. By some unwritten decree, as the proximity of the sea grew ever nearer, those aforementioned, soon-to-be famous places became more certain... and at that precise moment, they commanded the highest price...

“...yet he spun entirely within the whirlwind of misfortune, and Mahir himself did not even suspect that it might perhaps be too late when he remembered Petkana’s words from back then.”

“...The heat of conflagration—everything is already of the flame!—belonging to a magnificent and thoroughly full-blooded city, was already gnawing at the bus itself. And that very heat now mingled with the scorching air of the blighted spring of that year, 1992, of the twentieth century.”

Yes, that was one of those images...
...the kind children remember for an entire lifetime.
Aunt Fatima was entirely consumed by unrest...
...as never before, as never until then.

Yet the children, those of tender years especially, were nevertheless still searching for themselves within some sequence of those motion pictures, towards whose fleeting minutes they would occasionally arrive, if only by the mere corner of an eye, should the television set by some pure happenstance remain alone with them.

Fatima was lowering the heavy shades upon the bus windows, desperately fighting to drape every single corner of the vehicle with them. Was it to conceal them from that bleeding eye of the snipers who—today, for some dark reason—belonged to no one, or to shield them from the outer tableaus that could easily pierce a child’s ever-fragile heart...?

Stories regarding them had already begun to circulate, shifting from the somber to the purely mysterious. It was as though they had suddenly materialized there from some distant, dark planet—for the sake of whose, and what manner of obscurity? (For even if brothers quarrel, whence come alien hounds into their courtyard? Indeed, these are distant and unclean affairs, belonging to no history of this region). Rumors even swirled that these hollow men, stripped of humanity, could behold every single, most hidden recess of this city.

Yet Aunt Marija—without whose hand Fatima’s own would have long since surrendered beneath the hours, throughout many and many a day within their grand home—she would not embark upon this ominous voyage with them this time. Someone had to remain behind, to lock the doors from within. She only spoke now, continuing to tell the children... the smaller ones among them, how all of this was merely a game that had only meant to frighten them a little more...

For a span of time had already passed since Leo, Vita, and others among them—bearing already those first grand feathers upon their wings—beheld that stone which Uncle Mahir had once upon a time mentioned to them. Indeed, Mahir had spoken to each of his children, as soon as they were grown enough to comprehend him, telling them how every human soul, the very moment they are born, receives from the Creator a singular stone, unique unto themselves, as a divine gift to bear until the very end of their life’s journey. And then, he would further remind them that such a stone could by no means be shattered by anything, yet through the labored trials around one’s own heart, it could be eroded—or, by one’s misdeeds, magnified...

For by a good deed, everything will always, in the end, shrink to the size of a ladybug. And above all else, he would tell them that amidst it all, the most paramount task is to carry it with an uplifted brow, with a clean countenance. Yes, such was his book... And everything else, they would choose for themselves.

“...The majority among them, nevertheless, had a presentiment, if not in some manner a certain knowledge, that this voyage would bear no resemblance toward any of those prior, countless journeys upon which their Uncle Maho, in pure joy, had once led them. And while they all waited... expecting to embark upon that journey, a path laden entirely with uncertainty, Aunt Marija and Uncle Maho set aside a few moments solely for themselves—for mutual, heavy glances—so that Maho might then release upon today’s air, stifled under steam, those fateful words, words of destiny:

‘It is all for their sake... but you know that well yourself.’

And she, charged with a torrent of fear, sorrow, and a certain wild pride, answered him through a sudden spasm, her voice entirely exalted:

‘Mahir, save my children! Lead them out of this hell!’

And... the bus soon departed.

At the commencement, they moved through side streets... Thus had they designed to exit the city, and thereafter its entire surroundings... all the way toward that distance, to that one ever-illuminated city resting upon the very shore of the sea. Yes, Mahir lived in the firm conviction that he knew his city perfectly. (How perfectly he knew both the map and the time of every single street, all their sounds, and all their fragrances)...”

That grand design, after everything, consisted of a long journey through those areas eternally impoverished in comparison toward any grand earthly interest, after which they would emerge at the sea itself. And there, they would be greeted by Mahir’s great friend, Matija (who had, as if from time immemorial through the silence, deeply revered him for his own sake), likewise today already a gentleman... Šjor Matija.

And for the first time...

Since the day he had received into his burdened yet forever dignified hands the tens of innocent lives—and had begun to redeem another’s guilt—Mahir’s face began to be furrowed deeper and deeper by those rigid lines of anxiety, pain, holy sorrow, cautiously restrained and confidential wrath, and a bitter grief unique unto itself.

“...At the commencement, the city was desolate, and only here and there, in those spaces where the air was entirely saturated with electrons and an anxiety almost palpable to the touch, would men sprint—somehow appearing as if stripped of their own gaze—along the fringes of the sidewalks. From every quarter, there was only heat, stifling air, and steam, uncharacteristic for this season of the year. Aunt Fatima, through all these passing moments, read fairy tales aloud—as though she firmly believed that the words would shield them from bullets or any stray shrapnel... or at least, if not from wounding the flesh, then at least from wounding the soul—tales written by one of those authors from that ever-quiet place upon the far north. Yet she read softly... so that Uncle Mahir, this time, might remain beneath the absolute pinnacle of his concentration. And he, up there in the front, even more softly, listened from the cassette player to his not merely favorite, but truly beloved song—for sacrifice makes all the difference!—a song about his own city: ‘To me, all your dawns are known, to me, all your days are familiar; you know where my eyes have remained, and three hundred wounds for three hundred and sixty-five days cannot tear you from this heart.’ And at the commencement... during the first hour, everything was still bearable...”

And although they had been strictly forewarned not to peer outside under any circumstance, the ever-restless eyes of the children nevertheless slipped glances from behind the drapes, not even divining what manner of misfortune could truly overtake them in such a plight.

“...but all at once...! Uncle Mahir cried out as if in agony! No, they had never experienced this before—such a sound they had never heard from his throat until now:

‘For the love of God...’

For he had caught the word from the radio, which had been hanging like a sword of Damocles over his head throughout this entire hour: the conflict had spilled across the length of the city, and from blood, pain, wrath in alien eyes, and lead that knows no distinction, they were now separated by perhaps a mere street or two. And the bus then gathered a fierce acceleration, and Mahir frequently began to turn back toward the children...

And... all at once, he struck a match and lit a tompu-cigar. He rarely did so under ordinary days—and before the children, he had perhaps never done so until now... mostly only if he were deeply reminiscing upon something from the past. He inhaled for the sake of every sorrow, drawing in the intoxicating smoke of meticulously selected tobacco held fast in the flame. Yes, he poisoned his lungs deeply and with an absolute purpose—it was not the tobacco that guided him, but rather he who still journeyed through the old, well-known notes—tasting it as though it were his very last.”

And as for Leo... he was perhaps the one touched most deeply and profoundly within his soul, when he caught sight of—when he beheld—his Uncle Mahir shedding tears back then, at the very instant of their parting from his and their grand home. For, indeed, prior to that day, until that very moment, he had never witnessed a single, solitary tear fall from Mahir’s eyes. And he was not alone... For not merely upon a few among them, but upon every living soul within the bus, this left an immeasurably bitter imprint. Perhaps only then did the children truly comprehend that which the elders had occasionally spoken of: “that the devil had taken the jest”—and that today, it was a matter of gravity, born of the heaviest moments.

And not much time would slip away before this would reveal itself.

After a span of time, clear to no one within the vessel, the bus came to a gentle standstill. Everyone inside—as if following a sudden, sharp braking—all at once startled awake from that anxious, somnolent half-sleep, a slumber scattered through with nervousness and fear dissolved like tiny droplets. Everyone, save for Uncle Mahir himself, who had long since pondered upon this very moment. For this had occurred immediately before the house of Grandmother Petkana, there in that Street of the Southern Winds. (And everyone, in that instant, felt something stir within their chest). All at once, they peered from behind the heavy drapes, looking through the windows... and for a fleeting second, it was as if every threat had fractured, and all fear had vanished from within them.

They beheld her... how, with an absolute serenity, yet with a mind utterly absent—absent from time itself, like all those who stand over the tragedy of someone they love—she was arranging the blossoms in her garden. She tended them as though nothing utterly hostile toward her actions were unfolding around her, as though all those detonations and sounds of combat, echoing yonder and here, were not deafening the ears... Yet she grew frightened... she was struck with fear only when she beheld them.

Uncle Maho—for a brief instant, all that familiar crimson returned to his face—with his chest swelling as if he bore a machine-gun slung about his waist (indeed, he had inhaled something of the heroic guise, if only for a single hour... let a holy candle be lit within him)—calls out to her. He invited her, in a voice warm, masculine, deep, and expansive, to embark with them. Yet... she, through pure despair, merely uttered:

“Merciful heavens, man...! Have you still not departed from the city?! Shield those children from the street, by whatever way you know and can...!”

For everything that was unfolding today, she had already, now so long ago, foreseen. Perhaps that was precisely the reason why she was so deeply afraid.

“...And then, with a mild, somehow rogueish charm—yet within the bounds of mortality and, above all else, abyssally sad—she spoke (bearing all that tranquility of a dying soul facing God's judgment, in defiance of her personal faith):

‘I am staying to defend this city.’

And he merely dissolved the tears within his heart as he looked upon her countenance... while her entire face, upon which it seemed tears had been flowing until but a moment ago, appeared to speak of a single plea: ‘Understand me’ (clothed in pity both for him, for herself, and for the entire world), just an instant before she uttered her most solemn words:

‘There is no passion without Anne, there is no passion without Friday.’

Yet he continued to gaze upon her imploringly, through a look that seemed as if it were still searching for disbelief: ‘For God’s sake, has such an hour truly come... Must everything happen precisely so...’ — but she, as though this were the only fragment she had left to utter, said:

‘You have succeeded in much. But these are no longer your days.’

And in that very instant, as the bus began to move, Mahir read the whispers upon her lips, catching these final words:

‘Follow the signs! Do not miss the turn again!’

And as it likely could not have unfolded otherwise, they pressed onward...

And somehow everything, as though it had come to pass by its own accord... quite simply so... all at once, following a certain vague silence filled entirely with static murmurs, the reverberations of exploding artillery shells abruptly began to tear—to rip apart the ears, and even more so, the very souls. And in every direction, wherever a glance might turn, men were sprinting... Yet, above all else, the most terrifying were those... those whizzing sounds of sniper bullets, cutting between the surrounding buildings.

‘God, have mercy on us,’ Maho whispered. And with a handkerchief—yet no longer in that manner of hedonism, of joy, of the warmth of life, as he so frequently used to do—but now out of a scalding misery, entirely drenched in sweat, he wiped his face... and thereafter, from time to time, indeed at every passing minute, he began to wipe his brow as well. And some of the children began to weep too... while Aunt Fatima bowed their heads, rushing from seat to seat. Horror... a constriction in the heart and lungs... a tempest and an dread... breathing grew heavy—such was the atmosphere.

Maho tore through the city in the bus, like a man possessed.”

And somehow he managed to emerge upon the bank of the rivulet, more precious and known to the hearts of everyone within the bus than a glass of water is to a parched throat. Yet this, too, was once again a wrong turn. In the immediate surroundings, they could already behold men dragging the wounded... And misery could already be heard. Shrieks echoed... Until ALL AT ONCE (Yes, did it truly have to happen so all at once?), a sniper’s bullet—from that weapon with a sight destined for immense distances—thunderously shattered the windshield of the bus, and pierced... ripped open... the entrails of Mahir, of Maho... of Uncle Maho, of Uncle Mahir...

...A terrifying scream from the children in that very instant slaughtered within them all their very sense of life...

Maho, even after everything, remaining still fully conscious of that entire moment (and of everything regarding his broader situation)... gathering from within his entire being that one final ounce of strength, steers the bus into the garden of a nearby hotel bearing the name “The Old Palace,” directly ahead of them... While Leo, Vito, Ismet, and Sinan rushed—with steps heavy as lead, yet determined—straight toward him... Fatima merely remained rooted to the spot where she had been until then, a look of pure disbelief frozen upon her face... She thought, yet she did not think... and she thought only of the children...

For despite all his (to the eyes of outsiders) eternally floral naivety, or at least, that expansive and perhaps only at first glance superficial cheerfulness that always seemed to smell of fruits, pastries, and hot lepinja-breads... Mahir had nevertheless seen much and known far too much. He had conjectured that all of this might, after all, come to pass, and so, much earlier... he had prepared and readied a letter.

“...And after his sons had already approached him, he draws... he drew from the driver’s drawer an envelope, staining it in the process with his own lifeblood, and then spoke to them all... looking first into Leo’s eyes, telling them that within it (the envelope) lay salvation for them all—something grander, stronger, and more expansive than this now ill-fated bus... But, there is a grand but. They must, by whatever way they know and can, reach the base of the International Forces (if they even exist anymore today... for surely the entire world has not betrayed us?!), and only then, only there... is it to be opened... but prior to that, whatever may happen... whatever may unfold! ...they must guard it, even if with their very lives.” And only through a death rattle did he further release:

“You see, my son...” addressing Leo (while blood was already dripping down his lips)... “the beasts knew precisely where they had to strike me, for the eyes of every dreamer and true romantic are in the stomach...” whereupon, with that one last breath that could still be heard... as if for the final time... he left a message to all, but to the four of them:

“‘Guard yourselves from the snipers, my dear falcons, lest they strike you in your low flight. I love you all...’ — and then, his head reclined upon the steering wheel, just as all eternal travelers do (yet in this manner: the horn did not sound... he was, as ever, a gentleman)...

And all of this had come to pass so, so... immensely fast.

...Naturally, Aunt Fatima saw... and heard it all, and when the four of them had already turned toward her, searching with their gaze for the final remnants of that old authority from back then... of the prior authorities... for hell had already opened wide (and today, for them, all measures and boundaries had already been erased)... but she (like when someone holds a certain... overwhelmingly heavy wardrobe in their bare hands) seemed to firmly exhale rather than speak to them:

‘Go yonder, where Maho directed you... and I shall perhaps await you even here, with all the others... here in the hotel. Go, and set forth at a running pace along the fringes of the buildings; you are our hope.’ For she spoke this (with lips that were as if frozen and frostbitten, somewhat rigid, like when one of them somehow hangs slack...) in pure despair, in utter disbelief: that Maho was no longer with them and that they were left alone. Quite benumbed, as though someone by sheer force, all at once, had chilled all her blood.

Yes, that envelope must be of monumental importance! A telephone call would have aided nothing here, would have altered nothing...

The four of them were in a state of shock for only a very brief span of time. All emotions mingled within them... deep in the heart, there reigned a true, silent firework...

And they set forth. Upon a mission garlanded in blood...

They ran along the bank of the river... And they were now intensely terrified. And behind their steps, bullets resonated, heard as they ricocheted off the heated asphalt.

...‘Were they intended for them, or were they alien...?’

BUT ALL AT ONCE!

...Oh, no!—Struck this time?—But it had to happen precisely so... And no, by no means could it have unfolded otherwise. As though someone had torn his leg straight from the bone... (Yes...) Leo falls... Leo had fallen from the steep, yet never remarkably high bank, into the river. And the remaining three, beholding him as he helplessly vanished from the bank... by that singular reflex of the spirit, a reflex of the heart, and a reflex of war... leapt down after him.

And the shallow water, with the velocity of the river, turned a crimson hue around Leo’s leg. He had been struck in the lower leg—and every step with that leg was now severed.

BUT NO, THIS CANNOT BE THE END.

His brothers, with a youthful tenacity yet with tenderness (for a grand ordeal births a grand love)...

...and though by no means gracefully, they undertook to bear him down the current of the river, continuously telling him to cling to them as firmly as possible... for no, he simply must survive. And he himself somehow knew this—he felt it in a hushed manner—and from that very spot, a strength was born within him that he had never known before. He endured the agony like a martyr. There was an immense spiritual fortitude within him, far grander than the years of life he then possessed... though perhaps many had never divined it, just as he himself had not.

And although their reason was already heavily burdened beneath the weight of fear, all four of them knew that they ought to move through the river, yet as close to the bank as possible. And so they continued for a time, amidst that rattling silence born of torment, to carry Leo through that shallow margin in the riverbed, until after a span of time—surely not long, yet indefinite—Leo’s head began to spin rapidly and violently. Fear imposed itself upon him, a shuddering chill conquered him, while a strange pride and the anticipation of something greater than his entire existence soothed his spirit... Yes, it was then that he began to convince his brothers that it was worthless to press onward in this manner... and that he felt, that he clearly discerned the looming end of his immense, yet briefly short life.

And the four young boys—now young men—did not know at the first instant how they should act, and they resolved to break open Maho’s envelope... (“Oh, why had they not listened to the father?”—many lips of grand, aged years would have uttered...). As soon as they had opened it, they discovered two further envelopes within. Upon one, in several distinct languages (among which was their native tongue), it was inscribed that it must, without fail, be delivered into the hands of the officials of the International Forces. Upon the other, it was written that it was intended exclusively for Leo. For the truth of the matter was that within the envelope destined for the international forces, their Uncle Maho had composed a missive through which he implored the gentlemen of the International Community, in exchange for a consideration—a vast sum of money—to transport all his children to one of those cities that had somehow ever been the most beautiful upon the shore of the sea... Yonder, to his great friend Matija, who would know how to proceed thereafter. And beside the letter, within the envelope destined for the international forces, there lay a receipt from a prominent foreign bank, and upon it, towering figures.

He, Leo—who had otherwise, perhaps due to his profound silence, ever been in some manner a secret idol to the remaining three—began to adjure them to press through with their bare bodies, making a breakthrough toward the building of the International Forces—that building running with a cellar of many abandoned letters—for the sake of all those who had been left behind them... for it is worth it to surrender even one’s young life, for the sake of one’s brothers and sisters. Yes, those were truly stark, naked moments. Those were moments far too colossal for lives still so very young...

And while beneath the midday sun there boiled the blood of many who were today already among the wounded—spilled, nay, poured across the asphalt of the stunned city—there boiled likewise the blood within them, within the three bodies of what until now had been merely very young men. And those boys-turned-men (around whom there hovered through all this time that ominous cry of Mahir-Maho, as the bullet ripped open his entrails), remembering all those little brothers and sisters of theirs—yes, they were the eldest among them—who tarried behind them... At long last... let loose their steps... to guide them through the wide-open jaws of death toward the presumed “oasis of salvation,” a building both then and until then so famous to all the inhabitants of Maho’s city, in times past and present (far more so than was necessary).

Upon that path of theirs, which was at one and the exact same time both the brightest and the darkest, they set forth once more at a running pace, down along the fringes of the river. In Leo’s eyes now, those powerful and young bodies transformed more and more into mere shadows, whose reflections against the earth upon which they moved gradually grew quieter... and quieter, until finally, at that distant bend carved out by the river, they vanished completely from sight just as they had from hearing.

And he remained alone... to sit against the wall of the stone bank of that ever-beloved rivulet of his, with his leg well-nigh... half... severed, and laid into the cold water of the still, even today, gentle river. He grew immensely sleepy... almost irresistibly so. And he fought against the slumber for a brief span of time... Thereupon, he began to believe more and more that sleep was after all a friend, one who would bear away all his suffering, all his agony, all his sorrow, and all his unrest. Yet, as he wrestled with the slumber, he became less and less conscious of the mounting and ever more pronounced weakness of his now thoroughly bewildered mind.

And somewhere there, within that scalding delirium, already suspended between wakefulness and dream, while within his youthful soul there was awaited only that terrifying and colossal moment... when he would once more behold all his small life’s achievements in the motion picture that life, in its weariness, would display to his mind through all those cascades of living tableaus... first, he caught something—could it be merely a butterfly?—yonder amidst the distances of hearing, akin to what manner of lost note? ...And while from the side something was persistently dripping—all of it: drop by drop... suddenly, before his horizon, there appeared a solitary, trembling shadow...

And through a gentle stride, it grew closer... and closer to his eyes.

But all at once... yes, precisely like a drowning man as he sinks yonder... somewhere into the bruised, cold, and deep water... already losing even the sky from his sight, Leo, gathering that final strength of life, suddenly and abruptly startled awake so that he might anew discover the surface of his consciousness—in the exact same manner as a drowning man with his hand, for one last time, would pierce the surface of the water.

AND HE BEHELD (in that one second, grander than time itself)

—as he had thought then, in that very second, and as he subsequently believed through all of time—

God’s angel.

“...And it was Liliana—his Liliana von Schönberg, a young countess without a title, from the near north-west, whose parents had together departed this world in a carriage... all at once... amidst those deep fragrances upon the bridge beside the River of rare butterflies, during those days when everything around and above the river had burst into bloom...”

Yes, she and her twin sister, from the very moment of their birth, had been despised by their paternal grandmother—his mother, Countess Elisa von Schönberg (due to her heavy eyes... pupils beneath a clouded glass)—with words without words, concerning the defilement of the Schönberg bloodline with the blood of people from a province yonder, somewhere in the north and yonder in the east... where the young Count Leopold von Schönberg had established the custom of going for his holidays... up there, where many of his kind quite rarely ventured. Only later did something in all of that alter to a small degree... so that Marlena, Liliana’s twin, was taken under the guardianship of Countess Elisa von Schönberg, whilst Liliana remained in the care of her maternal grandmother, Madame Florina Amaresco, a physician by profession. And she had found sanctuary in her new country after being exiled in the year 1989 by the new counter-revolutionaries in her native land.

And Liliana today already spoke the language of her new country beautifully, whereas Marlena was unable to do so, even though they were entirely identical to the eye.

“...Yes, that girl, only a fraction younger than he... she had set forth toward her grandmother in that hospital yonder upon the hill. For some reason, she had to find her immediately... And no evil moment could alter that.”

Yet this was stronger even than that! Beholding, through the gathering mist, a boy somehow—and for some reason—familiar to her, in an agony greater than life itself—a life that could not be permitted to extinguish, twisting like a swan with broken wings upon the turbid water today—she could not... no, by no means could she fail to remain there. All fear and all those colossal emotions found only over children in times of war sank beneath every memory... within her, hell and heaven had met. And she desired only to do all that she could, and more than that, to aid him. And so, entirely consumed by the struggle, she cried out:

“Boy, do not fall asleep!”

Leo continued merely to gaze upon her mutely—yes, like a young bird, not yet having taken flight, yet already cast out from the nest... yes, after everything, mortally wounded (but whether unto life or unto...?). Within her lay a heart of such a nature: she did not tarry for a single instant! Already, fiercely... fiercely and swiftly—as much as the strength within a girl of scarcely fourteen years could muster—she began to draw his belt from the loops of his trousers.

“Leo remained bewildered for the first instant... for all of this was grander and greater than a single passing moment... but then, shortly thereafter...”

“...it was all too easy for him to comprehend,” if not through reason, then certainly by the heart, that whatever she might undertake to do, it would be solely to his aid. Yes, within her eyes, he had already beheld it...

He was—as if by the heavens—entranced by the girl he was gazing upon before him. It was a minute of such a nature—everything he would ever need to know about her was already here, present where they had met. A beauty washed over him beyond all his measures (in the exact same manner as when the air surrounding a soul can never again be defiled by anything) and... perhaps he would never be able to deny it...

Her coal-black hair was spilled across her shoulders in the guise of a multitude of those gentle, antique tresses. It was crowned by a broken bun. And her eyes... which unusually dreamily—somehow gently, askance, through the line of a living smile, born of a sweet joy—rested upon an ever-serene face, thus subtly reminiscent of the eyes of those girls from the distant, eternally sunny Eastern steppes... they, akin to amber from yonder... from the far north, shone warmly, all too warmly beneath today’s fierce spring sun. And they were crowned by slender, swallow-like eyebrows of the darkest hue of any charcoal, which, as if stretching across her tender face—like what manner of pastoral hills—merged with a sweetly prominent, honey-hued chin. And they were divided solely by crimson, voluptuous lips.

And precisely those lips, in brief and tense pauses (bound between life and death), were uttering:

“Merciful heavens, boy, wake up...! Look upon me... Many of your years have loved this... I must help you.”

And as she voiced these words, she had already begun, with the belt drawn from Leo’s trousers, to tightly bind his thigh, well-nigh to the point of halting the blood...

For a girl of those years, there lay a strength within her that bewilders. Yes, that belongs to love; that belongs to the innocence of a child’s heart. Yes, and... thereafter, the mountain air still sighed within her today.

“...And gathering within himself, perhaps indeed that very last ounce of his strength (yes, in such moments, it is ever far more of the soul and far less of the flesh), Leo, through an intense agony, uttered in a half-whisper:

‘I love it too.’”

“And then, despite the utter bitterness of their situation, she too discovered a wellspring of strength, and with a maidenly yet purely childlike, rogueish charm, she offered a smile, and she spoke, she said:

‘Then look.’

And thereupon, she began to tear her light spring gown... Yes, so that with a shredded fragment of it, she might bind that fierce wound. And for this entire deed of hers, born solely of nobility, she even made use of a certain by no means noble fragment of metal—yes, a very sharp piece of shrapnel that was still warm back then... furthermore, it was immensely warm. She had discovered it right there beside them in the shallow water, somewhere just a little to the side... For in a manner somehow venomous, it glittered and, unique unto itself, captivated the eyes.

Yes...
She succeeded in binding his wound.

Thereafter, she drew forth a bottle of mountain water, harvested from one of the springs high above the city, and told him to drink in brief gulps...”

Yes, the wound had not bewildered her—though agony in such a manner indeed had—and she knew how she must contend with it. Within her lived the potent force... of everything she had acquired as knowledge, accompanying her grandmother through myriad plights and as a constant member of the Red Cross youth. Yes, such were her days within the family.

“...And having drunk several crisp gulps, pleasant unto life itself, Leo, as much as he was able in that passing instant, gathered his senses so that he might thereafter ask her:

‘What shall we do now?’

And then she, thoroughly grave... with a steadfast posture and a living conviction, by no means characteristic for a girl of her years, explains, she explained to him:

‘You will have to come with me... so that together we may seek aid at the hospital.’

Not even Leo by then was entirely certain what it was... what he intended by these words:

‘But... I think I can no longer even stir.’ he reminded her.

Yet then, Liliana once more with great significance communicated to him:

‘You shall lean upon me...’

Upon which Leo nevertheless thought that, after all, he remained indebted to visit them upon their reality:

‘You do not possess the strength for that.’

But Liliana by then did not consider it so in the slightest, and returning a gaze with a subtly reproaching... yet self-assured tone—for within her was still a far too young soul, which did not permit itself to grow weary in such moments:

‘Never underestimate the strength of a girl burdened by ordeal. It is no moment for such a manner of thinking.’

And Leo by then, a fraction abashed, yet far more filled with wonder... with a countenance entirely made of a warm and quiet smile, gently in every regard, in every way softly, asked her:

‘Would you do this for anyone?’ — something into whose significance he would not be able to fully pierce for a long time to come, only for Liliana then, gazing upon him with absolute gentleness, to merely answer:”

“‘Yes... of course.’

And then, Leo placed his left arm across her left shoulder, holding his wounded leg in the air, fighting for whatever height he could maintain above the ground. And...

Thus they set forth, bowed beneath the ordeal along the riverbed—two souls small in years, yet great in the shoes they filled... for yes, they were grand children walking through miniature days.

And the story continued!

And after a span of time—though having only minutely recovered, yet finally gathering sufficient bodily strength—Leo broke the brief silence hanging between their words, and introduced his full name:

‘I am Leon Prince.’ — for it was quite simply a moment of such a nature.

‘Liliana von Schönberg,’ this girl spoke—or was it an answer?—somehow as if by nature, from the very marrow of her bones... and after everything, still believing in the family.

‘And no, I cannot tell you that I am glad we have met.’ (‘In such a manner’—was that which she left unspoken). For she bore with great difficulty the suffering of others...

Leo, in contrast to this, replied to her in a completely different, yet equally sincere manner, he had told her:

‘In any case, I am glad that I have met you.’

And then, many mutually ambiguous emotions overtook her, lifting her spirit along with such thoughts, so that after everything, she asked:

‘Does your leg pain you greatly, Leo?’ — attempting, nevertheless, to interrupt that prior current of their conversation.

But Leo does not permit her; Leo did not permit her that, answering her in a by no means expected fashion:

‘No... not as much as your soul pains you,’ looking openly into her eyes for the first time, ‘in truth, I no longer even feel my leg.’ Upon which she, surprised in many ways by his words, returned:

‘...neither shall I feel my soul much longer.’ — yet retaining much of Leo’s words for herself, and within herself.

Yes... and an impression sparked within him:

‘It seemed to me that you felt it the moment you stopped to aid me... no, I was not mistaken...’

And Liliana, accepting this, notices the truest spark within him:

‘You speak beautifully, Leo... You know. You understand me deeply, as though you have met a great multitude of people until now.’

‘No, I only had a good teacher and an abundance of brothers and sisters.’ — but after he had spoken this, a warm tear distilled upon his already paled cheek.

And Liliana espied it:

‘And where are they now?’

‘I know not.’ Leo answered through a sorrowful sigh, and thereafter declared:

‘I only wish that they were not together.’

And she, being of such a nature, ever possessing a heart of that kind—not merely for herself—noticed:

‘It appears that your story is a sorrowful one.’ — and perhaps in that instant, she drew closer to him than ever before.

‘There is an abundance of sorrowful stories.’ — and it was not that he had failed to notice it... and by no means did he wish to lose that passing moment.”

“And she, as if in confidence, merely further spoke to him... merely confessed:

‘Such stories pain me greatly.’

And then, Leo asked her in a somewhat mysterious tone of voice:

‘Does that then mean you have never heard the tale of the Fairy Tale of this city?’ — drifting away into what seemed like his very own distances.

Liliana grew contemplative, gazing yonder, and then brought Leo a somewhat unexpected reply:

‘No, for Grandmother never wished to tell it to me.’ — only to bestow upon him thereafter a vast amount of her trust... perhaps the most until now. ‘But do you tell it to me, if you still possess the strength for it...’ — ‘for every silence is far too heavy now’ — was that which she left unspoken.

‘But it is a sorrowful one.’ he said, having remembered all her prior words.

Yet she remained steadfast in her desire:

‘I shall endure it, Leo...’

And although he was utterly exhausted, although he was in agony, he began to narrate the best he knew how, reviving all those words of Maho through that atmosphere of Weltschmerz—world-sorrow—which was healing, as if born of venom. And while Leo spun his favorite fairy tale of Maho (one of those that would today remain solely between the two of them... one of those that belongs to another novel), as if through some manner of rain from a dream, a rain born of romance and yonder violet haze, it appeared to both of them then that a completely different reality did nevertheless exist, lasting even through those minutes of theirs... while they splashed through the riverbed, which nevertheless still knew how to gleam minutely, greeting the air as if through some ancient sequins...

At the conclusion of Leo’s tale, Liliana remained for some time longer, throughout minutes unique unto herself, entranced by that sound and by all his words—about which she had known nothing for a long time (yet she had felt it!... indeed, she had felt it...). It was that certain something which had, through many a year, been so deeply missing from her life. And only Leo, within those minutes, noticed that the echoes of detonations had by now grown distant from them. And indeed, they had receded from that quarter of the city where their hell had exploded... and had already bypassed every building of significance for any weapon.

And now, they were already exiting the riverbed...

And thereafter... they entered one of those small, side streets that were never lacking in this city... And there, God only knows how, after a mere few moments, an automobile bearing the inscription ‘White Taxi’ approached them, arriving almost from nowhere. And both of them then, in those passing instants, thought that salvation had perhaps already reached them... that salvation was well-nigh within arm's reach.

From within it... there stepped a man clad in a somewhat overly delightful, lime-white suit, and before any other word—as if this day too was devoid of any other color for him—he asked them where they wished him to drive them. But when, intertwining their words one with the other, they told him—they communicated to him—that he ought to urgently drive them high up to the hospital, then all at once... as if in that very moment, there began to distill for him one of those...”

“...a fine, rancid grease from his lips—), that man, akin to every merchant in a place where no commerce is made... asked them:

‘Young people, are you aware of the nature of this situation?’

And while they had not yet managed, after everything, even to speak, he pressed onward with his words:

‘Do you know what is unfolding around you? I am exposing my own life to peril... and no, I cannot undertake this without a valid recompense...’

Leo, having comprehended his meaning—for after all, he was a young man—far removed from any tender heart, attempts to explain to him:

‘Sir, we could honestly compensate your exposure, but you would have to drive us at least to the building of the International Forces—once ever vibrant and alive with the murmur of existence, remarkably well known to all—for beside ourselves right now we possess no money, yet yonder, as I believe, there is already someone of our kin who does.’

And Liliana, through a heavy sigh—yet one born of raw nerves, and far less of the soul... for thoroughly within herself, and following those first words, those first glances, it was as if she had already surrendered such a path toward salvation... merely above all else... merely sorrowfully, with a lowered gaze, like every sincere girl forced by a might grander than her own, added:

‘I have none either.’ But immediately, a fleeting second thereafter, having thoroughly recovered within herself that young warrior for life from but a moment ago... with what manner of... outcry she declares:

‘But my grandmother will give it to you, if you nevertheless drive us to the hospital high upon the hill.’

The taxi driver, with nervousness... like one who had already squandered far too much time, and in that manner of a deep, barren wrath, spoke to them:

‘This is war, children, where honesty does not exist. I have no time to take risks with you for such a paltry price.’ And with what manner of disbelief—and perhaps hollow words, akin to that charity present solely for the sake of the world, or else who knows what ensLeoed, distant memories—he adds:

‘May God be to your aid.’ whereupon, in a cloud of dust and exhaust smoke from the tailpipe, he vanished entirely from their sight...

This state was assuredly dying in agony. The spring of the year 1992, in the very heart of the peninsula... was accursed by those to whom it had arrived, far more so than all the winters from the north... yonder toward the east, which would occasionally freeze the blood within the veins... whenever they descended like those who had forgotten something paramount.”

“...And Liliana, left with Leo in the dust of the desolate street, experienced that passing instant of singular inspiration—Heaven touched her in the midst of the blackest night! Heaven touched her upon the soul... and then she vowed to him:

‘No... you shall not die! I promise you! You have brought far too much light into my dark days for yours to be extinguished now.’

Those words did indeed touch Leo profoundly, even unto a sharp pain yonder in his lungs... yet outwardly he nevertheless remained dry, for this was no moment for the eyes to grow moist—for this day belongs not to tears... neither of this kind, nor of that.”

“But he was once more growing progressively worse... Yet Liliana, with unyielding persistence and above all else, continuously assured him that this was not the end—that this could not be the end... as if she were uttering all of this to her very own soul as well. And not much time had slipped away thereafter, when they entered a long and blind alleyway. It was then, through the scalding... through that deeeense air—stifled by something—that they caught the sound of an echo, an echo ricocheting off the buildings and a multitude of vacant apartments: yes, it was the melody of that song from their earliest childhood, that very verse:

‘We are still alive... I know, others are to blame; whose is my hope today, lo... lo, a star is falling from the heavens.’ Yes, that was the song loved by their now-deceased Uncle Maho as well...

And those were sounds emanating from a vehicle, left entirely alone upon the street, abandoned for some dark reason... Yes, in some indescribable manner... something of the fathomless seemed to yawn from within it... The doors were merely half-open... yes, they were merely half-closed. Yet the engine was—the engine remained—running...

As though it were waiting for many of those who yearned to be saved, yet it was far too small... it was not grand enough for an entire country.

...At the first instant, they did not immediately discern that the vehicle was abandoned. They thought, somehow in the exact same breath, as if... together they had begun to sprint, that perhaps salvation was near after all. Gasping for breath, swaying slightly from exhaustion—resembling parched travelers, weary under the midday glare, who are just preparing to peer inside a solitary, empty tent in the midst of a desert—they approached the bus, a vehicle belonging until today to the city’s public transport enterprise. Only then did they catch sight...

Only then did they behold—comprehending and then accepting it—that it was deserted, and that there was no soul within. Something had transpired... Yes, this city is ceasing to breathe, more and more.

And lo... yet another MIRACLE! A miracle of the sort that only wars can bring to birth... or colossal natural catastrophes.

For Lily, after she had comprehended—yes, having understood—that the bus was completely vacant and abandoned... simply, as if all at once, sparked with her eyes—now bearing a fiery radiance—announcing thereby an ostensibly insane idea to herself and to Leo. Entirely exalted by the whole situation, nay... she cried out:

‘Get in, Leo!’

Yet Leo, overtaken by the world-weary and unusual circumstances, at that hour did not fully comprehend her entire intention:

‘Merciful heavens, what shall we do now?’ But the next revelation transcended all his expectations... even those wildest expectations, for Liliana—with thoughts ostensibly bewildered, yet somehow entirely compromising-free, as if solely this minute existed—self-assured, but with a singular gaze that seemed as though it were no longer of this world, answered him:

‘I am going to drive this.’

And Leo, completely and truly bewildered—for not all of this belongs merely to the mind—yes, in a voice heavy with myriad disbeliefs, asked:

‘You know how... to pilot a bus?’

...She grew contemplative, gazing yonder for a brief passing moment, and then—whether she answered, or merely spoke, she said:”

“‘Do not ask too much. It will be easier for you...’ — along with all that ‘if it is at all possible’ which she left unspoken, yet as though she had voiced it indeed.

And after she had aided him...

So that he might be sheltered as swiftly and as easily as it was for him to manage, she seated herself with a certain pride (yes, it was a faith in life even then when no soul believes any longer... the kind that places wings upon children) into the driver’s seat, entirely inside a faith for what she was doing—yes, thoroughly convinced that she knew her own work. She took the steering wheel into her tender, maidenly hands, and for a fleeting interval—not even a whole instant—she released it from them... She reclined her now far too heavy head upon her joined hands above her eyes, above her brow... resembling a basket for fine fruits (as though she were washing her face)—that was the whole of her sigh! Thereafter, in a voice far too hoarse, and in a half-whisper (firm yet unobtrusive to anyone from the margins), she uttered:

‘Doamne, miluiește-ne!’ (‘Lord, have mercy upon us!’... thus did her soul sigh) — and after she had closed her eyes upon uttering those words she held Sacred... now, she opens them in what manner of... a triumphant guise, and announces:

‘We are setting forth!’ — as though she were not merely issuing a laconic decree to herself, but to the entirety of their passing moment... only to immediately translate the same for Leo thereafter:

‘Leo,’ (yes, something within her had indeed grown jubilant now—awakening the joy of a young girl), ‘prepare yourself! Cling firmly to anything!’ — into a tongue comprehensible to him. And soon... to Leo’s living wonder, she indeed sets in motion—she nevertheless set in motion!—that piece of iron and rubber that was to be their salvation. Yes, in an ill-fated moment, yet nevertheless and more than that, in a magical moment (for... not everything is ever translatable into words), it was as though some old desire of a young girl had been realized for her...

...And after the bus had truly been set in motion...

They began to swerve (as though the will and the uncertainty were battling for the helm—while she, after everything, restored the direction beneath an angle that belonged to them) through the desolate streets of a city that was today, as it were, no longer belonging to any soul... Until, although exceedingly young... yet endowed with a grand will and a powerful reason—and a living love—the girl and the child alike acquired a sense for the expanse...

Everything was unfolding with immense velocity, and both of them were abnormally—in that certain manner grander even than misfortune—excited (for it was not merely dopamine... there lay something there far, far grander than it...).

...And before the exit from what was already the third or perhaps even the fourth street after they had set themselves in motion, amidst a stuttering of the brakes, as when an engine all at once by its own accord would turn off, they come to a halt... for a second... for a fleeting interval. Yet it was she who did this—for it was as though some dark shadow had flitted through her soul... somewhere beside her lungs—Liliana, so that she might draw the drapes, the small curtains upon the windows. But thereafter, with certainty—as if she had discovered her true self within that twilight—she depresses the accelerator. And now she was already driving rapidly, and in a certain manner beyond the logic of the everyday, she was, within her soul, as it were, taking pleasure in it. Yes, something far grander than her very self,”

“...it had aided her; it helped her to master the machine...

Yes, she had frequently dreamed, even as a young girl, of a black stallion... galloping through the prairie. And she was upon his back. Twilight reigned everywhere around them. Yet she is not afraid, though she knows not why. For a living force bears her, while the cool air and boundless freedom strike her face. The black stallion—she knows not why—nevertheless listens to her...

...While she drove, both of them were mute, as though they were merely gazing yonder at some other motion picture. Her prowess, that faith in love, seemed to have redeemed every fear, every absurdity within Leo, and everything that arrives from spilled blood... He could not have even divined these moments—they are only now being born. Yes, not only had she mastered the machine, but she also perfectly knew this city...

(Yes, that is a singular attentiveness possessed solely by young girls... woven entirely of personality and all that is restrained within agony, when the whole gaze is focused upon a single path).

...A city that had even bewildered its own child, the now-deceased comrade Mahir.

And they moved chiefly through streets of a lower order... through side streets, and only here and there, if it could by no means unfold otherwise, did they fly—would they fly through the main ones.

And right then!

...in one of those excursions—from the side streets onto a main one—just as they had entered with the nose of the bus once more into yet another hidden and well-concealed side street, a downpour of bullets shattered the rear windows of the bus—for ‘who is that rushing so down there,’ and ‘what manner of business is this,’ everyone under arms was also on a thin nerve, their fingers ever resting nervously against the trigger... Yet... perhaps it was merely out of a need to be reminded of horror... or of life itself.

Only, from time to time... only, only occasionally, even the ground would tremble from detonations that would be produced by some of those exceedingly powerful weapons. Yet they continued to rush forward in the bus... evading every possible nervous and turbid crosshair. The bus moved robustly, akin to a mountain bear lost within a city, traversing through the semi-vacant streets... while around them certain apartments... and certain terraces were burning, and from them showered pieces of glass and molten puddles, scattering across the walls held fast in flames.

But behold...

Now after everything, two young souls—are they merely that?—united in misfortune, drive themselves already into a lull of the conflict. Exhaustion, fear, and wrath... spilled like—yes, like—puddles, somehow... now a little further away from all those streets. Little by little... only an occasional burst of gunfire is heard somewhere... yonder in the distance. Once upon a time, only construction machinery had echoed in such a manner. Yet they were now already...”

“...and close toward the place where they anticipated succor. But... now... fear was already everywhere around them and everything around them had become abnormal... yet they had outgrown their years. The heart ever knows more... Euphoria, as if through the silence from somewhere, as if through what manner of secret, all at once surged forth... It spilled across the length of them, and during these minutes, the soul is no longer distinguished from the flesh.

And well-nigh at the very conclusion of their journey, yonder... in the penultimate street before the final turn, something struck somewhere. Merely a dull thud was heard... Yes, throughout the entire duration of the journey, hither and thither, that agonizing announcement of a second must have been lost once more amidst it all. The sheer momentum of the colossal vehicle, and that certain alien velocity—‘no, I did not intend this’—inadvertently claimed the life of a dog (whosesoever it was, a pet or a stray—yet a young heart is pained by this equally). It happened to Liliana... and to Leo... it had come to pass. It must have been destined so... She merely placed her left hand for a brief interval over her eyes, and thereafter upon her lips... softly uttering:

‘Forgive me...’ (as if praying to God)—yet she left unspoken, she did not say ‘the dog’. After a few moments in a wrestling of thoughts, words, and emotions that can vividly not be felt, whether it was a quiet word or merely a living thought:

‘War.’

Yes, there lay something SURREALISTIC within all of this. And... everything somehow appeared as though the hand of God were taking yet another symbolic sacrifice... a price for two young lives that defy death.

At long last... at long last, they nevertheless discerned, high above, yonder... in the distance, yet directly upon their path, their very own path, that building... the so-frequently mentioned building assigned to the International Forces. Not much was left for them now, and they would arrive at the very gate. By now, the bus was merely crawling... while the barbed wire in the distance slowly and gradually grows in their eyes...

‘This is possible solely unto God!’—the subconscious itself conversed within Leo—for something akin to poetry was after all fragrant through the air... And Leo felt... Leo now felt that Lily would precisely at this moment love to hear his voice again:

‘Lily, how did you succeed in all of this?!’—yet this was immeasurably and far more of a joy than an inquiry... the very first syllable of his word for gratitude.

...and after everything, everything... a sigh happily drenched in sweat came from her as well:

‘You know... Florina frequently went out into the field... occasionally I would find myself there too... their driver would sometimes even teach me to pilot... their ambulance.’—then, after a brief silence:

‘And other children would have consented to that.’—then, with a gaze left in a quiet pathos, that look yonder somewhere in the distance:

‘It was a beautiful time. We agreed beautifully.’—the thoughts flowed akin to a quiet river. And upon them lay the lightness of nostalgia... yet abruptly something overran them from within it, and all at once, in a manner winged and proud—yet for both of them—and born of that certain innocent euphoria, she emphasized:

‘And behold’ (although this did not belong to her energy so much as to that outer force, to others), ‘I had to save you’ (yet this did).

‘Florina... She is my grandmother.’—”

“...The soldiers of those international forces yonder were slowly and with caution approaching the bus, expecting everything save for... the two of them. Yes, they were visibly—to the eyes of any onlooker—astonished when they beheld, when they realized, when they perceived that only a boy and a girl were stepping out of the vehicle. As if from some rainy postcard, they were driven and sustained solely by one another—yes, the expression upon their countenances is not describable in a mere few sentences; to that belongs an entire other novel.

Yet for Leo, after he had felt the outer air—subtly fresh yet belonging to no soul... still stifled with fumes, but in a manner as if yonder, to the side—he once more grew deathly ill, and somehow within his stomach, he felt nothing else save for a profound nausea. But very swiftly, a physician of the International Forces arrived. And they led them both away. ‘Is this how the steadfast tin soldier felt,’ Leo thought within himself for some reason. He no longer felt his leg. Shortly thereafter, he received an intravenous drip, and they transported them both in their vehicle to that very hospital high upon the hill.

He wished to ask them something... anything... regarding his brothers, his father, and his sisters—all of them within that other bus that had remained yonder beside the bleeding river—yet he did not manage... his head merely reclined.

And he fell asleep...

He awoke only after having slept through two entire days in a hospital room. And around him, precisely in that passing instant, sat Vito and Ismet.”

Ah, when the heart takes flight, and everything all at once is warm to it, and everything around it grows soft. Yes, in that moment, he was profoundly and from many quarters happy.

“...they warmed Leo, and Leo warmed them with powerful yet careful embraces.

‘Believe us. We returned... we returned for you with these men from the international forces quickly... shortly after we managed to reach them. But you were no longer at the place where we had left you,’ Isa justified himself in the name of all the others, through those sorrowful and loud whispers.

‘I believe you,’ Leo spoke in a hoarse yet convincing tone, and thereafter with a sound hoarse as the morning, yet not convincing to that degree as it was more than that—with a sound that belongs to the night, belongs to a dream, and is chiefly discovered there:

‘Eh, my dear comrades—gratitude to this city!—I was saved by God’s angel in the guise of a beautiful girl... in such an incredible manner. I still do not believe everything that has come to pass for me!’

‘You likely mean that girl who kept coming here while you slept,’ Vito now pointed out cheerfully, from an open throat and with a wide, stretched smile in his eyes. And by this, it was as if he had poured stars into Leo’s eyes... and that is precisely when a man, even if he so desired, can no longer conceal the radiance within them, and everything to him is fortune, and everything to him is wonder:

‘She came here?!’

‘Aha!’ (twice in unison, with mutually exchanged glances)—along with that certain rogueish smile most frequently found among youthful drunkards, and then Vitomir...”

“...from that exact same countenance, yet born of a much lighter meaning toward that which belongs to this place:

‘A girl?’ — while Isa merely smiled, in a manner as though he were scattering fine sugar and salt.

‘What on earth are you speaking of?’ — Leo’s gaze radiated, and shortly thereafter, he spoke—nay, declared—with a quiet yet solemn gravity:

‘She saved my life.’ Leo reminds, he had reminded them of the depths... Within it, their smiles vanish.

‘Do not be angry,’ Vitomir placates, with an aimless nonchalance—such was the sound of it.

‘I am not angry,’ Leo answers in an enigmatic manner.

‘She will come again...’ Vitomir offers solace, through that certain faith of the everyday.

And Leo, toward Vito’s remark, answered solely through silence, yet entirely sympathizing.

‘In a mere three days, we shall already be gazing upon a multitude of sweet girls upon the shores of the sea,’ Ismet offers solace, through that one tongue of the everyday... But Leo... he knew nothing, nothing of the contents of Maho’s letter, and so he inquired:

‘What are you speaking of?’ leaving his gaze utterly distant.

‘Our late Maho...’ — and in that very passing instant, the eyes of everyone grew moist, save for Leo’s, who then merely compressed his lips, lest he cry out from an agony that this time thoroughly transcended the one within his leg — ‘has provided... for our entire home, accommodations down by the sea until the war passes,’ Ismet brought forth the remaining words: ‘And those men from the International Forces have secured the transport.’

And Leo, above all of this, as if along with a sigh, profoundly sorrowful—like one who is already accustomed to the rain—as it were, asked:

‘Where is the body of our Maho?’ for that which they had forgotten, yet were not permitted to forget—though in truth, they had not forgotten it at all.

‘Tomorrow is the interment...’ Looking him in that passing instant decisively yet tenderly in the eyes, a gaze conveying: ‘How are you?’ and ‘Please receive it, precisely as it is...’ ‘...of his body at the main city cemetery, although they foretell rain.’ Albeit beneath a tone colored by reverence, Ismet answers him swiftly and decisively enough, so that everyone might receive with greater ease the entire momentum of the pressure from all those colossal dark clouds, and that dense, scentless rain that ever follows behind them—leaving nothing dry within the soul... Vitomir merely kept silent. He became abruptly wrathful and sorrowful. It was quite simply a moment of such a nature...”

And Ismet, in truth, within that entire grand house of Maho, was the eldest among all of Maho’s children. He stood already upon the very threshold of adulthood—possessing even seventeen years. And although his body was forged of a rather unyielding material, somewhere yonder in its depths, it concealed a humble soul that was imbued with a righteous and honest disposition.

“...whereupon Leo inspired himself with Maho’s image:

‘That celestial rain which God otherwise pours down is not so terrifying, but rather this leaden one... which men pour down... for this latter one kills—thus would our Maho say,’ something violet spilled forth... and from every quarter there was piety—and their silence was his final point.”

“But now... after all those prior words of such a nature, it was fitting to slumber even while awake. They harvested merely sweet recollections—walking through lines of serener years... And those years led them away into the night, all the way toward the curfew that had already been in force for some time back then.

And thereafter, Vitomir and Ismet departed from the hospital in a vehicle belonging to the International Forces.

But Leo, for a long time... still refused to fall asleep... He was awaiting the appearance of his celestial girl. He waited for Liliana to appear. And he fought... bitterly and bloodily did he wrestle and battle with the slumber. Yet Liliana did not arrive this evening. And this time, sleep could bear no healing for his condition...

And the subsequent day, he did not manage to catch sight of her either.

True, he was gravely wounded. Yet, with the assistance of the international organs, he spent the entirety of the following day at the interment, which was akin to a genuine late autumn—sorrowful: and every smile was miles removed from it...

There was an abundance of funerals on that day. For... more than one bleeding day had preceded today’s hour. The wrath of death, concerning something, was calculated upon that day. And let there now be an hour of silence. For upon that day—Sacred to all of Maho’s children—a lull reigned between the factions in the war. Albeit those far older than they knew even then that the agony and the fire, and the fire and the agony, were only just arriving...

...At that interment of one of those grand men whom this city had brought to birth... it appeared as though all his kin were present, all those whom he had acquired through the years and who belonged to the everyday life of that city. From every quarter came merely whispers—rustling akin to a garment of silk. And his children were receiving condolences (the elder among them on behalf of those who were far younger). And their bodies merely shook in a hushed manner... beneath this solitary, warm spring rain. The drops of rain cascaded down their countenances, mingling entirely with their tears. They, least of all on that day, desired to utter a single word...

The now-deceased comrade Mahir was interred according to the customs of the ancestors... and all those present... then... at least in that one regard did concur: may his soul discover a sanctuary according to his own heart.

...The rain and the tears mingled. Much was sliding down the necks... even of those far older than Maho’s children. And only from time to time did they tighten... occasionally shuddering. Yes, those are hours of such a nature when every passing moment is heavier than the prior one. Yet nevertheless, one of the heaviest was when Maho’s great friend, Elmir, filled his clean, never-bloodied hands with what was perhaps the richest and most fragrant earth in the world—Maho’s earth—and then spoke: ‘We created thee from the same, and we return thee into the same, so that from the same thou shalt step forth anew for a second time!’—words more than sacred for a vast multitude of people from Mahir’s history... while that face of his, somehow ever fragrant, today gazed solely toward the south and solely toward the east...”

“And yonder, from somewhere in the distance, with those certain magical steps—for there lay much more than mere reality within them—as if she were walking upon the water, precisely in those moments, Petkana was approaching... Petka and Grandmother Petkana. And...

Did she attempt to leap into Mahir’s, Maho’s, into Uncle Maho’s grave...?

Yes, that was a passing instant, devastating for the entirety of Mahir’s world... Yet there existed no such person... and there existed then among them no soul who could conceal those minutes from the eyes of all of Maho’s children.

...when, unheeding of all those standing to the side and the entire world today... toward her surroundings, in a voice that seemed as if it were ascending from the very depths of her soul, she uttered, she voiced:

‘Permit me...’ (subdued, devoid of color, subtly fractured) ‘...to let this dusty body of mine cover him...’ (painfully and imploringly, in the manner before one’s own closest kin... when a long-suffering soul already flags). ‘...To shield him from the frost.’ Whereupon, in that passing instant, she turned her countenance—her eyes conveying: ‘Am I of any use to you in such a state?’—truly imploringly (for well-nigh no soul had ever beheld her in such a guise) toward the entirety of Mahir’s world, toward all of Maho’s raja, through those ghastly lines of her face and an identical spasm upon her lips, further speaking:

‘It shall be easier for him than beneath this earth, which today is unworthy of him.’ And then she fell into her very own moment of peace and silence. During this time, carefully yet firmly, some of Mahir’s brothers took hold of her... And they led her away from her desperate and, in that instant—deep as life itself—weakness, born of the mind. Lest she should disrupt that minute, sacred to them all, with her first selfishness. But... Leo even then merely looked at love... and looked at the stars.

For Leo, due to something within him, had nevertheless borne all of this with the heaviest heart... Almost through the entirety of the time, he gazed solely into the heavens... and not upon the earth. Yes, all through the time while the very act of the interment lasted—for all of this is a single passing instant. Had it been at all possible, he... no... would not even have been present there in body... yet who would have brought him all those grand, necessary justifications... and who could have received all those manners of vindications. For love was needed by all his brothers as well, and by everyone who had loved his Maho, and by everyone who had revered his Maho. Yet he then had desired only one thing... Yes, without witnesses—in the silence of alien eyes and lips—alone before himself... secretly to kiss Mahir’s brow... and whisper to him certain words which he seemed to have ever guarded solely for him.

And...

That desire of his, several hours prior to the interment itself, had truly been fulfilled. Yonder... in the cellar of the city hospital... For owing to the immense renown which Mahir and Grandmother Petkana—and certain others from their days—possessed within this city, once one of the most charming... Yes, that was sufficient for some of the men from the house of medicine to conduct Leo to the aforementioned place.”

“And yonder...

The neon bulbs... the neon lights were spilling—yet after all drifting, merely distilling—that certain light of an ever-venomous hue, that stillborn luminance, pouring sickness upon the soul (with which the flesh itself could easily be infected). It poured upon the walls as well... Yes... From every quarter, something frozen burns... From every quarter, something frozen burns, something frozen was burning. From every quarter, the entire expanse somehow clamored against the eyes. Whichever way one might turn, there were green tiles. And all of this merely weighed heavier upon the soul, and all of this scorched even more of Leo’s already swollen (burning, and as if stifled under steam) eyes. Beneath it, sorrow had gathered, fear had spilled, and something scalding... that is wrath. While helplessness, above all else, floated like oil upon the surface of water...

He approached the life-withered body of Mahir.

Above him lay merely a white linen sheet. With every stride, he was closer and closer... to Maho’s motionless body. Through him, there was expanding a certain... that one utterly horrific sensation within him, beneath that hue, from that sound... the kind he nevertheless had never felt until now—owing to that entire, ever-expansive hand of Mahir, ever full of care. That is that very color of solitude known solely to orphans... (And everything around him now is merely silence or someone else’s clamor). And such a sensation had begun to well up through his heart until he had drawn near enough to nevertheless behold anew, and for one final time, Maho’s countenance—which, though this time bound fast in the shackles of death—nevertheless allowed to pass from his quietly rigid lips that certain peculiar, hushed, yet triumphant smile possessed solely by those grand men... those perhaps well-nigh worthy even of the saints.

And Leo bowed with an immense love (and an expansive gratitude), the kind he had never until the end... never until then manifested toward his grand father. Crossing his hands between his knees, he kissed Mahir’s life-withered body... and then, thereafter, he gathered his palms so that with them he might close Mahir’s left ear—yes, the one closest to the heart—leaving merely a narrow passage through which he would thrust his lips. Inspired by Mahir’s sacrifice and his life’s work, he whispered, he did whisper:

‘I love you most in the world, my only father, and I shall ever remember everything that you taught me... And what you gave me... what you left to me. I shall walk by your path, which is immensely grand. I shall not turn from the path.’ — and thereafter, having spoken—yet far more, having once more whispered—merely:

‘You were a good man.’ — for a finer prayer back then he had not yet known, or yet discerned...”

“And Mahir had known that Leo’s history was a Christian one. And he believed in the power of the past. Yet further than that, he did not venture. He had merely desired to preserve his childhood...

...he stepped back to bow before the body of his only known father, now, yes... after everything, plundered by the angel of death.

And after he had bowed, he left upon his motionless body, for a span of time, a long gaze woven entirely of lingering and still unspent disbelief. And no, he did not embrace him through the entirety of that time... and he did not even dare to kiss him upon the cheek. For he knew that if he embraced him, even for one final time, it would be his very first time that his Maho would not return the embrace... No, he refused to feel that upon this day. ‘No, I desire no such minute...’ — ‘That pain is already far too hideous.’

In the evening...

He returned once more to the hospital. And once more, he did not find... he did not behold his magical girl. He fell asleep anew, awaiting her.

He spent almost the entirety of the subsequent day undergoing medical examinations. Thereafter, they discharged him from the hospital. Yes, he acquired the permission to set forth with his brothers upon their new, grand journey. But she—the one he had so intensely anticipated, the one he had awaited through many a day—had, as he heard this time too, stopped by again during the day... entering his room. Yet he was not there even then.

And already the fifth orphaned evening had overtaken him!

And he merely desired to behold her at least once more—to at least heal his soul upon her eyes, and for a brief interval hide every fear of his beneath that singular, gentle smile. And it had already struck seven, nay, nineteen hours of that day, and at the eighth, the curfew was to commence. The vehicle that had come to fetch him was already waiting for him at the exit of the building... the hospital building. Yet he... he wrestled frantically with that time within every corner of his heart... along with the desire to behold, if only once more, that being, to him already sublime, who—whichever way it was taken, and from wheresoever it was taken—HAD IN ANY CASE ASSUREDLY brought him another and a new chance at life.”

“And hope had prevailed within him... although he still scattered himself beneath a multitude of doubts. For perhaps, precisely at this moment, she was still with her grandmother in the clinic.

In the midst of an almost entirely vacant corridor that led toward the exit, he shortly encountered a solitary, to him completely unfamiliar, nurse. He stayed her—while his countenance betrayed the expression of something deeply vital and immensely momentous—and inquired after Doctor Florina. He had conjectured that Liliana’s grandmother was known to many in this place. The visibly hurried nurse answered him only so much, yet it was sufficient:

‘Doctor Florina is working in surgery today. Look... you shall set forth, boy, down the first corridor to the left. There you will find an elevator to the third floor. And yonder you shall go through two entire corridors straight ahead, then thereafter down the first right, and at the end of it, to your left is the department of surgery.’ — and amidst all her haste, she nevertheless directed him along the path about which he was inquiring. Yes, there still existed some manner of a day even within this state.

But he, nevertheless, after he had received the answer he required... yes, still pressed onward—for that force is far too powerful—and he thoroughly continued to wrestle with a flaring desire, yet also with a grand duty toward all those others... while those white neon lights high above merely magnified even more the nervousness: for no, he was not permitted to be late for the exit—yet neither could he forgive himself, IF HE WERE NOT TO BEHOLD HER AT LEAST ONCE MORE.

And at long last, he resolves... at long last, he nevertheless had resolved to search for her... and could it have unfolded otherwise? And indeed, he had turned left, but before him there were then discovered even three elevators...

For for the umpteenth time in the history of mankind, that which is frequently spoken of among the people in the everyday, very frequently voiced indeed, was confirmed once more:

‘how nevertheless, everything that is swift, is likewise hollow.’

...And he knew not, and for what reason he did not even divine, into which elevator he ought to enter now, nor did he have any soul to ask anew, for that quarter of this hospital at that passing instant was entirely deserted of men...

This time upon Leo’s path, there were neither patients nor medical personnel, for the main body of them had still been transferred to the hospital sector destined for the wounded.

...And he nevertheless resolved upon the first elevator. Yet he had erred... On the floor upon which he stepped out, there was an abundance of people in old age and people in unrest. They had occupied well-nigh the entirety of the corridor...

By all that he was able to judge, that was the department of geriatrics. And by all appearances, today the majority of those people of grand, aged years nevertheless watched far more intensely over the destiny of their city than over their own illness.

...And having skillfully taken care that the hospital personnel should by no means notice him, Leo—for what manner of reason?—had turned his steps toward the stairs that lead down, to the lower floor. And after he had descended from the same,”

 “...he perceives—he had perceived—that this floor was likewise deserted once more.

Yet as he had nevertheless resolved to press onward by that path, shortly—as if through what manner of mist... or was it solely within his eyes?—he encounters... he had encountered an old woman of that certain, already unpleasant countenance. And she, within her tightly woven basket—yet one somehow as if entirely plastered in cobwebs, yes, as though it had been drawn forth from some manner of cobwebs!—was bearing plums of that one, bursting violet hue, all draped in those certain iridescences dark as the night. But the heart was guiding Leo! So, completely disregarding that utterly unusual and somehow entirely obscure basket of hers... politely, in the exact same manner as he would have done with any soul who stood in her place, he inquired whether she perhaps knew how to reach the department of surgery. And to this, she merely, mutely and slowly, yet negatively, shook her head—in a guise as if it interested her not in the least and as though it were of no importance at all—and thereafter, just as mutely, she offered him those bursting, by now somehow... those single bordeaux-blue plums, which quite simply seemed as if they could by no means be resisted...

They were strewn with certain golden specks... and it was as if they gleamed... gleamed somehow profoundly. And everything somehow appeared as though within every single one of them, the entire cosmos was mirrored.

...But beholding—and watching—him as he hesitated, the old woman finally spoke:

‘Take them, boy. With them, I have already nourished many of the wounded.’

Yet Leo was then overtaken by a certain, supernatural and intense nausea within his stomach, and something immensely strange—grander even than fear—befell him: it was as though life itself were filtering out of him, as if every ounce of his will in that passing instant were abruptly being extinguished. And he himself knew not why he had answered in precisely such a manner:”

“‘No, I have not harvested them.’ — whereupon, leaving that thoroughly uncanny old woman in a manner well-nigh discourteous, he somehow hastened even more to discover Liliana. Yet shortly, his leg all at once—anew and abruptly—pained him... and he then perceived that he would no longer be able to walk freely for much longer. For a brief interval, he even came to a halt upon the spot (while... the hands of a clock yonder were ticking away...). It was then that all at once, he anew perceived that behind his back, he no longer caught the departing strides of that ghostly old woman, who—merely until a moment ago—had crosscut his path. And... this already appeared to him thoroughly strange, for save for the sound of that certain, ever-rattling and flickering neon light, akin to the ticking of what manner of antique alarm clock, nothing more was to be heard. And as he turned around, he perceived that this old woman, by now immensely ghastly to him, was nowhere to be found anymore within the entirety of that somehow subtly darkened corridor. Was it what manner of... a cold breeze that had all at once discovered him then? ...yet every single hair upon his body stood on end. Nevertheless, he consoled himself with the conjecture that she had perhaps, after all, merely turned into one of those chambers arranged transversely along the corridor, while he had failed to catch the sound of it.

And Leo shortly turned his steps into another corridor... within it, at the commencement, he encountered solely mutilated patients, bowing beneath the burden of a multitude of bandages... They moved through the expanse somehow absently—indeed, resembling what manner of mummies—as though they were all still searching for something... as if they had forgotten something paramount. They scarcely even noticed Leo—perhaps merely by the corner of an eye, discovering nothing of importance within him—absorbed in their own agony. And only after a few sequences... all at once, he perceived that he was anew finding himself at the very commencement... upon his own ward, yonder from whence he had set forth. Yes, it became clear to him then that he was standing within the exact same corridor from which he had departed upon exiting his room—only, upon the completely opposite end. It was as though a sudden spasm had seized his very soul...”

“...a constriction of anxiety seized him, and there arrived a certain strange voice of absurdity. The kind that still rarely visits in early youth—yet here it was a matter indeed of something grand.

And the corridor at that passing instant appeared to him somehow well-nigh endless. And he moved solely straight ahead, so that merely by the corner of an eye, within the rooms beside which he was passing, he would discern the patients, of whom the majority had already thoroughly fallen asleep...

...yes, that was the traumatology ward of this once truly grand city.

...And shortly, he anew encountered what seemed like some three new elevators. This time, he selected the second in order. And then anew... and anew, he perceived that he had once more erred in his path. Yet now he had already acquired the sensation that quite simply, he had even become lost... And everything all at once appeared to him somehow as if he had already been wandering for hours... though in truth, there had merely passed all of a quarter of a full hour... since that precise moment when he had resolved, prior to exiting the hospital, to nevertheless search for, to nevertheless discover his Liliana. Yet the hospital building was crafted in the style of socialist-realist architecture. And for a man who, for whatever manner of reason, would find himself within it... within it everything ever appeared grander and more significant—and yet simpler, coarser, and more unyielding—than his very self.

But Leo shortly encountered the stairs as well. He set forth down them—he descended down them... For he desired to reach the ground floor, so that yonder he might search for that legend ever present upon the wall in such places, and upon it discover the precise description of the path toward the department of Liliana’s grandmother. Yet amidst all that scattered distraction of his own, he descended well-nigh down to the cellar of the hospital... And down below lay the laundry room. And... he set off through that certain mist ever present down there, born of heavy fragrances... yes, through that eternally steam-stifled corridor... beholding how down yonder in the distance, upon a green background in white letters, it was inscribed: ‘exit’. And while above his head he was accompanied by pipes—those certain, ever-present pipes in such expanses, in such places—he, in a subtly, yet above all the torment within his soul, sufficiently bowed posture, was moving toward the exit. And then...! All at once, within one of those numerous side corridors, almost always nurtured by darkness and those certain... those dwarf clouds of steam... all at once, he caught the sound of a ringing laughter—his entire heart leaped, his hands yearned to grasp, nay, he had returned unto his very self—the laughter of a girl... which appeared to him to be HERS! ...to be Liliana’s.”

“Yet it also appeared to him, somewhere yonder behind his temples—it was quite simply a moment of such a nature, and it was still thin ice! and few are those today who know how to walk upon water—akin to an echo of some unattainable fortune that rushes, that rears up somewhere yonder high above, toward what manner of... lofty mountains.

...but by the time he had managed... and to arrive... to at least merely peer around the corner, no soul was there anymore. But no sooner had he anew stepped toward the exit than he caught the sound—yes, he had caught the sound, or had it merely appeared to him precisely so once more?—anew, that very same ringing laughter. Turning around... he managed merely to catch sight... merely a single tress of coal-black hair. And yes! by now he conjectured, by now he knew—he felt entirely so within himself—it is she, yes, it is she, it must be she... ‘but whence at this precise hour that clock yonder in the distance, and is it truly ten minutes before eight hours upon it?’ Yes, it was yet another of those moments that are remembered for an entire lifetime. He was drenched entirely by that one, fresh yet cold sweat. Desire over desire was boiling over... How was he to follow her now when he knows that he is not permitted to be late... to be late for the flight? ‘I have beheld those eyes... I have discerned that smile’ — ‘She would be the first, ahead of all others... to be angry with me.’ And HE RESOLVED—whether erroneously, time shall reveal... nay, the years themselves...:

‘Ah, I shall behold thee anew, angel-girl,’ Leo whispered to his entire being, as though he had precisely struck a match to light a candle within that entire darkness of the frozen corridor. And perhaps he was not altogether certain of his words, yet he was woven entirely of hope—the kind of hope that resides within the eyes of the destitute, those eyes most commonly belonging to one of those silent, metropolitan beggars, shrouded beneath a layer of sweat both scalding and freezing, as he finally began his ascent over the wide marble steps that were leading him to the ground floor.

There, he was greeted by a widely scattered cry ringing through the expanse:

‘Hey, Leo!’

Yes, it was Aunt Fatima. And as he turned around, her words rushed to meet him:

‘Where on earth have you been until now? We have searched for you everywhere!’

Her voice was laden with everything that arrives from a grand uncertainty, and leads back to a grand uncertainty. He had been searching—searching for something whole, something beautiful... indeed, he had searched the only way he knew how. And so, he sought to weave that elusive something into his reply:

‘The room was tightening around me in a way I could no longer endure, so I decided to surrender it as quickly as possible to those who truly need it. And then, the elevator carried me away somewhere...’

For perhaps even he did not fully comprehend the reason until the very end... yet, before Aunt Fatima, he concealed all those words he held sacred. For everyone around him, his entire prior absence remained cloaked in mystery.

Meanwhile, his soul was being crucified by the burning fire of too many questions for which he possessed no answer, and a gnawing sorrow bit him to the bone—a bitter regret that he had not seen his Lili just once more, if only for one last time. He did not even suspect where all of this would ultimately lead him. Those echoes of laughter in the darkened corridor... they, perhaps, would never be extinguished.”

 

 

 

 

 

II – The Bandage

And shortly, they both nestled themselves within a patrol jeep of the International Forces and set forth toward the airport. Yonder, all his brothers and sisters were awaiting them. It was a pitch-black night, darker than darkness itself, when the aircraft of the International Forces soared beneath the heavens.

And high above... through the windows... from the airplane, one could catch sight of merely an occasional light upon the earth and a solitary star within the sky. For the gloom had desolated the entire expanse wherein the by now slumbering travelers found themselves. Yet there were discerned, even for this, clear reasons. Those who remained down below upon the earth were concealing, each in his own way, their cities from projectiles, while the sky... the sky, it seemed, had quite simply been hidden by the angels from yet another wrath of God. And the hearts... the hearts by now were weary. And every disposition within them had already been extinguished.

There reigned a certain... a remarkably enchanting silence, of the kind from which almost any soul might grow ill. Quite simply, it was a moment of such a nature. Engulfed was all that bustle which would otherwise ever have been brought by that always somehow unconfined joy, unique to children. For the children had experienced far too many colossal occurrences in a mere few, brief, earthly measures of time. Yes, their hearts were still wrestling with an overwhelmingly heavy mountain of impressions that reason rejects, and so they expended every ounce of strength solely upon those grand heartbeats wherein there lay not much room for words.

There was heard only a certain quiet, alien music... echoing through the entire expanse of the aircraft. Yes, a ballad composed somewhere yonder in the far west appeared, in some manner, quite simply to have rested upon the slumber and those weary children's souls... in the exact same guise as oil settles upon the surface of water.

And upon all of this, Aunt Fatima seemed to have lowered yet another of those warm linen sheets, when she undertook to read across the microphone that singular, final fairy tale of his, which their Maho had managed to finish a mere few moments prior to his death... back then... precisely then, following that final, solemn visit of his to his unbetrothed, yet destined companion through life...

The fairy tale was christened 'Kalina':

Somewhere yonder, beneath the morning star, Venus—that star which is otherwise unusually cold for a celestial body... although it frequently possesses a radiance more brilliant than many of those burning stars—there was born, within the house of a poor tavern-keeper from the suburbs, a girl of extraordinary beauty.

Her mother had surrendered her soul to God on that very day when she gave birth to this, her first and final child, to the tavern-keeper who had already advanced in years. And the father named the girl Kalina. And he alone knew why it was precisely so...

His tavern was called 'The Moment'. By that name, it was as though he had desired solely to depict the brevity of the duration of human life, which endures only in torment and in the attempt to forget the same—as he was frequently accustomed to say.

His tavern, throughout that entire quarter of the city, was the embodiment of that certain burdensome and somehow damp, moldering atmosphere, born of scalding smoke and eyes somehow ever moist. Within it, through years and years, money acquired in blood and sweat was scattered, purchasing at least a grain of solace. Yes, a certain stench of an ancient curse hovered over it. Old Zvjezdan knew this and was fully conscious of it.

He believed that it was solely because of this that his young wife had been long ailing and barren, and so he constantly closed all the doors that lead from the lower chambers, those upon the ground floor... toward the upper story, which he had rented from a man with whom he shared both the house and the tavern.

And that entire house was situated within an utterly turbulent quarter of the city, in every imaginable regard. It was rumored that yonder, upon that very spot, a burial ground had existed in ancient times... belonging to one of those bygone peoples. Yet today, a harbor dump lay in its place.

Many among those elder women frequently testified that this place was the theater of perpetual conflicts between the dark and the luminous forces for the sake of human souls. Monsieur Zvjezdan was among the rare few who truly knew far more regarding this... for during one of those dead of nights, he had trodden upon the train of the vestment of the angel of death—a being for some reason ever of a pallid countenance, yet immensely revered throughout the entire universe. Yes, it was whispered that behind his steps there frequently creaked a carriage upon which the bodies of those fallen from life are borne away, toward what manner of a green lake of nothingness... though no soul had ever been able to bear witness to it.

Monsieur Zvjezdan had bowed down to the earth before him then, yet that was no... that was by no means sufficient for this angel, that was of no worth to this angel... and the destitute Zvjezdan possessed nothing else; he was forced to strike a bargain with the implacable master of emptiness. Namely, the angel of death had whispered to him that he knew his wife was with child, but also that this babe she carried would be delivered into his hands even prior to its birth. The wretched tavern-keeper continued to implore the angel of the pallid countenance not to receive his child beneath his shroud, and that in return, he would surrender all else that he possessed.

The angel of death accepted the bargain, yet solely after he had declared that he would take unto himself whosoever should be discovered closest at the very birth of the child. And from that hour, the old tavern-keeper counted every single day until the nativity, so that he might be discovered precisely there at the child’s birth, and so that his exquisitely beautiful wife would by no means be left alone in that passing instant.

Yet it was as though destiny had deceived him. In the moment of travail, she nevertheless was found alone up yonder on the upper story, within that solitary gentle, pure, and tranquil chamber upon that site... For it was an immensely tempestuous day within the tavern then, so that he, by an evil fate, in a fleeting instant had vanished from his mind the necessity to nevertheless occasionally return this day to the chamber of his wife. For it was one of those days when the grand merchants from the harbor held an unloading upon the dump of all that dross which they had renounced. And the tavern was crowded with men weary of existence, so that the poor tavern-keeper did not manage even to catch the faint weeping of his young wife.

And when the bustle within the tavern had already begun to wane, he then remembered the task he had set upon himself, and through the sweat of his brow, he set forth with a hurried stride toward that small chamber up yonder.

Inside, he then discovered a sweet infant girl within a cradle, beneath a white yet blood-stained embroidered linen sheet. And prostrated beneath the cradle lay his lifeless young wife.

And after that, many a year had already rolled away...

And prior to his daughter’s coming of age, Zvjezdan fell gravely ill. It was as though those years had finally caught up with him—years during which he had long poisoned himself with that ever-heavy, ever-pestilential air of the tavern. Yet his deepest sorrow was not that he now found himself at the very close of his life, but solely because he had not secured a dignified existence for his daughter... in any manner far removed from the tavern.

The final nights of his life he spent entirely imploring God to send someone who would lead her away from their house, before she too became completely infected by that eternally moldering tavern air. Yet she was so extraordinarily beautiful that every earthly soul was struck with fear to approach her...

And she was already thoroughly infected by that entire dross of the tavern atmosphere, yet she managed somehow to conceal it, so that her ill-fated father never came to know it until the very end of his life.

Namely, her deceased mother, at the very moment of nativity, had already passed onto her such a destiny, while the girl still lay within her womb, bound to her mother by the pathways of nature.

And when her father was likewise laid to rest and she inherited his share of the tavern and all the encumbrances upon it, her malignant character manifested itself. That certain beauty of hers venomously seduced the men within her surroundings. Nay... even the co-owner of the house and the tavern, without any explanation to any soul, deeded his entire share into her possession. Half of the entire harbor quarter yearned for her with a fierce craving.

Yet one day, God resolved to send her His angel—was it merely a man?—so that he might guide her upon the righteous path. Albeit at the exact same time, the prince of darkness did so too... so that she might remain upon the way of error.

During the day, in those hours when she would remain alone, God’s angel would visit her... and during the night, the angel of darkness—was it merely a man? And both angels were resolute to endure in their design... yet deceived were they both. Both of them fell into pure passion with her. Yet neither possessed sufficient strength even to reach so far as her hand. Her demands were far too colossal for her to bestow herself upon any soul.

From God’s angel, she had demanded that he excavate as much gold as equaled the size of her house... But from that hour, it was as though he no longer dared to distance himself from her, and so he began to dig around the very courtyard. Yet as he found no gold, or found it in negligibly small measure (for perhaps someone, once upon a time, had misplaced a fraction of something there), he began to dig deeper and deeper still. And entire labyrinths began to form beneath the house. The tavern guests began to marvel, unable to cease marveling at those certain wondrous trenches, pits, and inexplicable folds upon the surface of the earth, which appeared to sink lower and lower. Yet the angel continued to dig onward and onward, deeper and deeper still. And in a passing instant, he no longer knew how to return to the surface. Yes, he dug until he all at once felt that infernal heat which dragged him into the devil’s courtyard, where, for some reason within himself, he remained forever imprisoned.

From the angel of darkness, she had demanded that he return her father from the realm of the dead... And he, just like God’s angel, had embraced her demand... and precisely when he had set forth to knock upon the gates of the world of the dead, there appeared before him that angel of the pallid countenance to prevent him from doing so. Yes... for the angel of death had demanded a substitution for the life of Kalina’s father.

And the angel of darkness, that very same night, returned to the tavern so that he might convey to Kalina the demand of the angel of death. And... no, she was compromise-free, and she had convinced him to surrender his own life in exchange for the life of her father, and... out of an overwhelming infatuation, he listened to her. Yet his life belonged to the master of darkness. And so... he set off to his presence to implore him for the same.

But when the master of darkness heard his tale of forbidden love, he grew so thoroughly enraged that on the spot, he claimed the life of his own angel. Yes, not even the angel of darkness succeeded in fulfilling her demand... and she was left entirely alone to govern the tavern.

But the Lord of all things visible and invisible...

...had restored life to the former dark angel and called him into His own ranks, for that immense infatuation toward a female being had touched Him so deeply that the angel had sacrificed even his very own life...

Albeit...

Kalina, having thereafter rejected a multitude of loves, remained alone... and she remained with a vacant heart, never knowing in her earthly life what it truly means to love someone.

And the years, more and more, gnawed away at her beauty and weakened her flesh, until at long last, at the very end... she passed away in absolute solitude, within that exact same once-gentle chamber where she had been born, watching a pair of doves as they caressed upon the window—that singular window which gazed into alien gardens.

And a few days following her demise...

The entire house, as well as the tavern itself, collapsed into the abyss which, many a summer before beneath it, God’s angel had excavated... searching upon her demand for all that gold of an ever-venomous radiance. - And directly after she had concluded this, by the measure of well-nigh anyone, poignant fairy tale of Mahir, everyone save for Leo (who through the entirety of that time had listened with absolute attention) had already fallen asleep—yes, the poignant most frequently mirrors itself in such a guise upon a child's soul. To Leo, not merely as an intelligent youth, but by what manner of a secret of nature, immensely wise, it was clear that Uncle Maho had illuminated his fairy tale with the message that beauty devoid of humanity... desolates lives... Yet by no means could he escape the impression that Uncle Maho had interwoven his fairy tale with a far broader message as well...

Only, it had somehow come to pass that Leo nevertheless, in that passing instant, had still not heard how Uncle Mahir spoke to him too regarding the truth that grace guided by humanity is the supreme ideal of all love, before which the hosts of both worlds had waged war for its sake. And many had followed behind it even to the very floor of hell, and ascended into the heights of light... and in the yearning to realize it, had discovered the meaning of life.

Albeit... Yes, in that passing instant, Leo nevertheless had whispered something... merely to his own beard:

“No, hers can by no means be a wicked smile.” — and those were his final words and his final thoughts prior to him sinking into slumber himself, and yonder... within it, discovering anew the fairy tale of which Aunt Fatima had narrated.

Yet within that dream, he beheld himself in the guise of the tavern-keeper. No, he did not comprehend then that which he had seen... And he startled awake from the dream somehow entirely desolate. He beheld then, but once more, that exact same hoarse luminescence of the night lights within the aircraft, and above all else, how everyone else slept fast. Whereupon he anew sank into slumber... whether perhaps... searching for some other dreams.

And as the aircraft at long last began its descent toward that solitary... ever-beautiful coastal city, Leo began to awaken. He then leaned over, almost by a reflex of the soul, against the window of the airplane. Yonder, he discovered one of those... most magnificent postcards of his life until then. Yes, it was equal in beauty toward that which he would behold whenever Maho would lead them to the hills high above their beloved city.

Yes, for some reason known solely to himself, he had been accustomed to doing so frequently even in the dead of night... (A certain wisdom known to his own heart he had discovered within it...)

...Within the window pane, there was then mirrored an entire swarm of variegated lights, floating as if upon what manner of a vast and unconfined sea of darkness. Everything somehow appeared to him as though the heavens had, in part, poured themselves down upon the earth. And after they had already commenced their landing, and the lights from the earth grew ever closer... nevertheless, more and more... that entire image began to resemble a genuine, boundless multitude of what manner of moving... yet merely bulbs, entangled within a vast spider’s web (Could it be born of the streets?!)... Yet the aircraft, nevertheless, had to ground itself, and he had to perceive how that entire luminance magic—as he had thought then—in a manner unique solely unto itself, all at once and entirely abruptly had vanished.

Two minibuses awaited them then upon a thoroughly deserted airfield.

Shortly, they were traversing a street running along the sea. And perhaps one of the most exquisite countenances of the city was mirrored within it. People, appearing perhaps at first glance tranquil, were still strolling along the sidewalk back then. (It was no longer so within the city they had abandoned). Through a window of the minibus, opened merely a fraction, there drifted the interwoven fragrances of burnt oil and fried picarel-fish. Unto that place there also drifted that bustle, ever possessing a unique spice, characteristic for all those coastal cities from the south. Only to mingle with every alto notes of the seagulls, into what manner of a symphony... yet one which ears famished for peace simply devoured with sheer relish. In the exact same guise as the beaks of fledglings from a deserted nest... when some new, warm wing touches them anew.

They did not divine even then that new salvos were nevertheless not as distant as it had appeared to them in that passing instant. Yet within this city, somehow and above all else, it appeared as though the sea—in that unique, and solely to itself known, magical way, through that certain sorcery of a colossal body of water—still succeeded in extinguishing the conflagration of war that had already thoroughly expanded across their once grand country.

That street, there, directly running along the sea, was vibrantly illuminated. Cafés, restaurants and what manner of taverns, bearing a mini-million of colors, appeared as though they had nestled themselves within every single foundation of the surrounding buildings. While upon their other side, entire rows of palm trees would occasionally conceal and occasionally reveal—by what manner of a rhythm indeed...—myriad lights of those vessels, many of which were already yonder, far away... somewhere out upon the open sea.

Yet this minibus shortly vanished into those streets of a lower order... though by no means inferior in appearance compared toward the street of light and the street along the sea. Instead of any heavy countenance, vendors of doughnuts marched through them, and a multitude of youth jostled in close proximity around them. Many, countless vendors had occupied the sidewalks with diverse and variegated wares. Yet for some reason, the warmest, and to the heart somehow born of the most potent fragrance, was precisely that which was displayed upon the hoods of automobiles. Coastal-bright, they unfolded words one with another. At least so it appeared to the children... so it appeared to Leo. And perhaps solely toward what manner of an experienced eye, such as Aunt Fatima’s, could it have appeared as though, nevertheless, upon many of their faces she had caught sight of what manner of wistfulness... and bitterness, and a fraction of that which comes from wrath—merely subtly muffled by all that foam upon the surface of the sea.

It was immensely warm that evening. Yet nevertheless, in the end, whosoever would have thought that all that heat—coming from wheresoever, from war, from conflagrations that had engulfed wheresoever yonder... that one truly once-grand country—slithers its... could it be its tongue?... and completely venomously sparks, well-nigh to the very shore of the sea, would by no means have erred.

Yes, that could assuredly be noticed even within an occasional dark glance that would, from time to time, be directed... even toward the vehicles of the International Forces. Yet Leo had been unwilling, or perhaps still knew not how, to perceive them.

But whosoever,... he had by then nevertheless sunk into a very tortuous slumber... Yet behold, after a span of time, he awoke as though it had been so decreed. Through the somnolence and the heavy languor, he perceived... he beheld that the minibus had already come to a halt before what manner of a building—one crafted entirely of white stone, yes, that one grand coastal house bearing the hue of what manner of aged... could it be... goat cheese...?

It possessed a multitude of terraces. And many hung high above the sea. While palm trees were also situated within its courtyard. A golden luminance, which ever somehow softly smells of what manner of longing, was scattered across the courtyard by candelabra, planted right yonder along the very edge of the cliff. And through the cliff, a narrow path was carved, paved with dressed stone. It led down toward a rather small beach, yonder below, directly beneath the cliff.

...Before the building, they were greeted—they were welcomed—by an altogether intriguing manifestation. Grey, twirled mustaches crowned that one, ever-expansive smile of a coastal dweller...

Beneath the soul somewhere, such an image soothed them all... bearing that one indefinite, quiet, warm self-assurance... the kind that ever warms, ever comforts those whose spirit is overwrought, whose soul is submerged.

...While a rather large, crimson nose, which appeared as though it had been wiped by many a sea wind, like what manner of an antique pillar supported his lofty brow—that canopy to many of the old man’s tempestuous recollections—which was still merely covered by a stretch of long, grey hair.

And the old man’s chest—as if he bore an entire sailing vessel upon himself—was merely partially covered by a somehow strained shirt. And into it vanished short trousers, extended merely to the old man’s knees. Yes, he nonchalantly trod upon the earth in what manner of sandals of domestic craftsmanship.

Yes, it was he—the great friend of the late Mahir, Monsieur Matija. Within his possession was this home... and now, their boarding house.

And having observed the guests with those large eyes of his—ever engaged in what manner of a benevolent play—yes, with those two coastal embers, he spoke:

“They are beautiful children, Fata.” — addressing himself far more toward the children than toward Madame Fatima.

And she approached him in a somehow sisterly fashion, with a soft yet distinct stride, so as to embrace him with a binding more firm than forceful, pressing her chest against his, searching for solace—of which there is never enough for people who lose someone such as Uncle Maho was.

And at the commencement, he received her somewhat awkwardly—for after all, this was far too grand a burden even for him—only thereafter to discover within himself the entire magnitude of that passing instant, dropping the same into his very being. And lest Aunt Fatima should fail to discover whatever manner of solace within herself, in doing so he whispered to her:

“My condolences.” — so as not to disturb the children before sleep.

“My deepest gratitude, friend Mate,” Madame Fatima answered, in a manner somehow warm and full of trust.

Shortly thereafter, they all entered together into that beautiful, somehow quietly magnificent house already described—that aforementioned building before whose entrance, here too, there was planted yet another of those vibrantly yellow lemon trees... yes, that symbol so characteristic to people similar to Mahir.

And shortly...

Following the evening repast, all the newly arrived guests, very soon thereafter, had distributed themselves among the chambers. Yes, and shortly thereafter, the sea air had already lulled many of them to sleep. Yet Leo, beneath the pressure of an overwhelming anxiety, by no means succeeded in falling asleep... In the end, he nevertheless resolved to slip out through those doors down at the very entrance—those doors below, ever open. He departed from the boarding house and descended along that yonder, narrow path toward the beach, so that precisely yonder, beneath all that luminance of the candelabra, variegated tonight by the moonlight as well, he might read that letter which his beloved Maho had left exclusively for him.

And he broke the wax seal of Mahir, and that monogram of Maho so familiar to him. Quite slowly, he opened the missive, not divining in the least what manner of revelations he might encounter within the same...

And the air around him had by now already become subtly chilly, while there also drifted that sharp freshness from the sea... yet Leo back then was not shuddering solely from the cold.

...for after all, yonder somewhere within those mists of thoughts, he had a presentiment that from this missive he might learn something truly grand. And reading already upon that first yellow parchment the left-behind words of Uncle Maho, his heart was thoroughly crucified.

Thus it was inscribed:

If one day I am no longer here through a convergence of some evil-fated circumstances yonder, and this transpires during your tender years, this missive shall be unto you my lips... It shall relate to you all that could interest you, at least... in your mature years.

My son, upon this parchment lies interwoven the entirety of your personal history accessible to me, as well as much that might even be the prerequisite for a future which you shall, as I believe, by the grace of dear God, know yonder one day.

And to all that I know regarding you, my dear son, the commencement was a now already distant spring night of the year 1978. Before my house and yours, within our exquisitely beautiful city, there had come to a halt a limousine... bearing foreign registration marks upon its plates. The person who had first stepped out from it made it clear to me that we must open the gate of our ever-grand house for the sake of the future of more than just a single child.

And when I had done so, they drove with the automobile into our courtyard. Inside, beneath the twilight, the doors of the black limousine opened, and I beheld within it that certain heavy and scowling countenance beneath the shadow of a dark hat which thoroughly cast a canopy over the same. Beside him sat a lady in her middle years, thoroughly grave and official, and within her embrace she held an infant of an altogether sweet visage. That was you, my son!

Both of the described people stepped out of the limousine beneath the shroud of darkness, accompanied by certain others... men of a dark and perilous countenance. I knew that they arrived from those exact same perilous heights where the vast majority of the citizens of our beloved land had never found themselves. And I hosted them, my dear one, as though they were my closest kin, lest I should disrupt their custom... and lest I should disrupt our own custom either.

The man beneath the hat remained entirely silent through the whole duration, while the lady with the newborn in her embrace unraveled the decrees. She communicated to me that I was under obligation to receive you beneath my roof, and that I was under obligation that your name should become Leo. And in return, to the ‘Home for Abandoned Children’—as our ‘house of forgotten lives’ was christened in those days—there would be allotted a towering sum of money, and through the coming years, it would become one of the most reputable institutions of such a nature in the entirety of our land.

Yet not for the sake of that... but rather because I was struck with fear by the destiny which that sweet child—that is, you, my son—would have acquired had I refused all that she had delivered to me as a decree, I accepted it all... although I knew even then, my son (forgive me for speaking this to you... but would I ever dare to lie to you?) that these were unclean affairs.

And after a mere few days, a seven-figure sum in dollars was deposited into the account of my institution, and of your new home. And I was permitted to dispose of that money in whatever manner I desired and knew how.

And when you had already entered into your third year of life—although I had never succeeded in discerning when the day of your nativity truly was, and for the actual day, I adopted that very day when I first received you into my own embrace—there reached me a registered missive, and within it, merely a few of all the requested revelations... and new instructions.

Namely, I had received perilous threats against myself and my work, concerning the guiding of you all... my children, upon the path of life, should I fail to destroy the contents of the letter after reading, or should I allow it in any manner to be released into the public sphere...

 

What I can and must say... Those people of the darkness and of a silence unattainable to me had destined for you, for some reason, a satisfaction, and as they themselves declared: a solace in the guise of a bank account with a value of one million dollars—which you shall be permitted to dispose of solely after your completed eighteenth year.

And so that I might enable a life worthy of a... Prince, as stands within your surname, the guardianship over you I relinquish toward my adopted brother Alimpie and sister Anastasia. I trust that you shall shortly make their acquaintance, and perceive how truly wondrous people they are.

Yes... the surname Prince you received because I was precisely at that passing instant reading to your brothers and sisters a fairy tale regarding a prince, back when the representatives of the administration of our grand country arrived at our then humble home to enter your name into the official books.

I am sorrowful for shifting your entire inner life with this missive you are reading, yet comprehend, my son: all that I knew and was capable of, I performed for your sake. I believe it is best thus—for you to learn all of this all at once, rather than for me to have packed it all into some velvet gloves, nourishing your soul with sundry dubious crumbs of truth. Forget not that you are a Lion—a Leo—and that you do not nourish yourself upon crumbs!

P.S.: All your grievances I shall sincerely accept when we encounter one another anew in the far distant future.

P.P.S.: Display the second portion of the missive toward Aunt Fatima, so that she might undertake further measures.

Eternally your father, Mahir.

Within the second portion of the missive there were discovered all the documents indispensable to Leo, which had long reposed within Mahir’s drawer of his writing desk. Likewise, it contained instructions toward Madame Fatima for all the necessary deeds touching upon Leo’s future.

...At the conclusion of reading that eternally so intensely anticipated letter—or at least the words that had through the entirety of time been missing—Leo was overtaken by those emotions to him until then thoroughly unfamiliar and altogether unusual.

Somehow he felt entirely as if inside a unique manner of a romantic shock, of the kind which—when it overtakes a man merely for the first duration, and merely yonder upon the surface—makes it appear to him as though everything within him is somehow still dying out (though an unskilful eye would perhaps even say: “everything is all the same”). That is that stance which as it were attempts to preserve a man from far too intense emotions, which in that passing instant cannot mutually and thoroughly align, yet not a single one among them... can you nevertheless renounce. For not a single heart, which knows what all it has to guard, desires to fall into madness... And it shall still fear all those ill-fated circumstances, however few of them seemingly remained back then, which could anew return it to a state within the universe such as it had been prior to tasting that remarkable sour, yet sugar.

Yes, beneath such a state... inside such situations, such occurrences, it is somehow more arduous for lips to bind words and short phrases akin to these: “so nevertheless...”, “so it had to unfold precisely so...”, “so that much was necessary...”, “ha-ha” (that laughter unto oneself or not—which as if by a presentiment was arriving, and according to some even born of torment...), “consequently that had to... well...”, “and what now...”, “ah, ah, ah, I know how now...”—along with many others similar to them. Yes, it is then that one doubts the most, and believes the absolute most, that the path along which life is guided is indeed the righteous one. And then, however much a man until that hour had been rushing the clock, he now strives to slow it down as much as possible, lest he should distance himself far too much from these moments, wherein at long last it was as though he had caught some of his meanings (knowing where he stands) only to lose the same.

Yet it could nevertheless somehow appear as though Leo, in a manner (above all known to God and to his own heart), had long since been preparing for these passing minutes. As if he had (but where and how?... could it be yonder within many of those silences?) already seen them somewhere, accepting them as his own and by no means doubting much their belonging toward his values, his world, and his destiny.

Albeit... today. Today, by a single stride, he stood more firmly upon the earth along which he walks... By a single measure more lightly did he seek his future steps.

Albeit there still remained much room for every path of such a nature upon which a man can lose his own name...

Even if life were a dance... even if life were a game, certain new steps had been executed within his existence. Anew was there being born that certain youth... today nourished by the leaven of emotions born of those wheat-like fragrances. Yes, from many of his grand wounds, the first sprouts of meaning were emerging. And he was being born anew from many... both sought and unsought grand tidings... from the first passions of searching for the meaning of life, a fraction scorched, that born of gold-dust, as well as the newly acquired power brought to him by a bank account entirely of a morally unsearchable value. Yes, far too grand is the unconfined freedom within it... and a grand, far too profound love it awaits. Anew was there being born—along with a multitude of secrets—a certain new... romantic.

...Namely, even until now he had equally never learned whether his parents by birth were at all still living, for Mahir had never given him the opportunity to enter into, to commence a conversation or at least a tale upon such a theme, reminding him through words or without words how far too young his soul still was for all those grand and heavy emotions. And that never-commenced conversation... they would then ever and thoroughly conclude with that ever-present mention of a foreseeable time and the proper moment, so that Leo himself with the passage of time had already commenced to have a presentiment that it was a matter of some immensely heavy... profound... and intricate circumstances.

And all until this passing instant, Mahir’s relation toward him had somehow sufficed him—whether born of fear... lest destiny, after all, should ruthlessly settle its accounts with him. Yes, grand is the account of life... it is most wise to pay it in installments...

And irresistibly, a solitary sentence:

“What would she say to me this time too...?” — was weighing upon his thoughts, yet whether solely upon his thoughts or more expansively, or even deeper than that... Yes, softly uttered, yet to him as beautiful as the taste of water is beautiful to a parched throat, as comforting as a maternal smile is comforting, as warm as a child’s cradle is warm, and as joyful as a man in love is joyful. Who can thoroughly search into all of this? The surging tempest amidst his emotions brought a genuine, warm downpour to his soul. And it continued to wash over him even amidst the subsequent, somehow rogueish, somehow romantic, gently and softly uttered words:

“But I am dead anew. I am dead to many who could nevertheless have been my world!” — yet far less thundering in the heart and much more quietly. “I shall seek her out, I must, whenever it may be... I shall then nevertheless seek all of them out too... A man cannot die so many times,” his heart was ticking away.

“...Yes, my Maho ever knew what was good for me... I know... he loved me,” Leo brought forth the thoughts, bearing the emotion... and that certain deep thing within himself. For many loved Maho, many had revered him... believed that he was an honorable man, yet few... yes, few... were conscious of that certain profound wisdom of his which—before many a soul—all that quiet sorrow, and that one expansive openness... and innocent love in his eyes had managed to conceal. For today, few are those who still believe in dreamers and eternal boys.

Albeit assuredly, the attentiveness of his father by destiny, his adopted Mahir, was such and of such a measure that Leo was experiencing these moments, today, still standing powerfully with both feet upon the earth. And precisely owing to this, Leo had until this very day borne within himself the sensation... borne within himself and beneath himself the stance that his parents by birth were now yonder somewhere, upon yet another distant journey, and through all that duration, had relinquished him toward their best friend and his best friends. Yes, that would be similar to when someone—bereft of parental attentiveness due to whatever manner of circumstances necessary to destiny—would be guarded by those who were closest to his parents... could it be the closest kin: comprised of a multitude of aunts, united by whatever path, in whatever manner, by what manner of a singular authority, an uncle...

Namely, Mahir’s home for abandoned children had never possessed the countenance of that one cold institution, fashioned by a firm socialist hand for those to whom civil society was unable to proffer anything more... performing thereby, and within that, merely another mere satisfaction of contemporary civil morality. No, it was a sheer antithesis to the described, for within such a structure, names and figures would ever become of an identical guise... whereas within the grand house of Mahir, names and figures did not recognize one another.

Albeit... within that structure described above, personalities would well-nigh ever dissolve within the magnitude of the collective itself, whereas within that grand house of Mahir, the entire collective would submerge itself into each and every distinct, young personality, whereby the collective itself merely grew along with every personality individually, and was never able to exhaust itself.

And all of Mahir’s sisters—as he himself frequently termed them, among whom were both Aunt Fatima and Aunt Marija, but also certain others yonder—appeared as if they were merely his extended hands, which added life one to another...

And whosoever among Mahir’s friends would perceive how Mahir had truly succeeded in enabling each of his children to express themselves precisely within their own personality... would then acquire the sensation that Mahir, in truth, must possess within his being a grand share of God’s grace... (Yes, grand is the secret within this: it is by no means easy to love mankind so deeply...).

...Was it at all possible for Leo, in the light of all this, to feel otherwise than as one who finds himself within the circle of a colossal family? (...albeit he had also had a presentiment—somehow it lay deep within him—that if there were so many secrets surrounding him, nothing else remained for him save to follow his own path).

And having resolved to return to the boarding house,

He turned his back upon the open sea, which tonight appeared as though it had thoroughly identified itself with the heavens—quite simply, the sky was mirrored within it. The eyes of a youth grown up beneath those yonder, ever-misty hills, nevertheless knew not how... were not sufficiently skillful to discover a distinction in all of this. At least as much as he was able, whose cherry-blossom strides had precisely stolen beneath the sound... beneath the sounds of the waves—those certain, as if eternally ceaseless tremors of the sea, which without weariness, continuously exchange fine sand with the shore.

Namely, while Leo’s eyes were nevertheless strewn with a certain new radiance, and while he was by now returning toward the boarding house... he did not feel, he did not even divine, that alongside that moon high above yonder, over the open sea, he was accompanied in his strides by Monsieur Matija, who this time had precisely set forth toward the city.

And they encountered one another somewhere yonder near the entrance—yes, by the entrance doors.

‘I see, my handsome boy, that thou art a certain night seagull.’ — those soft words were then directed toward Leo by that old coastal dweller. And Leo, with a childlike wisdom... and a fraction of caution, returned:

‘I could not fall asleep, Uncle Matija,’ merely touching upon all his prior minutes spent beside the sea... whereupon, out of those certain quiet... those words which at the first hearing were only seemingly naive:

‘Thou art right—who is there to see yet fall asleep now?’ — which Monsieur Matija released in a tavern-merry guise, yet with a benevolent and mysterious intent, there unfolded all that breadth of a coastal gaze upon the world...

Yes, volumes had been inscribed regarding those distinct breadths—and presumably owing to this, Leo migrated with complete ease into its embrace.

...and escorting that thought to its conclusion, Monsieur Matija posed a thoroughly rhetorical inquiry:

‘Dost thou see this city before us?’ only to thereafter present his offer in a far more defined shape toward his new, youthful ward:

‘I am bound yonder. If thou wilt, thou canst come with me.’ And Leo, in a certain manner, accepted the same:

‘I would gladly, Uncle Matija...’ yet immediately thereafter presumed: ‘But I know not if it is fitting,’ harboring a doubt toward the full expanse of his youthful and guest-like rights. Albeit accepting this, Matija took upon himself:

‘Ah, come along... Fatima shall find no fault if these two lads enjoy themselves a fraction,’ the entire responsibility for their impending deed.

And thus an aging sea-wolf and this immensely young lad from the city beneath those to him today, now already distant hills, found themselves within that grand, quiet, and eternally sea-scented city, inside one of those somehow peculiar coastal nights. In the end—having traversed many of those vibrantly illuminated paths in all those... colors of the night along the sea—they nestled themselves within a solitary tavern, resembling those down below, much further to the south.

Through the clamor and what manner of a mist, there were discerned many diverse men... who appeared as if they were anchoring the prior day within some greatness known solely to them, and the unique essence of that passing instant. Some performed this now, scorching tobacco—many through pipes which, by what manner of a magical guise, somehow resembled fish—whilst others far more searched behind themselves, chasing their very souls... through those sounds of songs characteristic to these shores—such as were performed tonight by one of the local klapa choirs—whilst a third group had drifted even much further away, gone still further, deceiving themselves in the ever-treacherous gambling with those ever-fickle šoldi coins... and an ever-suffering soul. Albeit there was discovered here tonight an abundance of other, and different souls. It was a truly singular tableau, and for many a reason, it was altogether pleasant to Leo’s youthful eyes.

Yet by that very token, it was in a certain manner (whether solely within or without...? and whether solely in his eyes or in many others?) a dangerously concealed image of a war born of immense blood—an image of eternally unconfined coastal dwellers, which was proffered... and which was brought by this tavern upon the shore of the sea, bearing, by virtue of that certain ever-wild freedom, the name “Vagabundo.”

Yes, Leo’s moist eyes, having already endured a sufficient number of days, permitted such an image to pass tonight... deep into his innermost being, absorbing it in the exact same guise as a passionate smoker would drink down the smoke of tobacco held fast in the flame. And now, and tonight, he somehow had to poison himself with that—somehow even for him—altogether venomous image of a certain joyful sorrow, drowning within it every sensation of the gravity of his today... though still youthful... life. And shortly, yes... though entirely entranced by the same, he nevertheless clearly caught such words:

“Tonight we shall drink for Mahir’s soul...” — for to Leo, those were in every sense colossal words. For a long time after that passing instant, they resonated... yonder somewhere behind his ear. Leo confirmed them with his own:

“Maho permitted us to consume alcohol only on rare occasions, Uncle Matija.”

“Well then, this is one of those occasions, my handsome boy,” Uncle Matija emphasized, with that Mediterranean gravity unique to its own kind.

And following those words of such a nature, it was as if that certain radiance of the bevanda had, to a degree, spilled over into Leo’s youthful eyes as well... for with Uncle Matija, it appeared as though there were no need for that at all, since he... yes, as if he permanently possessed that... something, precisely a radiance of that nature.

Yes, his gaze appeared as though it had ever been supersaturated with all those diverse... occasionally remarkable treasures spilled from vessels into the sea, or stolen from them by the sea itself... which thereafter, through all of this, anew scattered upon its shores. For Matija’s eyes—somehow ever entirely born of life—appeared, it seemed, as though they had ever known how to appraise every single pearl individually, and to discover for it a fitting sanctuary, yonder behind... within the museum of myriad recollections. Yes, yonder reposed much of that seed of such a nature, and from thence arrived many of those expansive and intriguing narratives.

And not much of the night had slipped away...

When they found themselves within a tableau of such a guise... Behind their backs, there remained the fragrance of the sea... before them, doors, window blinds... while behind them came a certain quiet and fine scent of lemon... a potent fragrance of olives, of smoke, of fish, of smoke... of tobacco... and from every quarter around them arose a clamor, around them were many broad backs, many broad chests, and that singular, rich smile of over-ripened men... And very swiftly, they were discovered by the inquiry of what was—by all appearances—an old friend of Matija, that one old acquaintance:

“Mate, hast thou heard how shamefully they sold Jure’s bark?” — who tonight, together with Leo, had found him at that very spot, where indeed many of his coastal dwellers bartered words one with another, and among them, many of those stories entirely born of spice... all whilst scorching the night. And thereafter, Matija commenced to revive precisely one such narrative, with melancholically brief words:

“Ah, Jure...” — carried upon that one, profoundly nostalgic sigh. Whereupon, as though he had all at once discovered something truly colossal within himself... and a fraction of that which is thoroughly profound, akin to... a fairy tale, addressing himself foremost toward Leo, yet thereafter and by no means in lesser measure toward all the others yonder:

“That was a remarkable man, my handsome boy. May the Lord grant rest toward his soul...” — and as he uttered these final words, he signed himself with the cross, in the process releasing that one, melancholically nostalgic sigh. Thereupon anew, following a brief, far more rhetorical and less conditional pause, he continued his extraordinary narrative:

“He possessed not much... he possessed merely a bark, but he knew much! He had beheld many a sea, an abundance of people, an abundance of yonder... an abundance of cities. And he had beheld even more than that... he had beheld our, our sea's... siren!” — and with these final words, he arrested the attention both of those who had not, as well as those who already had heard this extraordinary tale... thereby acquiring many far too suspicious glances... and not many sincerer smiles, escorted by those manner of rather unshaped comments:

“Aaah! Eeee!” — only for him to turn around toward them, bearing—merely at the first hearing—those subtly reproaching words:

“Hold your peace, ye infidels!” — and thereafter continued precisely where he had stalled:

“He related to me that in beauty, she hath no equal... Upon one occasion, while he had sailed out for fine fish, he discovered her sitting alone upon a reef.”

“And what else, a porpoise?!” — commented one of those yonder amidst the smoke, thoroughly convinced that it could not unfold otherwise.

“Hold thy peace, infidel!” — Monsieur Matija returned to him, yet... with an ever-graver reproach within his soul, demonstrating thereby that he had by no means been bewildered... and then he continued to narrate:

“And straightway, she commenced to call him, and he listened to her. He followed her all the way yonder... toward the western shore.”

‘Yonder, he entered into a marine tempest... And for a long duration, my good Jure battled with the same, only at long last to strike against a rugged reef, and in the end, fall into a profound slumber wherein he dreamed of a distant northern shore and yonder, some beautiful city... Yonder, by all appearances, they were interring someone of a grand stature, for throughout the entire city, flags were lowered to half-mast... and all the men and all the women wept. Jure, beholding this, commenced to jostle through that sorrowful gathering all the way toward the grave of the deceased... And when he had arrived yonder, he beheld how they were burying an empty casket. And precisely when he desired to ask: “Why do ye this, people?!”, yonder in the distance, out upon the open sea, across the cemetery cross, he caught sight of his siren. And failing to read even the name of the deceased, he rushed after her... Whether it was a dream or an illusion... yet shortly thereafter he anew found himself upon his bark, frantically battling with the lofty waves. And thus he followed his siren all the way to our city, where at long last he lost her amidst the sea foam. And only when he had anew sailed into our harbor, he perceived that his bark was overloaded with an abundance of fish, shellfish, and other marine treasures, three times more valuable than the bark itself.’ — completing his... narrative—not without reason—precisely from that spot where he had been halted, making from moment to moment merely brief, rhetorical pauses.

‘By Our Lady, that is the truth,’ declared one of those—by Monsieur Matija—unacknowledged listeners.

Matija reacted to the same with his:

‘Hold your peace, ye infidels!’ — to a measured degree born of truth and born of bile in his words, yet with that sound of utter disregard. And following them, he anew continued precisely where he had stalled:

‘My handsome boy, he had even thought that the King of the Southern Sea was sending a dowry for his daughter.’

‘A darkened mind,’ but once more, someone among those unacknowledged listeners of Monsieur Matija arrested for a brief instant his narrative—which to all of them yonder was nevertheless a remarkable one—with a comment by no means fitting in the eyes of Monsieur Matija, so that Matija expressed it in his subsequent, by now truly bilious, brief declaration:

‘Hold thy peace!’ — uttered with a coarse and altogether unyielding sound, whereupon he thoroughly concluded that to Leo truly extravagant story of his:

‘The subsequent day, he purchased diving equipment and set forth toward the open sea. He did not return for a long duration... At long last, merely the bark was discovered.’ — with words that fulfilled the meaning of that entire—truly, not for every day—story of his within this... this tavern of merry coastal dwellers. And then, he thoroughly concluded that certainly somewhat and in a manner quietly troubling narration with his, among the final ones for that evening, and perhaps even the most momentous words concerning the same:

“To whom do I tell this dream, if not to him?”

These words were addressed to everyone, yet perhaps, above all, to himself alone. And yet, in everything that held any meaning, they were chosen first and foremost for Leo. Indeed, only a spirit such as his could give rise to these words:

“Come, my beautiful one, it is time for you to sleep.”
A blessing meant for every single star in the sky.

The night had already claimed three hours of the morning when Leo and Mahov’s great friend from the coast found themselves before the doors of the pension.

It was here, at this very place, where all of Mahir’s children were supposed to await the end of the war. For some, it was to be the sanctuary where they would reach their adulthood. Matija, though a man of wild nights and heavy drinking, had sworn a sacred oath to uphold this reality.

And after everything, Leo had surrendered to this reality—as best as he knew how, and as much as he could. For a time, it truly became a part of his very being.

Throughout all those days, Madame Fatima tried tirelessly to fulfill the wishes of Mahir and Uncle Mahov. She sought to provide Leo with a haven, ensuring that even if these people had not given him his earthly body, they could at least safeguard his soul.

For Mahir always knew far more than he ever chose to speak aloud.

Yet, during those two years, Madame Fatima’s noble intentions constantly failed, thwarted by many heavy obstacles and the cold, unyielding bureaucracy of wartime.

During that same time, the scent of the sea had already woven itself into Leo’s soul. There, for the very first time, he discovered the grand enchantment of vast waters: their power to steal away the deep unrest of the heart.

And yet, the sea could not bring him absolute peace; something within its infinite depths frightened him.

For a long time now, the silence within him had become a sacred thing. Beneath that stillness, so much had already begun to sprout and grow—things he could never afford to lose.

If it must hurt, he thought, then let it hurt.

The sea air can truly perform wonders, and it possesses a fierce power to soften the hardened soul. Yet, the tiny flame within him was never extinguished.

Was it, perhaps, the candle of God?

No, it did not drown. It floated safely upon the surface.

And then, a new spring arrived.

Suddenly, as if all at once, a million bright sparks seemed to fly up beneath his throat, rushing through his chest. Yes, it felt exactly like a great tidal wave, surging forward from that other, distant shore.

And whose hand could it be, if not the hand of God? And whose eye, if not the eye of the Almighty?

For there was something present far greater than Leo himself, and far grander than any stillness he had ever known.

Within Leo, a transformation had already begun to reveal itself. Yet, he still hid his gaze from that which was approaching—advancing softly, as if with a quiet, unseen step from some distant realm.

Stealthily, still like a child peeking through his fingers, he offered his heart to the world, piece by piece.

Whose face was it that he saw?

Could it belong to that very same girl—at once so small and yet so grand—who had reached out her hand to him only a year ago, risking everything to save his life?

It was a moment of supreme gravity, born entirely of history and woven from eternity itself. It was one of those rare moments that can only be understood through the depth of a human soul, where a simple "thank you" becomes infinitely wider than any single word could ever express.

And so, the fickle coastal days continued to follow one after another, shifting endlessly like the waves of the sea.

They rolled on until that sorrowful hour arrived once more, when all of Mahir’s children would be reminded of the day their great father had left them in body, departing from their daily lives. Yes, once again, they were overtaken by the bitter fate of orphans—a destiny that Mahir, through all the days of his life, had so fiercely defied.

On this warm spring day, as the gentle air enveloped them, they honored his memory through the verses of a poem.

It was written by a girl named Nikolina, one of Mahir’s many daughters. For she possessed a rare and beautiful gift: the grace to weave words into pure magic.

Nikolina had been born in the very same year that Leo first beheld the light of day.

On a dry and chilly winter morning of that forgotten year, Aunt Fatima had discovered her in a cradle entirely unsuited for a child. It was nothing more than a discarded cardboard box, bearing the faded name of a dying company that had once been famous far and wide across their nation.

There, inside that wretched vessel, trembling in an agony she did nothing to deserve, lay a pale newborn child. Her bright blue eyes shone with clarity, and her tiny lips were drawn tight in silent suffering.

Yes, such an unworthy cradle was found abandoned right before the threshold of Fatima’s house.

Someone—a soul perhaps lost in their own dark misery and despair—had left the babe with Mahir’s foster sister, believing with all their heart that she was the only one who could grant this child a life worthy of a human being.

And with the grand, unfailing aid of Mahir, that is precisely what came to pass in the years that followed.

Just as he had done for all his other children, Mahir sought to bestow upon her a noble childhood—yes, "noble" would be the truest word for it. Yet, for such a grand endeavor to succeed, she had first to be gifted with what every soul deserves: a name and a lineage.

And a name she did receive, matching the earnest plea of an unnamed supplicant—most likely the very soul who had abandoned her at birth on that pale winter morning, a day dedicated to Saint Nicholas according to the calendar of the Western Church. The request of this mysterious stranger was simple: that the maiden should be called "Nikolina."

Mahir himself confirmed this desire after carefully examining, with his weathered yet ever-wise eyes, that single, dew-drenched note which Aunt Fatima had found tucked upon the child’s small, trembling belly.

Since she possessed neither a known father nor a mother, it was now time to find a fitting and honorable surname for this little girl who had become his own.

By an ancient, unwritten decree among all who lived within the grand walls of Mahir’s shared home, the solemn honor of choosing a name or surname for any child arriving from the vast, unknown outer world belonged to Mahir alone.

Yet, in his estimation, this was always one of the most perilous and heavy tasks.

This truth became all too clear when, even after a full year had passed since welcoming the tiny girl into his large and ever-burdened hands, Mahir had still not found a single surname worthy of her.

But after that first year under the shelter of Mahir’s roof, the little girl began to speak, almost magically—unusually early, by the standards of most.

Her very first word, according to the ever-truthful Aunt Marija, was "Maho." The sheer delight and enchantment that followed instantly enveloped everyone around them. It was as if they were caught beneath a shower of scattering sparks, much like the radiant glow of New Year's sparklers, and Aunt Fatima, Aunt Fatima rushed forward with hurrying steps, her whole face radiant with joy, to deliver the wondrous news to Maho:

“Ma-aho, your little girl is calling for you!”

He received her with his usual gentle and refined grace, wearing only a slightly playful, roguish smile. He let every question that arose from her words melt away into the silence that hid just behind that very smile.

“But she said 'Maho!', so innocently and so meekly… as only the youngest can, my beloved brother!”

In the continuation of her immense delight, Aunt Fatima filled in the details with filigree precision. Her entire face tightened into a joyful expression, and she even pressed her gathered hand to her tightly closed lips, as if trying to catch the sheer bliss of that moment.

For a few moments more, Maho surrendered himself to the quiet room. Then, rising from his spacious armchair, he simply embraced his foster sister, gifting her one of his mildest, most tender smiles. At last, he spoke and declared:

“Let us go and find her, since she is calling for us.”

Behind those words, he concealed all the joy of these solemn moments. Such fragments of happiness were rare in those times, yet whenever they appeared, they brought him a fresh, abundant supply of that spiritual nourishment so vital to them all.

And after those moments...

After those moments, many other days of a different kind passed by, during which Nikolina scarcely spoke another word. It was not until she reached her second full year of life that a torrent of other words finally followed. Yet, despite her long silence, Maho found not the slightest reason to doubt the truth of Fatima’s words.

Instead, he discovered within them a most extraordinary conclusion: that his little daughter had chosen her own surname. Because of this, he had her officially entered into the birth registries under the name and title of Nikolina Mahović.

Yes, under that very name...

As she grew, Nikolina distinguished herself as a remarkably wise and sensible young maiden. Her brilliance shone brightest through her striking mastery of language; she was truly gifted and exceptionally skilled with the words of her native land. Thus, her verses soon found their way onto the pages of numerous children’s journals.

Mahir had long recognized this refined and delicate nature within her soul—he had sensed about her the sweet and unmistakable fragrance of books. On one occasion, he whispered to his Petka:

“I shall speak to her of life, but of mankind, she shall learn from books.”

Yet, the true measure of her unique genius was not fully grasped by all of Mahir’s children until she expressed it in a deeply moving way within the pages of a post-war journal they held especially dear, named The Fairy’s Quill.

There, in her own incomparable manner, she painted all her memories of a time, a land, and a people that exist no more...

...as a hymn of gratitude from all of Mahir’s children to the man who was, to them, the greatest of fathers.

Following her verses on that grand day of spring and sorrow, his still-growing children raised their eyes toward the heavens and chanted:

Hands of mercy, pure and bright,
Interwoved our lives through storm;
The shadow of a father's might,
Kept our fragile spirits warm.

Our hearts were saved from rust and decay,
Shielded from the great and terrible fear,
By fatherly hands that now rest away,
Beneath the cold bust we hold so dear.

Refrain:
Maho, to thee thy children cry,
Who now lights the stars above the crest,
Chasing the darkness from our eye,
While upon thy paths our lives progress;

And it all seemed to unfold in a single, breathless moment, echoing like a sacred vow:

“...and let it be heard from the south to the north, and let it be heard from the north to the south.”

For in those moments, this remained their only way to pay homage to their beloved father. Harsh and cruel conditions still held sway over that region—once one of the fairest corners of their vast, former country, and the very land where Leo's destiny had been born. These bitter circumstances forbade Maho’s children, as well as the many servants of his once-grand house, from visiting the resting place of his bones, which had withered away in sorrow, capturing for many decades that grand and expansive soul of his.

And after that day, and all those days when the ancient images flared up once more through the depths of their hearts, Leo’s eyes began to sink deeper into the violet hues and all the mysterious enchantments of spring that smelled of life—and of so many things Maho had never managed to tell him.

For there was something present far greater than Leo himself and far grander than any stillness he possessed; yes, something that belonged to the absolute law of life.

More and more, he longed to behold those very eyes in which he had found a sanctuary of warmth against all the cold shadows hiding in the corners of his heart.

Indeed, something within him knew—with a certainty stronger than any mere premonition—that a young girl had gifted him a life far grander than the one he had possessed until then. Yet, he still lacked the wisdom that lay beyond his fifteen years of age to clearly discern every shape within his forebodings.

And as another year passed by, dissolved by the waves of the sea and scattered by the southern wind...

Leo had embraced a silent premonition—that perhaps his Maho, with all his noble intentions, had only been trying to prolong the fairy tale of which he had spoken with his entire being throughout all those days, during all fourteen years of Leo’s life until then.

Indeed, he drank to the dregs that cup where bitterness and honey entwined, when he finally learned the truth from Vito, his closest daily companion from that grand family of Mahir’s. Vito revealed that Aunt Fatima, with the aid of the International Administration, had at last succeeded in arranging his adoption into the Nikolayevsky family—who dwelt somewhere far away, in their weathered yet ever-warm home on the banks of a certain Quiet River, of which Leo had once heard only faint whispers, as if through a dense fog.

That the laws, which until then had merely slept upon sheets of paper, had finally made this possible, became known to him on one splendid spring evening through these very words:

“You are leaving us, Leo.”

His blood-brother spoke, and Leo, entirely struck by the weight of it, cut through the sudden murmuring of his own heart with a swift, firm question:

“But where did you hear such a thing, Vi-ito?”

Yet, he was met with an answer just as unyielding:

“Aunt Fatima told me so.”

Leo drowned his very next words in a brief silence, before declaring with a manly, solemn earnestness:

“Vito, wherever I may be, my heart shall always remain with all of you. For a few more years we may still be small, and through life we are guided by those greater than us. But when we are fully grown, no one shall ever be able to prevent us from sharing our days.”

As he spoke, he looked his brother openly and straight in the eyes, yet with a profound and enduring warmth.

Indeed, within Leo, there had always dwelt a vast stillness. It was as if he were guarding something deep inside his soul. For though he did not yet fully comprehend the nature of the sacred, he had, in truth, always felt its presence.

“How beautiful thy words are, my brother.”

Vitomir drank in those words of Leo’s, as though they were made of the warm chocolate he had loved since his earliest days. For Vitomir was always among the first to discover any vital piece of information that concerned them, the children of Mahir.

Perhaps this was because Madame Fatima placed her deepest trust in his particular way of carrying news—a manner that was almost always vibrant and thoroughly wholehearted. This gift of his was rooted in his very character, which was entirely painted with the bright cheerfulness of those gentle hills surrounding them then, and woven with that same pure simplicity.

And soon, Madame Fatima herself conveyed those now-open tidings to Leo, showing him the first photographs of his new guardians—so styled by the official administration.

Following that day, a succession of days began to flow by, days that felt somehow strange and uncertain to Leo.

The faces of all his brothers and sisters, the chosen children of Mahir, now seemed to him—for reasons he could scarcely fathom, and especially today, in these fleeting moments—to be closer and more precious than they had ever been before.

Leo would speak for hours with each of them, offering his forgiveness... and they, in turn, forgave him. Through all those words now gifted in their mutual conversations, they washed away every bitter, chalice-like thought and word once directed toward them, or toward him. He had a premonition; he could sense... what manner of end was this?

Yet, this was not the end of his youthful days. It was merely, as it seemed, the twilight of that first grand world in which Leo had lived until then.

After Mahir’s death, that world—with its familiar fragrance of daily life—had lingered within him like a man in a deep coma, still bound to medical apparatuses that sustained his breath. And these were the days when those very machines had to be unplugged, so that from the death-throes of all he had ever known, a new world might be born... perhaps a far grander one, and... could it be even more profound?

During those final days, which Leo still spent in the embrace of nearly his entire original, grand family, the sky remained clear and bright throughout the daylight hours. And the nights were ever starry—vast, chilly, and veiled in the mystery of sacred, distant realms.

And on the last of such nights...

A night that Leo spent there, in that grand and ever-elegant coastal city, a youthful gathering was prepared—a feast that felt somehow like a solemn ball, held in honor of him and of all their shared years.

Through the crisp night air, rich with an array of pleasantly sharp scents, there drifted the melodies of ballads crafted back in the 1980s, somewhere within that vast nation they had all once shared. Yes, those melodies that always carry the sweet, nostalgic fragrance of hard, warm candies.

To the rhythm of these sounds, within the hearts of Mahir’s children, a sudden inspiration awoke, giving rise to fascinating movements. Thus began the dance of boys and girls. Leo, too, shared his steps with many of his sisters from early childhood—with Jovana, Lucija, and Alana...

Meanwhile, Uncle Matija and his companions—those ever-cheerful men of the coast—were simmering an abundance of fish in a sweet white wine, while other fish, their eyes wide open, still swam freely in the timelessly salty sea.

As night approached, Leo drew near to the shore, surrendering his deep, visionary gaze to the water.

The sea swayed its immense mantle, cradling millions of tiny stars upon its breast. It was as though Leo, with his very gaze, was casting his entire former world—woven within the borders of Mahir’s grand family—onto the surface of the deep. He let it float among those tiny stars, until it should either sink into the ocean depths or, like a ship, sail away to wherever the winds of the world might bear it.

Afterward, he spent a completely sleepless night, pursued by grand and heavy thoughts.

And when the morning finally arrived...

Madame Fatima made her way toward the chambers where the children, on any other day and at any other time, would still be fast asleep. But today, everyone was already awake. And how could it have been any different?

Each of them was preparing, in their own silent way, to bid farewell to their blood-brother as he set out toward the banks of the Quiet River, where the home of the Nikolayevsky family awaited him. To Leo, it felt as though they were moving under the guidance of some blessed, ritualistic rhythm—one that belonged to history itself, and to every profound moment yet to come.

One by one, his brothers and sisters pressed kisses upon his face, wrapping him in their gentle yet firm embraces—the hugs of children, yet filled with a warmth that was boundless and enduring.

Then, Madame Fatima drew near. Holding him in a fierce, powerful embrace, she whispered her parting words:

“They are wonderful people, Leo. They shall bestow upon thee a beautiful life.”

And soon, the bus of the International Administration set out toward that grand, historic city perched high upon the ancient peninsula, toward the shores of that deep and immemorial river.

Through the glass of the bus window, as if looking through the frames of a distant vision, Leo saw his brothers, sisters, and all his loved ones waving their hands in farewell. Yet, he could no longer surrender his gaze to this sight for long...

For he believed that such a lingering gaze was fitting neither for him, nor for them, nor for the sake of some hidden truth. He leaned against the window pane, pressing his forehead to the cool glass, and surrendered his sight to the distant horizon. Indeed, it was a misty, dampened gaze, released from eyes now moist with the fine droplets of tears.

Yet, the sun shone with a fierce and radiant brilliance on that day. To shield himself, Leo drew the curtains across the window, so that—utterly exhausted by the long, sleepless, and heavy night—he might at last sink into a deep slumber.

Throughout the entirety of that long and grand journey, he seldom awoke, thus denying his gaze the chance to behold many wondrous and vital portions of the road.

And yet, guided by that profound instinct which was ever-present within him, he awoke precisely as the bus traversed the initial approaches, drawing near to that grand and timelessly noble city perched atop the ancient peninsula.

Within the glass of the bus windows, a million diverse lights reflected, cascading from the tapestry of the great metropolis like the very first falling of snow. This spectacle endured for a space that was not overly long, yet to Leo, it felt as though it stretched across an entire century.

Indeed, within his soul, brief moments of faint emotion alternated with times of utter numbness.

But when the bus finally anchored itself at platform number sixteen, Leo recognized a sudden shift within his being. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he was about to cross the threshold into an entirely new world.

At that precise moment, a wave of intensely vivid emotions began to seize and permeate his entire being—feelings that can never be fully captured, and which no man can ever truly tame... and which thou knowest not how to restrain, feelings that are ever mightier than any step we take.

And as the doors of the bus swung open, Leo was among the very first to step outside. He passed through them as though crossing the threshold of an entirely new life, still watched over by the vigilant gaze of his supervisors—guardians hailing from some distant foreign realm, who would remain by his side for only a brief moment longer.

But the instant his lungs caught the sharp, yet ever-intoxicating night air of this place, he felt something so uncommonly beautiful—a scent of freedom, entirely strange to him, yet wonderfully alive. And right after, he sensed something equally extraordinary stirring within his breast: a presence immense in power and of supreme importance.

The heavens above him were entirely strewn with stars. And somehow, all at once in that precise moment, he felt as if he were completely alone beneath that multitude of celestial lights. He felt this even though the intercity and international bus station of this metropolis, perched high above the ancient and deep river, was teeming with crowds of people. Indeed, many had been waiting for the arrival of this very bus from the International Administration, which had brought Leo from far below, from the shores of the sea.

And there, a certain man and woman—still attired in the elegant fashion of the distant 1960s—were standing upon platform number sixteen. These were Monsieur Alimpie and Madame Anastasia, Mahir’s colleagues from those long-past days and his even greater friends. And yet...

Leo did not perceive them at once; he simply walked past them.

As he moved, he was pursued by words—the lyrics of what manner of song?—that suddenly spilled out from one of those cafes tucked away nearby in the darkness of the surrounding night:

“Flow, flow onward, my river of green,
Yet thou shalt not drown all the wounds I have seen,
Flow, flow onward, my river of green,
Till the whirlpool of memory swallows my days.”

In a most peculiar way, these words reminded him of all those deeply sacred moments in his life, though he was entirely unaware of it at the time.

Meanwhile, the sharply characteristic aromas of local food—prepared for these heavy hills in a swift and fiercely spiced manner—swept through the station air. These scents blended in a truly authentic, native fashion with the music, which felt as though it were woven from hot and heavy rain, colored by a nocturnal melos hailing from the ever-watchful yet ever-sleepy East.

And as a multitude of fresh soldiers marched across the surrounding grounds, this city in which Leo now found himself reminded him—faintly, yet in a strange, haunting way—of the city where he had spent his earliest childhood.

Yes, between these two places, there existed a powerful and unmistakable bond.

And so, he soon wandered toward the far edge of the station, which, besides a rather dilapidated iron fence, was bordered by the stalls of many street vendors selling a truly eclectic array of wares—the kind that swiftly captivate the soul. There, amidst all manner of diverse souvenirs, one could find countless icons, both grand and small, where the faces of Saints mingled with the portraits of new heroes.

It was yet another deeply striking and overly colorful vignette of this great metropolis, perched high upon the ancient peninsula at the very close of the twentieth century.

By then, Leo had grown anxious, failing to comprehend how and why he had missed his future guardians—though were they not to be something far greater than that? He resolved to return at once to platform number sixteen.

But just then, accompanied by the words:

“We are here, young Leo.”

A weathered, yet ever-warm hand of an elderly lady touched him from behind. Immediately following her, the broad, pleasant voice of an older gentleman, Monsieur Alimpie, chimed in, saying:

“I trust thy journey was a comfortable one.”

At last, Leo answered, his voice quiet yet full of dignity:

“The pleasure is mine to finally meet you, for the late Uncle Mahir spoke many beautiful words concerning you both.”

Monsieur Alimpie then declared with enthusiasm:

“Ah! Now we shall seat ourselves in a fine restaurant, so that we may know each other a little better.”

But Madame Anastasia—in whose very name a blessing seemed to dwell—interrupted gently, smiling softly at Leo:

“My dear old friend… let us first allow the young man to rest.”

Yet Leo expressed his own desire:

“I would gladly converse with you in such a place, for after everything, I am truly not very tired.”

Following those words, that old man—still sufficiently tall, broad-shouldered, and entirely robust—gathered and took charge of all of Leo’s belongings. Together, they approached a certain iconic automobile from the late 1970s; it was exceptionally deep and elegant, immensely popular during its own proper era and for long afterward, which now, like a proud hermit, drove on in sheer defiance of modern technology.

And soon, they began to glide within it...

They drifted through dense swarms of other, far more contemporary metallic carriages (as Monsieur Alimpie, for reasons known only to himself, often loved to call them). And indeed, in a short space of time, Leo began to feel a quiet, sweet ache from the entire atmosphere that reigned over this great metropolis—surely the crowning jewel of his land.

They finally came to a halt...

Just beside a restaurant famous for many a long year in that city, renowned far and wide for gathering those true, primordial romantics beneath its roof and within its walls. And that restaurant had from time immemorial borne the name The Tailor. It was owned by a tailor of profound repute—not only in that city but far beyond—who was, moreover, a close friend of this couple, who by now seemed entirely charming to Leo.

And... directly ahead of Leo, those two remarkably robust elders stepped into the dining hall—people who, no matter how one measured them, clearly defied the ravages of time.

And though only a fleeting moment had passed since their very first meeting, Leo already felt that someone warm, someone uniquely his own, was once again standing close behind him.

They seated themselves upon the terrace, which was adorned with countless lanterns. Both entrances to this veranda were shielded by curtains fashioned—marvel at this!—from a multitude of bathrobes. Yes.

The tables themselves were crafted from the cast-iron stands of antique sewing machines, and in place of tablecloths lay sheets of tailor's drafting paper. Meanwhile, the pathways across the floor were woven from what were once gentlemen’s suits.

Even the private booths were divided from one another by clothing racks, upon which hung Leoish, yet overly weathered garments. To crown it all, the food and drink were measured by a tailor's tape, and according to those centimeters, the final bill was reckoned.

Yet, perhaps the most charming of all were the servers. They were attired in the garb of master tailors, with measuring tapes draped loosely from their shoulders, ever eager to find the finest way to satisfy nearly every whim of their guests' appetites. One of them now stepped forward, presenting himself to the three newly arrived guests:

“Welcome, gentles.”

Leo and Madame Anastasia ordered cold, freshly pressed fruit juices, as if hoping the tartness of the liquid might erode the fatigue that grand, historic days always impose. Monsieur Alimpie, however, requested a gin, perhaps intending that the ever-steadfast sovereignty of the spirit might fortify these fleeting moments—moments which, come what may, would surely pour over into many years ahead.

“Of three centimeters, or of six?” the server inquired, inviting Alimpie to make his choice.

“Of six,” Monsieur Alimpie decided without hesitation.

And in the very next instant, after the server had departed from their side, Through the silence of their unuttered words, they allowed a multitude of youthful, searching glances to pass between them—glances that were warm, tender, and, within the bounds of true courtesy, beautifully shy. It was as though these precise moments were, for them, the truest time of all. Yes, those were the kinds of looks most often clothed in silence, for it was the very first time they had all found themselves together.

After a space of time that felt brief to them all, Madame Anastasia, speaking on behalf of the couple, introduced their first grand, shared words into the gathering:

“And so… we are deeply sorry for everything that has befallen thee.”

She spoke with profound sincerity, yet without a trace of pity, before continuing in a tone that was slightly misted with emotion, yet filled with pride:

“Thou hast lost thy second father, and we have lost an irreplaceable friend.”

“That is the truth,” Monsieur Alimpie agreed.

“I have lost the only father I have ever known, Madame Anastasia,” Leo declared with great meaning, his voice solemn and rising from the absolute depths of his being.

They all bound themselves to this truth with a brief, majestic silence.

Following this, Anastasia unfolded before Leo a narrative of immense value—one woven from those grand, historic minutes that meant as much to him as they did to them:

“Thou seest, Leo, I have already told thee that destiny robbed us of an irreplaceable friend. Yet, he was even more than that to us; he was our brother. For once, a long time ago, certain people formed one great and noble family—if for no other reason, then because...”

As she spoke these words, her inner gaze drifted toward some distant, forgotten realm:

``...because they all believed in the very same destiny. That was my Pije and I, thy Maho… Blaž, whom I believe thou hast already met, and Petkana, my foster sister… the ever-joyful Matija, and yet other wondrous souls whom, I trust, time will allow thee to hear of.”

With this, she let out a melancholy sigh, but immediately after, she offered a motherly, benevolent, and beautifully sweet smile, adding:

“And since thou regardest Maho as a father, and we are his brother and sister, then we are to thee… in truth, an uncle and an aunt.”

As she uttered this, a mysterious smile played upon her lips, and with a deft and thoroughly charming wink of her eye intended foremost for Leo, she finished her thought:

“...and so, we should love it if thou wouldst call us thus.”

“That is precisely how it shall be,” Uncle Alimpie agreed with great solemnity.

“It shall be my absolute pleasure,” Leo declared, a warm pride rising within him.

Just then, the server presented their previous order, granting Uncle Alimpie a flawless opportunity to mark and elevate the grandeur of their solemn moment. He sought to warm the atmosphere further and scatter a bit of its sacred, golden dust with his very next words:

“Hm, I have no one here to share a fiery toast with!”

Following this, he bustled about somewhat theatrically for a brief moment, then turned and addressed a gentleman entirely unknown to him:

“Pray, my friend, let us raise a glass together.”

The stranger, gently surprised and only slightly taken aback, offered a kind-hearted smile and replied:

“Of course.”

And after their glasses clinked, Uncle Alimpie delivered a toast in his own inimitable fashion:

“To a grander and better future!...”

“To a grander and better future!” the unknown gentleman agreed.

In those fleeting moments, Leo only smiled softly, lighting within his heart—the primordial temple of every soul—a deeply fragrant candle for a grander and better tomorrow.

Then, Aunt Anastasia, not in the least surprised by such a gesture from the uncle, spoke once more:

“My old companion is a grand romantic and a passionate enthusiast, and that, my dear Leo, makes him a wellspring of charm.”

“Thy aunt exaggerates. I am but an ordinary man, dear Leo,” the uncle chimed in.

And soon, their conversation concerning their future life together as three guided them deep into the night. By that time, Uncle Alimpie had already dispatched twenty-four centimeters of gin into his belly.

“And so, it would be high time we set off for home, if my company agrees?!”

Uncle Alimpie merely made official what all three of them were already desiring and needing. Then, in that almost always pleasant mood of his, he added with an elder’s innocent charm:

“Stasija, thou shalt drive us home tonight, my dear, if thou hast no objection?”

“Not at all… it shall be my absolute pleasure,” Aunt Anastasia replied, ever steadfast and full of strength.

And shortly thereafter, the three souls—now strongly bound to one another—set out along a path upon which the moonlight had poured itself, traveling toward a certain smaller town perched atop an ever-fragrant plain, on the banks of that river of rare butterflies (known among the folk as Leptirija or Leptirica, yet also called the Quiet River).

Both Uncle Alimpie and Leo failed to notice the many glances of the early morning passersby, for sleep had claimed them. The aunt alone, in this entire situation, could not afford to drift away. And yet, wrapped in that ever-light slumber of his, Leo started awake the moment the automobile came to a halt.

It had stopped right before his new home.

And at the very first glance, Leo took a liking to the house—a dwelling that had arisen somewhere during the early days of the creation of the nation in which he had been born.

Very quickly, the deeply warm words of Monsieur Alimpie followed:

“Welcome, Leo, to our warm and, from this day forth, our shared home.”

“My thanks,” Leo replied, utterly enchanted by the entirety of this warm and, in a romantic way, unusual welcome.

But after he stepped into the courtyard of his new home, Leo’s gaze lingered behind an ancient yet, by its very appearance, ever-proud pine tree. It was there that a door stood, leading into an entirely peculiar world, from behind which—in what manner, and for what reasons?—there always seemed to drift that most distinct scent of frankincense.

And upon noticing where his gaze had fallen, Aunt Anastasia spoke:

“Beyond that spot lies our garden, which we shall reveal to thee after thy rest, shouldst thou possess the desire to see it.”

“Of course I shall have the desire,” Leo replied, offering an answer that was especially pleasing to Madame Anastasia.

And as they drew near to the very threshold of the house, Leo noticed a sight already deeply familiar to him, for here, too, a vibrant, bright yellow lemon tree had been planted.

They stood before a grand wooden door crafted in the spirit of Art Deco, within which a stained-glass window in the shape of a vertical ellipse was embedded, bearing the motif of a rose. Monsieur Alimpie unlocked it with a cumbersome, heavy key, illuminated only by the glow of a lantern styled in that very same artistic spirit, hanging directly above them.

Soon they stepped into the hallway, which, despite the lamplight being turned on, remained shrouded in a heavy, mysterious dusk.

Upon its walls, beneath a somewhat dreamy, muted orange glow, one could discern photographs of the charming couple from their numerous travels—journeys of profound significance to them both.

Within that same corridor, Leo also perceived a grand, antique clock, adorned with a multitude of engraved motifs from medieval medicine, recognizable only to a practiced eye and a rich mind. Several other ancient objects, their forms gently softened and obscured by the sweet half-darkness of the hallway, lay either to his left or to his right.

The entire house was bathed in an array of sweet, indefinable fragrances—a gentle atmosphere permeated by a warm, venerable antiquity.

Upon many of the walls hung painted tapestries, where a vast multitude of diverse motifs seemed to dance together in one grand, eternal circle. Of all the furniture, it appeared that sofas were the most abundant, carefully placed according to some hidden arrangement throughout the rooms.

Beside them, more often than not, stood palm trees planted in finely crafted, lacquered planters of slumbering, dark, and warm hues—possessing a quiet gleam that revealed itself most beautifully under the radiance of lamps. And there were, in truth, an abundance of lamps placed throughout the entire house. Nearly all of them were adorned with fine lace. And such were their chandeliers as well.

Yes, that sweet fragrance of antiquity drifted through the entire house, as if the very air itself were being jealously and tenderly guarded within these walls. Yet, it was not so in the guest chamber, now fully prepared for Leo; indeed, that room had always been aired far more frequently.

And there inside stood a stylized, cheerfully bright wardrobe and a grand bed with vast, deep lungs—a vessel which, by all appearances, offered a rest as grand as its form (such was the impression it left upon anyone whose gaze traversed its length).

Opposite the bed was a window facing the west—yes, a window that served as a frame wherein the painting of the sunset changed with each passing day. This window was draped with a massive, grand, and sweeping embroidered curtain.

In the corner of the room stood a stylized little table, also crafted in the spirit of Art Deco (indeed, the entire house seemed to breathe with that very spirit), embraced by two armchairs upholstered in rich velvet. Their headrests were crowned by two diamond-shaped, embroidered doilies. Another of its kind lay upon the table, resting beneath a lamp with a laced shade.

And perhaps many a soul might have thought that this entire house had long since lost its stride with time. Yet, it had never lost its stride with the heart, nor with the faith of those who had brought it into being.

Yes, the whole house was a monument to the Secession style—as it was in the days of old, as it remains today, in this very hour.

“Dost thou like thy chamber, Leo?” Madame Anastasia inquired with gentle kindness.

For the very first time, Leo heard those wondrous words, "thy chamber," spoken to him with such intimacy. This was so despite the fact that he had always been Mahir’s favorite—though in a refined manner that never offended the others. Yet, within the grand walls of Mahir’s house, different decrees had always held sway, laws that Mahir never altered for anyone. And so, until this very hour, the only chamber Leo could truly call his own was a sanctuary built deep within the recesses of his soul.

“Like something out of a fairy tale,” Monsieur Alimpie chimed in. In his particular vocabulary, this phrase took the place of "excellent, phenomenal, or fantastic," and it was an expression he frequently employed in such moments.

“Precisely so,” Leo agreed, sealing his words.

And after a space of time that brought much-needed rest to the soul...

They all gathered within the kitchen. Beautiful, carved cabinets of a warm orange hue adorned the room. Yet, they seemed to stand as a monument to a grand and not-too-distant past.

Among other significant tokens, figures, and ornaments of profound symbolism resting upon them, there hung a photograph of the charming couple standing alongside one of the world's most renowned fighters for freedom—a man who was, above all, a grand humanist.

Beyond these inseparable pieces of furniture, the walls held many other images of no less value, portraying eminent figures from various fields, all dedicated to a brighter, warmer, or at least a more humane future for mankind.

In truth, the couple received a pension from abroad. They had spent the greater part of their working lives in perilous and uncertain places, where human suffering burned daily and civilization merely flickered. This, above all else, had forged their way of life, and each of them healed their soul in their own distinct manner.

For on one terrible occasion—one of those dark hours that scorch the very parchment of history—these colleagues, bound by their shared lives, deep friendship, and common origins, found themselves caught by a grand twist of fate in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In that photograph, which Leo had not yet perceived upon the opposite wall, stood Monsieur Mahir, Petkana, Matija, Blaž, and alongside Alimpie and Anastasia, several other souls of vibrant character.

On that fateful day, a terrible poison had been scattered through their bodies. Because of this, not a single one among them was ever granted the grace to bring forth a child made of their own flesh and blood.

“How beautiful this photograph is,” Leo murmured, his eyes finally catching the image upon the wall.

“We knew it would please thee,” Madame Anastasia softly replied.

Afterward...

Monsieur Alimpie and Leo stepped through the kitchen doors that led into the courtyard, ascending onto the terrace. Upon it cascaded the sweeping roof of that sweet, warm, and ever-sheltered, high one-story house.

In those fleeting moments, the dawn was beautiful, as if rising over some wondrous new fantasy. The sun, like a bronze coin with which the Creator had purchased light and warmth for an often ungrateful mankind following that primordial cosmic fire, was still merely glowing on the horizon.

Meanwhile, the weary street lamps were preparing for their rest. They still flickered, though no longer with that hoarse, romantic whisper they usually possess.

To this palette of diverse lights and all those varied beams that walked before the dawn, there joined the lantern hung long ago beneath the eaves. It illuminated the newly arrived dwellers with a deep, muted crimson glow. Everything... held a promise of life, and yet, still held the stillness of a dream.

The air was lullingly chilly and exceedingly refreshing. Even the gentle, warm breeze that drifted through the surroundings, scattering the already potent fragrance of the morning, could not conceal its crispness.

A careful ear could even discern the city sweepers far off, performing their labor so that those unrecognized scents of society might not defile the living space.

And during all this time, the birds had slowly and increasingly begun to perform their very first morning symphonies...

Somewhere far off in the distance, the first morning coffee already filled the air, the scent of hot bread drifted by, and the quiet river breathed out its deep, sweeping fragrance. The morning air stretched languidly over that ever-gentle town of the vast plain.

And soon, with the crisp, distant patter of shoes from the workers of the first shift, the light step of Madame Anastasia softly mingled. She was bringing forth breakfast, so that the utterly weary night travelers might at last enjoy a peaceful sleep.

Upon the table lay pieces of smoked mutton, torn as if by the talons of an eagle, nestled within a salad of mountain herbs dewed with drops of lemon—indeed, a strange breakfast for extraordinary people after a sleepless night.

“May it bring thee comfort, my dear ones,” Aunt Anastasia declared, offering her blessing.

“Our thanks,” their voices chimed together, echoing in perfect resonance.

And following such a repast, the two of them departed to satisfy their hunger for sleep as well. Meanwhile, Madame Anastasia—almost always tender in her manner, yet fiercely proud in character—remained behind to clear the table.

The street lamps, one by one, slowly went out.

The day was awakening.

It was precisely fourteen hours of the afternoon when the grand clock echoed from the hallway. His new, ever-diligent elders—one of whom had only just arisen from bed, while the other had long since unshackled himself from sleep—were now preparing a feast upon the grill. Indeed, they were celebrating the arrival of their new housemate.

And Leo, who was only now starting to awaken, caught a faint glimpse of those overly seductive and pleasant aromas wafting through the half-open window into the shadows of his curtain-darkened chamber.

That room, in truth, mirrored the very atmosphere of the entire house. For the sake of a deep, secretive, and romantic peace, its chambers remained for the most part shrouded in darkness or cast in shadow. It was as though they were guarding something within—be it merely an ancient and fine wine, or something far greater: a wealth of history, of quiet beauty, and of those mysterious, sweet fragrances.

For a multitude of treasured and sacred memories can be withered away by the fierce glare of a harsh sun.

Something of this truth lay hidden within the philosophy of life of this family. For though one must surely nourish the body, it is infinitely more vital to sustain the soul. And the soul, in these times, falls ill so easily; it frequently needs to find rest within something uniquely its own, something warm, and something secure.

And when Leo finally stepped out into the courtyard...

The charming couple welcomed him in their own distinct and peculiar manner. As a token of hospitality, they presented him with a glass of fine wine, which served moreover as a perfectly fitting aperitif. Alimpie and Anastasia frequently partook of this ritual, yet they never once lost their sense of measure.

Following this, Madame Anastasia invited Leo to accompany her steps, that she might reveal to him her own—and their shared—garden. Monsieur Alimpie was left behind for a time, to contend with the grill alone, a craft in which he was thoroughly skilled.

A stone fence of modest height concealed the garden of Madame Anastasia. Wrought into it was a heavy, though not overly large, iron gate, regularly anointed with oil by Monsieur Alimpie so that his beloved spouse might open it without the slightest hardship.

And that gate shielded a world so magnificent, one might wonder if it existed for Leo’s eyes alone.

It opened outward, revealing the banks of that ever-quiet, dreamy, and deeply fragrant river. Its shoreline was entirely bordered by immense pumpkins, planted directly along the very edge of the cliff.

Behind them lay hidden a multitude of semi-wild and truly wondrous flowers—the kind that seemed, for the most part, to converse only with themselves. And two tall, steadfast, and at first glance cold pine trees, woven entirely from their own quietly fragrant depths, stood there amidst the diverse blossoms.

It was a floral tapestry so vibrant it could awaken any soul from the deepest melancholy, with flowers that had somehow journeyed here even from those far warmer realms. Between them lay a bench carved out of solid stone.

And that previously mentioned, peculiar bed of pumpkins was divided down the middle by a narrow earthen path, paved with smooth stones, which led all the way to a wooden boat anchored right along the shoreline.

Occasionally, this charming couple would use it to cruise along that ever-quiet jewel of this vast and bountiful plain.

The path was closely followed by planted oriental torches, which frequently illuminated the way at night, creating a scene straight out of some far-eastern fairy tale.

And after beholding all of this—taking it in, as it were, through a soft sigh—Leo declared:

“I am utterly spellbound, Aunt Anastasia.”

To which she replied with elegance:

“My thanks, Leo.”

She spoke from the heart, and from a calm, solemn depth.

And following a dinner that brought comfort and rest to both body and soul... slowly but surely, as if arriving from eternity, a different kind of days began to unfold in Leo’s life.

But it was as though, before all these past years—so distant from the vantage of today—he had swallowed the seed of some wild, mysterious, tropical flower.

Now, all its petals, vibrant as the sun and powerful as blood-red hues, filled entirely with the fragrances of suffering, began to erupt across nearly every facet of his personality. Spring had seized his soul, and spring had taken hold of his entire body. His chest blossomed wide! And the pollen had clung fast to his heart.

And during those days, many a pulse awoke within the young man, currents of life until then completely unknown to him. And perhaps, in the very beginning, he still breathed with ease. Yet, only a short space of time later...

For there was something present far greater than Leo himself and far grander than any stillness he possessed; yes, something that belonged to the absolute law of life. There existed many other days.

...and under their weight lay almost the entirety of his daily existence.

His thoughts sank, and then they sank deeper still: "Ah, how much… what things I should love to know concerning thee?"

And by then, the second year of his high school days had already passed.

It was then that Leo slowly began to discern that in place of that warm "thank you"—which was no longer enough for all that he carried within, for all that he brought with him, for all that he wished to utter—he had bound so much more to what had once been but a single, simple word.

Yet, he truly began to comprehend this in his third year of high school, as a regular student of the gymnasium.

In that entire region, the academy was most recognizable by its altogether extraordinary name, The Burning Continent, and it was famous far and wide across the land where he had now found his ultimate sanctuary.

And having missed the entirety of his first year of high school due to bureaucratic constraints—while he awaited that sublime right to gain his new guardians, or truer to say, his new family—Leo was also late in discovering that peculiar and extraordinary world which seems to exist and thrive only within those specific years.

Furthermore, by missing the majority of the days in his second year of schooling as well, for reasons that seemed uniquely characteristic of this family—yes, a set of altogether unusual motives—Leo had only managed to slightly push open the doors of that ever-wondrous and above all unique world of high school days.

For those reasons had grown out of Uncle Alimpie’s profound desire to build upon Mahir’s singular act: the creation of a young and honorable gentleman, and, after all was said and done, an elegant linguistic purist, if not a dandy...

Did they, through such endeavors, truly wish to conquer time itself?

Yet, above all else, both men seemed to have striven most of all to introduce him to that which was romantic in the soul. The late Uncle Mahir had accomplished this in his own inimitable, peninsular fashion, while Uncle Alimpie achieved it in an overly aristocratic manner, following the historically revered model of the old masters, of many grand writers, and of ancient classics.

And for some reason, Leo’s soul was, in its own right, a fertile soil for such seed—a truth that Uncle Alimpie had discovered within Leo’s eyes at the very first glance.

The entirety of that year, Leo and Monsieur Alimpie spent traveling across that ancient, massive mountain high upon that ever-grand continent—a proud and cold mountain, by no means easy to conquer. For there, Uncle Alimpie was deeply esteemed as a master tailor...

For... as he was accustomed to recount, his forefathers held the conviction that alongside a high education, a man should also acquire a certain useful trade—one that he truly loved. And so, he would merrily declare:

“And that is why I am cheerful nearly every single day.”

...a master tailor of garments (a grand artisan in that truest sense).

And the garments tailored by his hand possessed that unmistakable fragrance of the past—something inherently solemn, a scent of deep romance and elegance... something born of the very nature of eternity, yet which, by some hidden mystery, still retained the crisp freshness of the present day. It had always caught the scent of pine, of wild blueberries, the stillness of the violet, and held at least a whisper of the rose within its threads. Of such a taste and of such a fragrance were the clothes brought into being by his hand. They ever possessed something of the nature of a "vestment."

And Leo took such a profound liking to this very clothing; its image somehow rested perfectly upon his soul, and with the passage of time, he increasingly surrendered his own body to its embrace. Soon, he wished for every single one of his days to be tailored in that exact manner.

Thanks to this, upon his return from that ancient land high up on the great, unyielding mountain, he received from his few friends and a vast number of acquaintances the moniker of "Dandy."

Yet, that small number of souls who could speak with greater depth concerning Leo spoke only of his deeply secluded way of life.

Indeed, within that extraordinary gymnasium—where he had enrolled foremost through his own merits, and only then by virtue of his uncle's name—he would spend the school recesses almost always sheltered beneath the shadows and that ever-deep, dreamy, and sublime scent of the pine trees. He would linger there, inside a certain confectionary shop situated in the immediate vicinity, right beside the gymnasium building, bearing the name Fiona.

Yes, that confectionary shop reminded him deeply, in every facet, of those times which he had still glimpsed during his earliest childhood—of those faded, yellowed images which fewer and fewer souls remember today.

And while the new, modern sweet shops of the present era shone brightly in every corner, Fiona merely glowed with a peaceful, quiet ember. Yet, despite this, a certain vibrant spirit of youth still somehow drifted through its rooms.

Even during the warmest and brightest hours of the day, the shop remained shrouded in darkness—yet in a manner that was altogether pleasant. And for this, multiple reasons existed, both known and obscure.

The light would only just force its way between those large green drapes, breaking through Venetian blinds already painted with the heavy hues of patina. All the diverse signs within the shop had been crafted by the skillful hand of an elderly woman, a soul whom life had not yet managed to rob. Only the prices appeared to have been typed upon a certain dark green Olivetti typewriter—yes, that was precisely the font!—and then affixed to the wide glass panes of the massive yet somehow ever-warm refrigerators.

Inside them rested those delicious and deeply nourishing cakes, rich in color, taste, and fragrance, concerning which the old woman maintained that they bestowed joy and health upon the soul, and not merely upon the body.

Fiona was owned by a robust elderly lady named Mirjana. And above all else, Leo had been enchanted from the very start by her ever-cheerful hospitality—no, there was not a trace of weariness upon her—and that refined, graceful kindness of hers. Indeed, every fresh encounter with her sweet little boutique, as she loved to call her shop, brought an abundance of joy to his heart. And he would usually sit in the very back left corner of the shop, slowly sipping his rum-and-coke in short, lingering drafts while savoring a scoop of malaga ice cream.

It was there that he first encountered Dragana, a maiden who, in her own way, hailed from a world with which Leo was but dimly acquainted.

For Dragana was the daughter of parents who—assuredly, as best they knew and as much as they were able—cherished a deep and mutual affection for one another. They possessed a son as well, and shared an envious fortune for those times; yes, they were, and remained, proud members of what was once a mighty middle class.

She was a maiden endowed with a most lovely countenance and form, wearing an ever-fresh, beautifully sweet smile, and eyes that were warm and still cloaked in genuine modesty.

And though each passing day brought an abundance of companions and friends who would follow in her wake, it was as though they had squandered an entire century in vain. For all that was sublime within the soul, she still observed through a pair of clumsy, peculiar spectacles, which she somehow always wore before her spiritual sight.

Yet, despite all of this, she was in some manner different from the multitude of her peers. For some reason, the atmosphere of those modern days—filled with a bitter chalice of blood, pain, and searing mud, like a dark whirlpool in the heart of a marsh—had failed to deeply poison her soul. Yes, it is ever thus when the lights of the cinema go out.

For she possessed the grace to respect all things. And she knew how to offer the true depths of her soul... yet always within the measures of strict decorum and a certain exquisite refinement that belonged to her alone—a quiet, inner cadence of the spirit. She was shaped by culture and a measured, thoughtful upbringing.

For she, after all, had lived in a city untouched by blood, and led a life far removed from the frailties of that current daily existence. And it was as though... precisely because of that unique essence within her, she held a special affection for Leo, and loved to listen to the cadence of his speech.

Beyond all else, she also played tennis, and had even climbed to the middle tier of that grand national ranking list. And perhaps it was that very spirit of sport that had sufficiently contributed, in its own right, to safeguarding the clarity of her mind.

Guided perhaps by something of that nature, one afternoon—when a rare and grand commotion overtook that otherwise nearly always peaceful sweet shop, because joyful students had for some reason completely occupied its rooms (yes, something had befallen their teachers that day; life had overcome them, and weariness had grown too great)—she beheld Leo sitting entirely alone in his corner.

She resolved to draw near to him, and addressed him with these words:

“May I infringe upon thy solitude, sweet boy?”

Her words were, in some manner, almost unreal for the clock of that era. And Leo, upon hearing something so unusual, yet so pleasing—a perfect cadence sweeping above the words (yes, like a full melody playing to the rhythm of his own devotion)—a harmony so deeply dear to him, answered first with wisdom, and only then from the depths of his soul:

“Ah... I believe that such an act would bring me happiness, lovely maiden.”

And yet, profoundly touched by the sheer grace of her gesture, he finished his thought:

“My thanks to thee, even for the mere willingness to let it be so.”

“In that case, pray allow me… I am Dragana Jevrej,” she declared, revealing her public grace.

“I am Leon Prince,” Leo replied, revealing a vacant chair and offering his hand to settle her into it with utmost courtesy.

Yet, this behavior of a true gentleman—a gesture frequently witnessed in Monsieur Alimpie whenever he seated Madame Anastasia at the table—did not pass unnoticed by the rest of the young souls gathered in the sweet shop that day.

And her story touched him deeply, and her words struck him with wonder... Indeed, within those words lay much of the earthly and much of the sublime. Spirit and matter had somehow met. Among them, even these words were shared:

For Dragana’s uncle, Monsieur Vlado Jevrej, on that fateful day of Leo’s destiny, amid the flames of his native city, had driven his taxi out into the streets. Having filled his fuel tank to the brim, he resolved to sacrifice even his own life, should it be required, to rescue the wounded scattered across the avenues of what was then still Mahir’s city.

Thus, in that precise moment, Leo understood: “His cross at that hour was of a different kind—yet the cross is love, and the cross is sacrifice.”

Yes, this vacant school day had guided these two young souls into the sanctuaries of friendship. And she, in time, would introduce him to many others who would later become their cherished, mutual friends.

And following that day, destiny had indeed bestowed upon him an abundance of friends, and as many worthy, courteous acquaintances.

And so, countless gentle conversations flowed, and a long succession of school days unfolded. Words were shared, many a classroom hour was divided, numerous minutes were exchanged, and a profound search began between their souls.

Yet, in every single one of his secrets today, Lilyana lived. Every cool shadow caught her scent and breathed of her...

Many of his companions from those years that now seemed so distant—comrades who, somewhere far away, were still his brothers—as well as those who stood by his side today, had already grown into young men. And he... he began to understand more and more all that had until then remained silent within him—all that those countless days had only whispered to his heart until now.

“Yes, I have always known it was thy face...”

“And no, they have not scattered the fullness of my devotion.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

III – Blood

 

Aunt Fatima...

She who would always somehow find a way to stay in touch with all of Mahir’s children, had today connected by telephone with the home of the Nikolayevskys. She conveyed to Leo that many of his brothers and sisters from his childhood were fiercely longing to hear his voice, and so, filled with a sudden joyful day within his soul, he waited by the receiver for that very moment to arrive.

“Vi-ito!...”

An explosive delight erupted from Leo—an emotion that, in truth, rarely manifested within him—the instant he caught the voice of the one who had, by whatever hidden laws, always been his closest blood-brother.

Following this, a multitude of other greetings followed. Around the old companions, as if caught within a suddenly reopened magnetic circle, a joyful current flared up; warmth streamed from every direction, and voices could still be heard shouting of their brotherhood...

In that precise moment, everything became once more a beautiful, hitherto forgotten longing—and a deep nostalgia came to pass.

For a long time, an entire world had lived within him, buried deep down, far beneath the surface of reality. But Vitomir’s words...

“Wilt thou bring thy maiden to meet us as well?”

These words of his struck Leo down with wonder—it was as though the entire, slumbering world of Mahir’s era had suddenly resurrected then, in that very moment.

“Vi-ito…”

Leo’s tone stretched long, sounding like a single drop of water falling upon a still surface. Suddenly, it felt as if everything were but a dream; yes, his gaze in that moment seemed to pierce through every wall. It was as though Vitomir could perceive this from afar, yet he did not fully comprehend it:

“Brother, it cannot be that no maiden has found the path to thy heart?!”

Indeed, following those words, Leo replaced his unformed speech with a heavy, simmering silence. Then, with a timbre in his voice like that of an officer surrendering a battle but losing none of his pride, he uttered words of a meaning that belonged not only to these current days:

“Ah, Vito… my heart has already beheld its woman. Today, I finally know this. For she was but a young maiden then.”

And so, Vitomir received that which he had been awaiting.

“Ah… by the saints!” Vitomir gasped, for he had known Leo long ago, and in an instant, he understood everything. Following a sudden stillness in which the entire universe seemed to rustle and murmur, he whispered:

“Forgive me.”

A multitude of feelings found perfect understanding between them. Memories came alive once more.

For there was something present far greater than Leo himself and far grander than any stillness he possessed; yes, something that belonged to the absolute law of life. There existed many other days. Indeed, there exists a grand Logic that takes an entire lifetime to learn.

The vortex of life began to cast many bygone days back to the surface. Mahir’s era had perished through violence, yet the blood remembers. Many had lived bound together even before that time. Not all had yet been spoken.

“Whose little fledgling was that resting in my hand?” For there exist—yes, there truly exist—such eras when everything unnatural becomes natural, and all that is natural seems entirely unnatural.

And only those days born of destiny possess the power to heal it all...

Lilyana!

And Vitomir spoke once more:

“And where is she now? Can such a one ever be forgotten?!”

And Leo at last replied—his voice breaking through like a sudden flame.

“Aunt Marija foresaw everything long ago…” Vitomir whispered, as if only to himself, though he knew full well that Leo would catch his words.

Yes, he had now learned Leo’s ultimate truth.

What a bitter sorrow this is—a grief that pours itself into the very bones. He knew nothing of her... In the end, he was forced to confess this to Leo, yet he swore an oath to him. He vowed that he would know no rest until he had peered into every corner of this city—“for it is impossible that no soul has ever beheld them again anywhere.”

And yet, what a strange anxiety now stirred within him, so fierce it brought a sudden dizziness. “And here I thought I was master of my own ground once more,” he had reflected before all of this.

Following the journey of the war, Vitomir had returned to Mahir’s city, which was also his own birthplace. He found employment there; he drove a bus.

Perhaps the air around him had lost its tenderness, yet he had learned—by some inner necessity, for he could do no other—to look through his fingers at the world.

He had fallen in love unto death with a certain Emina, a maiden of wide and deep green eyes. With her, he intended to settle his accounts with destiny.

They were building a life together, having discovered a modest, one-and-a-half-room apartment for themselves. And so they lived... upon the hill, from whence they possessed a flawless view of their beloved city.

The old longing, that quiet passion of the soul, still lingered, smoldering gently within his breast...

Many were ever ready to extend a helping hand to him, and he, in like manner, was a comfort to many.

And to Leo, that oath was a grand consolation!

Yet, the winter was already drawing its final breaths, and with it departed all the bitter cold it had brought along—but within Leo, there remained a fever, nothing but a burning fever. Even the coming of spring possessed no power to heal it...

Day after day, each scattered the one that went before. His blood-brother never managed to bring forth a single piece of good tidings.

Around Vitomir, there was only the sweat of toil; it had seeped deep into his heart and already weighted his lungs. It had spread across the entire city and through all the vast expanses beyond it. But everything was merely becoming heavier and increasingly perilous. He had entangled himself, as many are wont to say, like a fledgling caught in a snare of flax. He could by no means sever the truth from the rumors... Yes, those particular rumors were of a dangerously ugly countenance. “How, by the saints, am I to present myself before Leo with this?”

And Leo waited and waited...

For some reason, both within himself and in the world around him, he remained convinced that Vitomir simply had not yet succeeded in finding any useful information regarding what had truly befallen her. Yes, he knew that his brother was still striving with all his might.

Yet, anxiety soon overburdened his every faith and all his patience... The resolution arrived of its own accord.

He would set out to find her himself!

But it was as though Uncle Alimpie’s breast alone was capable of receiving the full weight of all that was to come...

Aunt Anastasia knew but a fraction of all this; yes, her heart was of an overly sensitive nature... But the uncle: even if there were nothing else within him, or within Leo, or anywhere in the world—merely because of all this, because of how Leo had lived, how Leo lives, believes, and beholds himself... and how he beholds his Lilyana: because of such a faith and such a love, Alimpie would have cherished him with his entire heart.

It was then that the uncle offered him one of those counsels that belong to history itself. He told him that the wisest course of all would be to seek out one of the most renowned private detectives from what was once their vast, former country—"Vasil of the legends," as he was wont to call him. And... somehow, Leo’s entire soul immediately surrendered to this very idea.

Indeed:

“Thou knowest, my son… it was because of him that I became famous as a tailor, high up in the mountains.”

Uncle Alimpie addressed Leo, speaking of something that was still not entirely known to the young man. Then he continued, as though opening a certain grand and ancient volume—for everything around them in that hour caught the scent of powdered sugar, yellowed parchment, dampness, and light dust:

“That man is of that rare breed of grand souls. His story is magnificent, and in its own right, extraordinary.”

Then, dropping his voice lower—rapt and somewhat dreamily, as it most often happens when one speaks of a tale already worn by the passage of much time, which almost always echoes like a myth:

“Yes, he was one of the finest detectives upon the entire peninsula. For he was acquainted with many among the oldest nations upon this earth. Yes, he is master of many languages...`

“One thing alone has always astonished me concerning him: he ever loved to race against trains.”

Uncle Alimpie conveyed this altogether extraordinary, or at least unexpected, fact to Leo. He then sought to bring the tale closer to him, after noticing a quiet, yet innocent reflection—the very first glimmer of a natural disbelief—within Leo’s eyes:

“And so… in his distant youth, he earned his first great fortune by making a wager with a certain wealthy landowner—yes, one of those gentlemen from the ancient nations—that the automobile owned by that landowner would, in his hands, prove swifter on the tracks than the railway trains of the Kingdom.”

He then abandoned a few moments to the silence, as is fitting after any such vividly resurrected moment from those that belong to history—for after all, the grandest respect is the respect of the heart.

“With that very fortune, he established his agency.”

“In truth… there is something powerful within this narrative,” Leo finally replied, his countenance wearing an expression of quiet contemplation, with the gaze of one who seemed to be searching for some secret, hidden ingredient.

“Yes, yes, my son. For sixty years now, that man, as if by mere habit, has been racing against trains… and in some manner mysterious to me, he always evades trouble with the authorities. And as the times change and the trains evolve, he likewise alters his metallic steed for the race.”

Uncle Alimpie recounted this peculiar habit—an altogether astonishing fetish, in truth—of the detective Vasil.

“Dost thou believe, uncle, that he shall succeed in helping me find Lilyana?!”

Yet, after all was said and done, and despite everything, Leo still lacked a truly steadfast answer, for his heart was profoundly warm, yet filled with pain.

“Sooner than any other soul,” Uncle Alimpie replied, entirely confident in his words.

“In that case, I must address him as swiftly as possible…”

Now filled with a powerful conviction, Leo had made his ultimate resolve.

“Of course, my son,” the uncle replied, understanding him perfectly.

And… losing not a single hour, Leo set out from the banks of the Quiet River, journeying toward the grand city upon the ancient and deep river. “I must address him,” he whispered to himself.

He arrived in the heart of the night, which, having conquered the metropolis, only intensified within Leo that sweet shudder which, from time immemorial, seems to nourish the souls of romantics.

To crown it all, a portion of the city immediately surrounding the bus station had, for some obscure reasons tonight, been left without electrical power. And wherever one turned... everything was a throng, a true and roaring commotion of people, of automobiles, and of every other manner of restless movement.

But Leo was already entirely consumed by his own thoughts, listening intently to everything that stirred beneath them.

A single, short and narrow passage that divided the railway from the bus station was now all that separated him from the very first words he would lay before souls who might, in truth, reveal to him that hitherto unknown reality.

Yes, shortly thereafter, he found himself standing before the sought-after door.

It was nestled there, within the very concourse of the railway station. Upon it was inscribed merely "Detective Agency"—altogether simple, yet entirely sufficient for the public eye.

It hung upon the wall of a rather dilapidated building, brought into being even before the first great world war. The sign itself was illuminated by a neon glow, reminiscent of the golden age of the cinema industry from the Far West.

The small door, obscured in a tolerable measure beneath a veil of dust and dampness, resembled the entrance of some old socialist warehouse. Yet, it shielded an entirely mystical world—more secretive than the crystal sphere of any unholy prophetess, yet famed for its skill to peer through all the cobwebs of this world... skillful enough to slip beneath the veil of a multitude of secrets.

For it was there that the private detective Vasil operated—yes, that old otter, as he was called by those rare souls who had truly known him since the days of his and their own youth, a man skilled in finding a path through every existing labyrinth.

He had received his schooling long ago, in the era of kings. He was, in truth, woven entirely of legend. Indeed, for at least seventy years, all men burdened with secrets had sought to avoid his presence...

It was as though destiny, at his very birth—amidst a very heavy and utterly complex tangle of circumstances and events, blended from those sharp, bitter ingredients of that distant year of 1917—had placed a veil of suspicion over his eyes. It was a veil he had never again managed to cast aside, and through which he had observed the happenings around him his entire life. At least, so it appeared to the souls who surrounded him.

Yes, even as a young boy, he had begun to perpetually squint his eyes, so that in his own inimitable manner—the way of a future master detective—he might sift through reality.

And from this constant sifting, performed with eyes that were always somehow half-closed, he had in time inherited dark circles beneath his gaze. With the passage of the years, these bags had grown heavy and exceedingly large, swelling under the immense burden of all the dross and falsehoods he had continuously uncovered through his labors- That single glance—that gaze of deep suspicion possessed by all great and noble (or merely triumphant) detectives—had driven away every single maiden he had ever truly loved. For you see, he could never find a worthy place for their delicate imperfections within the perfect canvas of his own flawed life. Thus, the young man, who during his days of youth and schooling had forsaken all his unnecessary daydreams, became at last a melancholy elder. While he spent his days tearing away the veil of secrets he so fiercely hunted, he was also weaving a final resting place from those very same threads for his long-dead, yet never forgotten dreams. Yes, it was during one of these somber moments that he finally received Leo.

...Leo had cautiously parted the very first door, only to find himself peering down a short corridor toward yet another entrance. This second door was framed within a crescent wall, bearing the stark hue of cold stone. Upon its polished glass, held fast by a cross-shaped frame, the flickering silhouettes of dancing candle flames cast their warm glow. The entrance itself looked like the cozy workshop of a wondrous shoemaker from ages long forgotten. The only object that broke this ancient spell was an intercom placed beside the door, though it belonged to a tech of a bygone era.

And so, Leo pressed the button—even though the power was entirely out! (A detail his wandered mind had completely overlooked). But after all, this was a detective agency, and no ordinary one at that. A voice soon echoed from the other side:

"Enter, if you please."

Like flashes of lightning, thoughts swirled wildly inside his mind. At last, choosing words few would expect, he spoke:

"I have come for someone I have lost... though, in truth, I never truly possessed them."

The gentleman on the other side replied:

"Then you have found the right sanctuary, sir. Pray, step inside."

And Leo, utterly spellbound by the wonders that met his eyes within, was about to utter the most momentous words of his life...

"I truly hope from the depths of my heart that I have not arrived too late, good people," Leo uttered, sealing his words with a heavy sigh.

Gently lowering his small spectacles while knitting his brows—which were now heavily frosted with the white of winter—Mr. Vasil spoke.

"Yes," he began, casting a firm yet comforting gaze from beneath his glasses. "So often do those soul-weary travelers knock upon our door, young man, those for whom the trains of fortune have already departed." He finished his speech with a gravity that belonged to him alone, his voice laced with a strange, consoling warmth.

Thus, Leo stood face-to-face with the legendary Vasil.

He was an elder of majestic bearing and fierce, commanding brows. His head was crowned with long, flowing locks of soft silver hair, which merged into a grand beard and a sweeping mustache. There was a wondrous air about him that reminded Leo of old Father Christmas himself, yet at a single glance, Vasil possessed a far more solemn and captivating seriousness.

Meanwhile, on the other side of that chamber—which breathed the very spirit of antiquity—stood a handsome youth of dark hair and a remarkably earnest gaze. It was he who now politely requested:

"Your name and surname, if you please, young sir."

With a rhythmic clatter, the youth transferred the newcomer’s details onto crisp parchment using an old-fashioned typewriter. He then turned to Leo, asking in an exceptionally courteous tone:

"How may we be of service to your quest?"

But Leo’s heart was now deeply captured by his extraordinary maiden. Yes, she had truly been his savior! Because of this, a towering fear gripped him—much like the terror he once felt on the riverbanks—dreading what dark secrets he might uncover about her.

With a thick yet shallow breath, entirely shrouded in a veil of anxiety, he let his words break free:

"My tale is rather strange. It flows from the dark waters of what they call... a fratricidal war."

The moment those words escaped his lips, his eyes caught a glimpse of a framed message upon the wall, written on parchment yellowed by time and dusted with age. It read:

“Within these walls rest many strange tales. Yet, in truth, they are all one and the same... for they belong to the heart of Man.”

With that sharp, everlasting focus that never left his eyes, Vasil caught Leo reading the inscription and smiled softly into his silver beard. Leo looked from one man to the other, and taking a deep breath, continued his plea:

"Three years ago, in the city of my birth, I was on the very brink of vanishing forever from this world. Yet, by a most beautiful miracle, fate spared me. I was saved by a wondrous maiden. Her name is Liliana von Schönberg. Shortly thereafter, the cruel winds of circumstance forced our paths to part. For so long now... I must find her!" he cried out in a single breath. "But try as I might, fortune does not favor my search."

Do you perchance possess a portrait or a photograph of this maiden, young man?" asked the elder. His voice carried the immense weight of his long years—a question sharp enough to sever the tangled webs of Leo’s journey.

"Alas, I do not," Leo replied. Indeed, from the very depths of his soul, he would have given the heavens to answer otherwise, not just now, but for all the fleeting moments before this hour.

"They always strive to ease our burden, do they not, Master Vasil?" remarked the assistant. His words were dipped in a gentle, romantic irony—a harmless murmur in the quiet room. His commander offered naught but another tender smile and that unique, nearly imperceptible nod of his silver head. From his lips fell words bathed in a quiet, golden warmth, rich with the wealth of a noble spirit:

"Yes, it is ever so..."

Then, the youth spoke once more, weaving his own voice with the grand authority of his master, for they were truly gentlemen of the old, chivalrous school:

"We are no ordinary agency of shadows, young sir. Therefore, I am bound to disclose that for our quest to bear fruit, we must look into the very heart of your desire and learn the reasons behind your plea."

"I understand," Leo answered, his voice ringing with the pure chime of living truth, like a sacred vow kept under a soft, holy shadow. "I seek this maiden—this girl who must now be a young lady of matchless grace—because my soul holds words of supreme importance that I must whisper to her." Yes, something within his passionate declaration made them believe him; those few words were enough to conquer their doubts.

"Inscribe upon this parchment every fragment of knowledge you possess regarding this fair maiden, and seal it with your name, young sir," Vasil’s assistant commanded. He presented Leo with a sheet of paper, crafted exclusively for the secret archives of their grand agency.

When Leo had fulfilled all that was asked of him, the young detective, Stefan, began to unveil the arcane rules of their craft, speaking with the steady gravity of a solemn ritual:

"The tidings of our grand search shall arrive within your letterbox. Should you not possess one, you must fashion it on the very morrow. Our messages shall appear in the form of bound journals of distinct colors. A crimson volume shall ever signify a triumphant and joyful turn in our quest, while a black journal shall bring the somber winds of a negative end. A green ledger, however, shall be yours to fill with whatever fresh clues the agency requires, which you must then dispatch back to the address written within. Should our hunt stretch long across the seasons, these volumes shall arrive but once a moon. Within both the crimson and the black journals, you shall find a faithful chronicle of our deeds. As for the gold required for our labor—a matter that cannot be ignored—it shall depend entirely upon the sacred resources and perilous means our agency must employ. You shall bestow this payment upon us in person, here within this sanctuary, whenever our paths cross to renew our pact."

With these words, he emptied a crystal goblet of water—was it some ancient ritual of agreement, or merely the grand confidence of a welcoming home sealing another moment written in the book of time? Then, he turned to Leo and poised his lips to ask the one question that was destined to follow...

``Does any shadow of doubt remain within your mind regarding all that I have unveiled to you, young sir?" asked the detective.

"Not a single one, gentlemen," Leo answered, his voice ringing with the steadfast armor of absolute certainty.

And so, following the venerable traditions of their ancient craft, the masters of the agency poured a fiery elixir to seal their newly crowned covenant. With parting words that bore the weight of hopeful prophecies, they escorted Leo to the threshold.

Leo stepped out into the world, his mind entirely besieged by thoughts of monumental grandeur. This was no ordinary year in the tapestry of time...

He wended his way through the bustling tumult of the streets, guiding his steps toward the breathtaking majesty of the House of God. For a long season now, everything in his destiny had grown too immense, too profound... In the name of this grand calling, he would offer a burning waxen taper this very day! Today, he walked as a man of deep, unshakeable faith (within the sacred realm of the Nikolajevski House). But in truth, had he not always been a seeker of the divine?

...And the night, just as it had been two winters ago when his eyes first beheld the contours of this majestic city, was woven from the very fabric of fairy tales. In the wayside taverns, illuminated only by the flickering dance of candle flames, voices rose in song—melodies of forgotten lore. Upon the windows of the surrounding palaces, a similar golden hue trembled, casting a soft, secretive light into the dark.

He parted the heavy, monumental doors.

Within this holy sanctuary, the portals are never barred to a weary soul. His thoughts grew gentle, humbled by the sacred air, and an immense solemnity enveloped him. Every sacred painting upon the walls stood tranquil, deep, and majestic, radiating a purposeful warmth—for these were the holy icons. With a reverent hand, he ignited seven candles.

The first he planted deep into the sand, cooled by holy water, offering its light for the salvation of all mankind. The second he set ablaze for the brighter dawn of his once-glorious nation. The third he offered in the name of the boundless, eternal love that consumed his heart for Liliana. The fourth he nestled into the fine sand—where a stray seashell, bathed in the pearlescent glow of the oceans, lay hidden—a pure offering for Liliana alone. The fifth he lit for the triumph of goodness and the enduring health of those noble souls who stood as his guardians, Master Alimpie and Lady Anastasia. The sixth he kindled for all who had woven beautiful memories into his life, those whom his heart desired, and those who held him dear. At last, he planted the seventh and final taper, a prayer for all the forgotten souls whose names the Lord might graciously receive in that sacred hour...

Then, tracing the sacred sign of the cross upon his breast, he offered a low, reverent bow, before stepping forth with equal grace out of the Holy Sanctuary.

Outside, a wondrous and chaotic tempest of traffic ruled the streets. Yet, as he wended past one of those grand and imposing worldly palaces, Leo discovered a way—for the holy candle burneth, and burneth still!—to reach his destination, a recommended haven named the 'Moon Terrace' hotel. His salvation appeared in the form of certain folk who were guiding a mountain of old, discarded parchment upon a most rickety cart. Resembling the roaring chariots of ancient antiquity, this humble vessel of theirs sliced directly through the dense, frozen columns of iron automobiles.

Aye, Leo offered them a heavy coin of great value, and a place was truly cleared for him atop that grand mound of faded paper (for by then, the wings of exhaustion had weighed heavily upon him). The cart drivers were utterly struck with wonder, yet fueled by that honest, noble zeal which belongs only to the simple and humble souls of this world, they performed their extraordinary service. They steered their chariot through every narrow strait and open ribbon of asphalt that divided the carriage lanes. In this manner, they conquered the great, historic bridge over the ancient and Holy River, crossing upon the path reserved solely for pedestrians. At last, dreading the stern eyes of the guards at that renowned and still magnificent hotel, they halted just by the gates—sheltered beneath the shadow of towering, silent cypresses.

And as Leo, wrapped deeply in the velvet mantle of his own thoughts, walked toward the hotel with a dreamy, slumberous step, the surrounding lampposts suddenly—as if they had only just opened their heavy eyes—began to sift and scatter a warm, romantic, and amber light. It was simply the magic of that very minute... for the broken threads of the city’s power grid had at that precise moment been mended.

The moment his boots crossed the threshold of that recommended sanctuary, a wondrous sensation washed over his soul—a grand, sweeping feeling of magnificent vastness. For the entire hall stood as a living portrait captured and frozen in the currents of time. Aye, he recognized its ghost from the distant, half-forgotten days of his early childhood.

In the very heart of this vast and echoing lobby, a splendid fountain wept soft waters over a treasure trove of glistening coins, scattered across its sunken floor. Beside the colossal windows—whose immense panes of glass were dusted with the gray velvet of age—sat heavy armchairs crafted in a cubist, minimalist northern style, so starkly characteristic of those bygone eras that felt so distant on this very eve. At the far end of this silent parade stood the reception desk. To its right, an aperitif bar emerged from the shadows, attended by a maiden whose attire, steeped in the rigid spirit of socio-realism, had long since fallen out of the world’s fashion. Beyond her realm lay a miniature theater of moving pictures, whose nightly repertoire remained a mystery to Leo. Behind the weeping fountain, monumental stairs of heavy marble ascended, parting gracefully into two grand wings. Suspended above them were colossal timepieces, much like those that rule over bustling railway stations, yet by some strange enchantment, they still whispered the exact and truthful hour. And there, in that magical space, it seemed to him that everything still breathed the sweet fragrance of yesteryear, painting a warm, comforting vision within his heart.

He was immensely, yet sweetly weary...

In the tender hours of the early morning, the call of the hotel clock-servant awakened him, just as Leo had commanded the eve before.

Before the first breath of dawn, while the velvety shadows of night still held dominion over the earth, Leo departed in a carriage of night to gather the treasures and gifts he always brought to his kin when returning from the great metropolis. As had ever been his noble custom, these offerings were fine, costly fabrics for his uncle, and wondrous boxes of delicate confections for his aunt.

And having accomplished this noble task, he turned his steps with a joyful heart back toward the homestead nestled upon the banks of the River of Rare Butterflies.

Once more, time flowed gently under the guise of ordinary days. Yet, the second of May was drawing nigh—another monumental day in the tapestry of Leo’s life. Aye, that date would crown his eighteenth year upon this earth. It was destined to be a truly grand dawn in his destiny, bringing with it immense possibilities, even greater responsibilities, and many a solemn duty. His life had indeed been worthy of a noble soul under the tender care of his aunt and uncle. Yet, within this household lay something mystical, something that could never be translated into human speech.

His aunt and uncle were resolved to do everything in their power to welcome their guests with magnificent grandeur. No other way could even be imagined; it was as if life itself had suddenly awakened within them, and they rejoiced in the grand duty bestowed upon their shoulders. Aye, the festival would unfold beneath twelve pavilions of snowy white. There were also certain extraordinary wonders attached to this feast, for Uncle Alimpie insisted that every single guest must wear a new suit tailored exclusively by his own hands, fashioned according to a unique taste he had chosen for each person individually.

To Aunt Anastasia fell the rule over all other splendors of the feast. Meanwhile, Dragana, Leo’s steadfast and devoted friend, took upon herself the care of the invitations.

And thus, the destined hour finally arrived...

...Uncle Alimpie had taken the measurements; on that fateful day, he did naught but drift in and out of his atelier. Whenever a wave of supreme cheer seized him, he would declare in a moment of grand inspiration: "Aye, upon those proud mountains yonder, I have awakened an entire empire of textiles!" Indeed, during those fleeting days, the homestead was possessed by a wondrous vernal breeze. A multitude of youth constantly crossed the threshold, filling the halls with life.

Throughout this entire season of preparation, the house was washed, like rolling waves of the sea, by intoxicating and seductive aromas. Aunt Anastasia had long been crafting the grand feast, surrounded by a court of her chosen companions.

Then, as if by a sudden stroke of enchantment, the eve arrived—the very night before Leo’s monumental day. He brewed a potent infusion of mint to soothe his protesting stomach, which had perchance been too deeply steeped in sweet liqueurs, and to summon a slumber that would grant him strength to bear the majestic weight of the morrow.

And then broke the morning, ever magical.

Aye, today was the second of May, the dawning of Leo’s eighteenth year. His aunt and uncle greeted the light as though they had kept a sleepless vigil, putting the final touches to the grand pageant.

Thus, Leo awoke. He was stirred to fullness of life by the rich aroma of the first morning coffee, spiced with sweet cinnamon.

The moment he had finished his essential morning rituals, he resolved to try upon his person this day's grand attire—doing so while still fasting and before breaking his bread, for in such an hour does one perceive things with the truest clarity. The moment he donned the garment, he fell utterly in love with it.

Upon his feet he now wore tall boots, resembling the fine leather footwear of valiant officers from eras long lost to time—warriors of those ancient armies ever ready to surrender their lives for a noble ideal. His head was crowned with a velvet cap bearing a polished metallic visor, creased in the fashion of the proud officers of the high mountains. It bore a striking hue of violet and amber-orange, matching the tailored suit that sat above his charcoal-black boots. Aye, and the delicate hand of any maiden who might chance to dance with him on this night would be safely enfolded within his matching gloves of fine black leather.

And following that majestic rehearsal, borne upon the now untamable stride of sweeping time, the hour of luncheon arrived. At the grand table, the solemn words of Uncle Alimpie awaited him:

"My own sire would have said to me, 'My boy, engrave this very moment upon your soul, for this is the final feast that perchance owed its existence to the hands of others. Every remaining bread in your life shall be yours to choose.'"

"With utmost dignity, I accept this noble mantle, my dear uncle," Leo replied. Aye, upon the solemn altar of his heart, Leo enshrined all of his uncle's words. Though they were perhaps too grand and far-reaching for their faithful everyday lives, the voice of tradition and ancient customs demanded such reverence. And this exalted covenant, forged for the sake of history itself from Leo’s steadfast vow, was sealed and strengthened by the dark elixir of the wine they had just shared.

The clocks struck eighteen hours on that second afternoon of May...

It was then that the first of Leo’s guests began to cross the threshold, each adorned in attire worthy of the grand pageants and balls of old.

Across the gates of Leo’s estate, the evening air of late spring began to carry the first melodies of the feast. His uncle had chosen a repertoire from his own collections of ancient, fragrant, and ever-tender ballads, intertwined with the vibrant notes of youthful pop-rock, which ever seem to breathe the sweet scent of caramel confections.

When all the guests had assembled within that part of the courtyard reserved solely for the dancers' steps, Leo bestowed his gratitude upon them. He spoke with a beautiful, enchanting warmth that belonged to his spirit alone, thanking them for gracing his celebration on this night.

In the name of the revelry that was to follow, every soul raised a goblet of ruby wine in a grand toast. And with that, a true dandy's ball commenced. Any wanderer from the ordinary world who knew naught of the wonders within Master Alimpie’s courtyard might easily have believed that he had brought to life some wondrous... masquerade ball (yet one that was pure delight to the eyes). But this illusion was not merely the work of that dreamer captivated by the art of flight, who for this grand occasion had donned a genuine aviator's suit from those early, faraway days of the skies, complete with a leather helmet and pilot’s goggles.

And while his eyes searched the crowd for her alone...

Leo’s steadfast and perhaps only true friend stolen quietly behind him, touching his shoulder with a gentle grace, and whispered into the night:

"Is it my countenance you seek, my Prince?"

"Ah, indeed. It was you, my Lady, whom I sought to discern amidst all this noble company."

With a benevolent nod of her head, Dragana allowed Leo to capture her hands and guide her into the spinning dance.

"And to whom do you belong, young aeronaut?" she called out to the dreaming flyer.

"To the final mechanical bird that took flight from an airfield that no longer belongs to any living soul," came his answer from the crowd.

Many of her maidens, whispering among themselves, would have wholeheartedly agreed that Dragana looked uniquely magnificent on this eve. Yet, Leo’s eyes could never rain down upon her with that same adoring gaze; such a look in his soul was reserved only for a singular, venomous brilliance of memory. Aye, it was a gaze born only when the mirror of his mind reflected the image of that maiden who, upon a blood-drenched day of yore, had extended her hand to him beside a crimson-stained river and the cruelly disfigured face of his birthplace. (Yes, in those hidden minutes when he was possessed by the spirit of a poet, he would whisper to the wind: "But I have already kissed her.").

No matter how brilliantly the wealth of Dragana’s beauty and her noble inner spirit shone on this night, he never beheld her as a maiden for his own heart. He loved her only as a sister who commanded his deepest reverence—a lady destined for some other youth of fortunate stars. (But was she perchance the herald of the one who was yet to come? Does even this mysterious evening hold the answer to that riddle?).

And as if fashioned solely for this magical hour, Dragana wore a grand, sweeping ball gown of amber-brown and crimson with cascading sleeves. It was adorned with a galaxy of shimmering sequins, which seemed to mirror the very stardust upon her face. On this night, her feet would count the rhythmic pulse of those majestic ballads across Master Alimpie’s estate, stepping gracefully in slippers of violet velvet with low, delicate heels. Her hands, too, were enfolded in velvet gloves of the same regal hue. And crowning her long tresses—which bore the luster of ancient, spun gold—sat a wide-brimmed hat of violet velvet, a vision of absolute and harmonious grace.

Aye, such a wondrous and majestic gown had even succeeded in concealing every trace of the athletic and spirited nature belonging to this young tennis maiden.

When the rhythmic dance of the youth had stepped into the deeper hours of the evening, they were joined by a couple most captivating to the eye. Indeed, it was Aunt Anastasia and Uncle Alimpie, who, adorned in their own even more marvelous garments, had magically dissolved—nay, utterly drowned—among the swirling sea of young midnight dancers.

Yet, the pinnacle of the evening arrived when Leo let fall one of the very first deep and trembling tears of his young manhood. For you see, the night had already donned its darkest velvet mantle when a couple bearing the immense burden of many heavy years appeared at the ball. Aye, it was old Grandmother Petkana and Master Blaž, whom Leo had not beheld since that faraway and shadowed year of ninety-two.

At that precise moment, as if by a grand theatrical cue, the heavens parted and a rain began to fall—a spring deluge of large, warm drops laden with a wide, rich fragrance. The entire company swiftly gathered beneath the shelter of the twelve snowy canvas pavilions. It was then that Leo finally approached the newly arrived elders—yet was it merely to receive the birthday blessings of Master Blaž and Lady Petkana? Nay, for there followed embraces of such fierce and monumental strength, they shook the very soul.

He was possessed by a sensation so profound, it felt as though he had just unlocked an ancient, magical wardrobe, full of deep corners steeped in shadow, and hidden pillows whose comfort is never forgotten, where everything within still breathes a sweet, timeless fragrance. Noticing a strange expression and a somewhat choked gaze upon Leo’s countenance, Master Blaž stepped closer with a barely visible smile—one discernable only to the eyes of mature souls—and whispered in a tone painted with the purest goodwill:

"Fear not, Leo. Here upon this earth, I merely guard for our dear Max that which shall rightfully belong to him in the kingdom of heaven."

"My deepest gratitude to you, Master Blaž," Leo answered in that selfsame solemn tone.

Then, Grandmother Petkana drew near, and for reasons known only to the stars, poised one of those questions that shall forever belong to the scrolls of history:

"My sweet Leo, is that fair maiden yonder your beloved girl?" she asked, guiding his gaze toward Dragana with a nod of her head.

"Nay, Grandmother Petka. She is my devoted friend whom I love dearly, yet in quite a different manner," he replied. And in that very breath, those fleeting minutes became beautifully perfumed with the sweet, romantic air of vanilla and roses.

"And where then is your beloved maiden?" Aye, it was a question that could flow only from the lips of a grandmother.

"The one whom my heart desires to stand beside me at this very hour is somewhere far away... perhaps even closer to you, sweet grandmother," Leo answered. And as the words left his lips, it felt as though the very heavens had parted above them.

And she, utterly captured by the sudden wonder of Leo’s words and all their solemn depth, seemed to catch her footing upon the metaphorical banister of a winding stair, steadying herself with a question that bore far less weight:

"How could she be closer to me, child?"

"Do you remember the maiden who saved my fleeting life from the clutches of death?" Aye, it was that specific tone of voice—the one that ever prepares the soul for grander secrets yet to be unveiled.

"Ah, my dear boy... ah." Yes, Grandmother Petka, as if she had long ago foreseen such a destiny, let fall a heavy sigh meant for fate alone. It was a monumental moment in time, an hour where all the words of the earth could fit into a single second:

"Florina’s granddaughter," she whispered, pressing her palm tightly against her trembling lips. She drowned for a moment within a deep vortex of sacred uncertainty, and then presented Leo with a question laced with a dark, haunting echo—a sound that seemed to conceal too many secrets behind its armor, as if she knew something that she desperately wished Leo would never uncover:

"Mercy, child... do you know anything of her fate?" For you see, Leo had caught all the hidden half-notes and shadows within her spoken words. To answer her, he brought forth words that could never simply vanish into the night—words accompanied by a steadfast gaze that remained locked upon her countenance:

"Grandmother..." He paused, for he desired that everything he was about to reveal should be heard with absolute clarity, by both her mind and her soul. "I have bound a detective to a sacred pact to find her..." He listened closely to the resonance of his own voice, as if wishing to show her: Do you truly understand the gravity of these minutes, my dear grandmother?

"But from what my eyes perceive... you know something of her secret."

"I... nay... by no means!" she gasped, as if her inner soul had suddenly slipped upon the treacherous ice of truth.

"I believe—though my soul holds no certainty—that Florina departed with her, journeying back to the ancient lands of her birth..."

Yet, despite her elusive words, Leo knew within his breast, and felt with absolute conviction, that he must strike one final blow of truth:

"Grandmother... if chance hath made you guardian of a secret you wish to bury in silence, you shall bear a heavy burden. For sooner or later, I shall unearth the whole truth. And then, the wound shall run deep and pain me greatly..."

She, utterly submerged within the shrouded meaning of her own thoughts, bestowed upon him words that were truly grander than time itself:

"I know, my son, that it would bring you profound sorrow... yet, destiny shall ever weave its own design."

Aye, and with that momentous breath, the entirety of their converse on this eve reached its twilight. While the youth continued to celebrate Leo’s dawning years under the canvas pavillions, Petkana and Blaž were already making their retreat back toward their distant city. For you see, their passage across the borders was a fleeting privilege that endured for but a single day—a license purchased under the shadow of a forged scroll of death.

Following their departure, the birthday revelry stretched long into the dark, enduring until the very first blush of the morrow’s dawn.

It was then that all the noble guests, escorted by the earliest golden rays of the morning sun, wended their way back to their dwellings.

An exhaustion resembling the heavy torpor of winter finally conquered him, once the last of his company had vanished from sight. His entire frame trembled under a multitude of tiny, wandering currents that moved without a clear course. Yet, slumber did not claim him; he remained awake to greet this new dawn—a day so differently named by the multitude. For in that hour, much depended upon the unseen forces of fate.

Soon after the morning had bloomed, voices began to call upon him from afar. Aye, many of his companions of old rang out with glad tidings and birthday blessings—youths now scattered across the wide corners of the earth following the tragic ruin of that grand world which had once been built by their singular, protective patriarch, the now illustrious Master Mahir. Yes, by a most strange and exceptional weave of circumstances, well-nigh all of Mahir’s children, save for Leo and Vitomir, now dwelt in faraway lands across the seas. Yet the threads that bound them were never severed, for Grandmother Petka had jealously guarded the secret scrolls of their numbers. She watched over the lineage of Mahir’s house and her own kin with a fierce devotion, ever being the first to capture any new tidings of their fates.

Meanwhile, the new days began to flee past Leo with a wondrous swiftness.

Once the weariness of the feast had been lifted from their weary frames, a mere three suns after his dawning day, Aunt Anastasia and Uncle Alimpie escorted Leo into the vaulted chambers of a far-famed bank. There, before the eyes of the law, Leo officially claimed personal dominion over his entire, enviable inheritance. (Though only the Heavens above truly know what prices had to be paid, and by whose hidden hands, to secure such a fortune).

Yet Leo remained wise to the world; he knew within his heart that the iron vault which guarded his gold also shielded his soul from a burden of responsibility too grand to bear. And as his boots trod upon those ever-present, vast marble steps in his festive attire, it became clearer and clearer to his mind that for every coin that left that iron vault, a new and looming question would grow to haunt his future years.

Seated within those massive leather armchairs, Alimpie’s family verified all the necessary scrolls and documents, and Leo officially became the master and heir of a grand fortune.

They celebrated this momentous hour once more within that famous tavern, where they had spent their very first evening together in that now (to the heart...) faraway year, when Leo had first grasped their hands, bringing joy to their eyes and comfort to their souls. His uncle, following his old custom, ordered six centimeters of potent gin, yet on this night, Leo joined him in the toast. His aunt, however, requested naught but a glass of blueberry juice, for she was destined once again to be the chariot-driver for her two fine gentlemen.

And so, a succession of entirely new days began to pass...

During this season, Leo completed his high schooling with enviable and grand success. Many of his peers had already enrolled themselves within the universities or had gone forth to seek their own fortunes in labor. Yet throughout all this time, Leo wrestled fiercely with his own heart, his soul, and his darkest thoughts. He searched, and searched, and searched anew for any path that might lead him to her, without whom not a single dawn could bring him joy. His aunt and uncle understood his silent torment, and their hearts felt his grief.

Yet, no joyful tidings arrived. None came from his sworn brother, Vitomir. None from Grandmother Petkana. Nor had any message come from the secret detective agency... nor from any other living soul!

He spent many a long day wandering through various galleries that held little meaning for him in those lonely hours, and through countless museums, wending his way even to the grand department stores whose golden age of labor had long since faded into twilight, and onward to...  and even to the offices of gazettes and grand embassies, which held a strange significance for him. For you see, hope is a flame that never dies! At the end of his daily wanderings, he would visit those rare, genuinely kindred spirits who were close to his heart, among whom the most radiant and cherished place belonged to Dragana. It was during these very visits that he first truly discovered that ever-dreamy, romantically fragrant city nestled within the vast plains. Aye, many of his companions dwelt there... and it was there that he came to know those charming, secretive taverns, hidden behind velvet curtains of mystery, where one could hear countless fascinating tales and partake of the finest wines. In those sanctuaries, casting a peculiar and sorrowful gaze upon the world, he sought to heal his youthful melancholy. For where was she? Such was his gentle nature...

Yes, during one of these soulful visits to Dragana, Leo stepped once more into his favorite buffet on the far edges of that grand city of the plains. With that uniquely mournful gaze of his, he stood watching the ever-hurrying passersby (or so, at least, it appeared to his eyes in that twilight hour).

Suddenly, there drifted to Leo’s ears there drifted to Leo’s ears a melody that had become famous in those days, its verses echoing through the hall:

"Forgive me, angel of light,
That my soul is crushed tonight,
By thoughts of madness so deep,
And that my heart can only weep.
Trust not the fiend of the dark,
Who watches my fading spark.
He drives my heart to a grave,
Where blood and bitter bile rave.

Black wings across the skies,
Crimson, burning eyes.
A great and shadowbound art
Now freezes my beating heart.
Resurrected times of old,
Their vampire eyes, stark and cold,
Peer from seeds of hellish fire,
While in the heart, love pours desire."

—songs as mournful as the gaze of a young unfortunate, star-crossed love.

And having found, for the absolute countless time, a strange and deeply personal symbol within those words, he continued to reflect silently from that solitary corner of his soul. His back was turned to all the world, and he could no longer drink a single breath from those ever-present gazes belonging to the weeping, mist-filled eyes within the tavern. Truth be told, there were not many souls here on this night, for the tiny buffet possessed but two tables in the fresh air outside and a mere three within its cozy walls.

Sipping his dark wine with that slow, romantic measure, he let his gaze drift far beyond the open doors, past the very boundaries of the tavern itself. Yet, as it so often happens when we drink the draft of life in those soft and quiet sips, a sudden shift in destiny unfolded before him. All at once! Aye, in the very hour when his heart least expected it, a moment shrouded in the velvet veil of opaque mysteries occurred—a wondrous revelation broke through the dark.

Aye, like a flash of brilliant lightning splitting a clear vernal sky, his eyes were suddenly captured by a headline in the daily press, displayed upon the iron frame of a shop window right beside the buffet. Yes, those monumental moments had arrived—those very hours that appear from the deepest, shadowed corner of one’s gaze. There, upon the parchment, the name Schönberg was written. He rose to his feet, yet his limbs instantly grew both feather-light and heavily burdened, as though every ounce of balance had vanished from his frame. He seized them! He purchased a copy of every single gazette printed on that fateful day. (The maiden at the counter was utterly startled by the fierce intensity in Leo’s eyes, even though he remained soft-spoken, proper, and unfailingly courteous).

Within his trembling hands he held the journals—while through his veins and every delicate capillary, his blood thundered with a wild, untamed fury, reaching a measure he had never even dreamed existed. There upon the cover, the grand headline proclaimed:

“The Countess of the North, Lady Elisa von Schönberg, Majestic in Her Defeat.”

And all at once, everything ignited within his azure eyes, as if a torrent of oil had been cast into the very heart of a raging fire.

The entirety of his carefully guarded peace was scattered into dust by whole swarms of fiery butterflies. In that single breath, the heavens and the earth, the morning, the flame, the smoke, the night, and the moon all became one аye, his heart thundered in his breast, transformed entirely into a war drum. In Leo’s wide, astonished eyes, those multiple pages of news became a single, burning scroll—no longer mere words, but the iron hand of Destiny itself:

“Yet another tragic tale lay buried within the heart of the Countess of the North, guarded as fiercely as the ancient grey hills beneath whose shadows the tragedy unfolded.

Namely, into the path of one of the very first tempests of war upon our then-shared lands, the grand retinue of the illustrious Countess of the Old Continent, Elisa von Schönberg, had cast itself. The Countess’s loyal driver, her personal majordomo, and a hired translator were bound to a sacred mission: to rescue her second granddaughter, named Liliana, from the fires of war and all the perils that could bloom from them. Until that dark hour, the maiden had dwelt under the tender care of her maternal grandmother, Lady Florina Amaresco.

Yet, by a cruel twist of those heavy, unpredictable circumstances that ever haunt a theater of war, they met their downfall during the very first tragic clashes. Four souls were surrendered to the grave. Among them lay one of the two twin granddaughters, along with the previously mentioned envoys of Lady Elisa von Schönberg.

For you see, the other granddaughter, named Marlena, who lived under the Countess’s own watchful care and patronage, had been sent as a living pledge of the Countess’s noble intentions toward Lady Florina Amaresco—her relative by marriage—after the latter had expressed deep doubts regarding her goodwill.

The Countess herself hath declared this very day, after the passing of four long winters, that she was not truly enlightened as to the perils within the war-torn realm when she resolved to take the steps for which her soul now repents without ceasing.

Unto this dark hour, it remaineth a mystery which of the Countess’s two granddaughters hath surrendered her breath to the grave, while the other is still recorded upon the scrolls of the world as a missing soul.

The Countess, Lady Elisa von Schönberg, did but yesterday, under the protective banners of International Forces, attend the exhumation and the solemn transfer of the mortal remains of one of her twin granddaughters, alongside the noble gentlemen of her former retinue who tragically lost their lives during the first year of the civil strife that then raged across our once-shared homeland.

Yet, Lady Florina Amaresco did not grace this solemn gathering with her presence; instead, she had bestowed a written mandate upon Lady von Schönberg to act in her stead during the described ritual. From unnamed chronicles, we have learned that Lady Florina’s health is deeply broken, which fully untangles the riddle of her absence. The true identity of the mortal remains, where it concerneth the granddaughters, is yet to be precisely established by the masters of medicine.”

And the very moment he had devoured all these tidings, he could no longer tarry for even a single breath. Nay, from that very spot, he hastened with all his might to inform the agency of Detective Vasil Zlatnik—wishing that they might together examine this unveiled chronicle, and that he might soon thereafter succeed in unearthing even more momentous secrets or perchance secrets even grander and more monumental than those.

For words are too poor to describe how terrifying it all was... words are too frail to express how immense this burden was for Leo’s breaking heart. Looming, dark clouds threatened once more to drown his entire world into the abyss.

...The master detective received these tidings with all the gravity they commanded, and the boundaries of their search instantly expanded. After a passage of time, from the hands of Master Vasil, Leo received the precise scrolls containing the current dwelling of Lady Florina Amaresco. Without a single moment of hesitation, he cast himself onto a perilous journey toward the distant, frozen North, far up into the East, to seek her out and knock upon her door.

And after a season of travel—which in those frantic minutes felt to his soul like a whole eternity—the sorrow-stricken elder finally appeared before him. Bearing a pleasant and warm countenance, she addressed him in her own mother tongue:

"Вот, молодой человек" ("Enter, young man,").

He then, with a voice somewhat rigid from the deep, trembling anxiety that gripped his throat, ventured to speak:

"I believe... that you speak... this tongue as well."

To which she swiftly replied:

"That depends entirely upon whom I converse with."

And so, Leo continued from where he stood:

"I hold no certainty as to how it is best to unveil my name to you."

"In truth, I can already divine it," the elder whispered...

And her words might, at a passing glance, have seemed overly sharp and unyielding, yet it was naught but an illusion—a defensive armor donned solely for the sacred majesty of that very moment.

He then ventured to say:

"It is a tangled and wondrously complex matter." To which she offered her counsel:

"To begin our journey, pray step inside my humble dwelling."

Aye, such is the graceful nature of these quiet, ever-patient elders. For perchance she knew not his purpose, yet in truth, it felt as though her soul already divined it; she guided him into a chamber filled with the portraits of her granddaughter.

It was a parlor woven from the most charming, antique design, unique to the high paths of the North and the distant reaches of the East. His entire breast swelled as never before the moment his eyes once more beheld... her gaze. In that fleeting second, a tempest of conflicting and fiercely potent emotions clashed within him, until he felt a singular, strangely magnificent force settle upon his soul. It was a feeling painted with a soft, melancholy shadow, a heavy and tightly bound excitement, and that ever-present, numbing shock—yet all of it was felt gently, whispered through silent and tense undertones. Within that chamber, shadowed from without by the vast and sweeping northern clouds, those portraits gleamed like two living pearls submerged beneath a sea of memories, buffeted by the high crests of the waves of time.

The elder soon broke the silence with a gentle inquiry:

"Young man, may I brew a cup of coffee or prepare a fragrant infusion of tea for your journey?"

To which Leo softly replied:

"I would most gladly partake of a coffee in your noble company."

Upon hearing his choice, the elder offered naught but a tender smile and retreated into the quiet sanctuary of her kitchen. She moved with a slow, persistent grace, almost as if gliding across the floor, wrapped in a coat of charming dignity. Left alone, Leo rose to his feet and stood frozen for a time. His eyes wandered through the room, until at last he drew near and lifted a single portrait from among the many images of Liliana. He gazed into it once more—his soul filled with a solemn, heartfelt devotion—and gently pressed his lips to the maiden's brow upon the photograph. Lady Florina witnessed this sacred act, catching the gesture through a small, circular window adorned with a delicate lace curtain that divided the kitchen from the parlor. Leo, lost in the currents of his own mind, suspected nothing. He was entirely possessed by the wild storm of his powerful emotions; he had beheld her gaze once more, and its enchantment held him fast. He did not even perceive when Lady Florina stole back into the room, bearing the freshly brewed coffee, which exhaled a warm and comforting aroma.

"My deepest thanks to you," Leo whispered as she set the cups down, and the elder softly began to speak:

"In truth, when my ears first caught the tongue you speak, my heart fancied you might be an envoy from the International Agency, coming to bring me some tidings—any tidings at all—of my sweet Lili. Yet, a mere moment ago, as I watched you, I perceived that you, young man, are simply someone who loved her." Immediately following these words, she poised her next inquiry, already divining the heart of the matter:

"You have journeyed all this way, then, so that we might speak of my Lili?"

And Leo, unveiling his soul, began:

"I am Leo Prince. I once dwelt, in a time that perchance feels distant now, within the very city where you, in days of yore, brought comfort and aid to my people. It was there that my paths crossed with Lili. She became my savior in an hour of supreme darkness... Aye, in that selfsame moment, she twice delivered my life from the brink—saving both my flesh and my soul. Today, I know this with absolute certainty." He was resolved that these were the truest words his heart could utter.

"And so, after all that came to pass, I simply fell boundlessly in love with her," Leo added, wishing that his earnest declaration might awaken the most tender and exalted memories within the elder's heart for her cherished granddaughter.

"I believe you, young man. She was ever a child of such wondrous grace..." the elder whispered.

Leo then unfolded the entire tapestry of that fateful event in great detail. Upon hearing his chronicle, her grandmother was suddenly seized by the memory of a bygone season:

"You see... once, in a fleeting moment long dissolved by time, when Liliana was but a tender little maiden, she grew deeply sorrow-stricken after a gentle collision between their family’s elegant carriage-car and a great city omnibus in that grandest metropolis nestled in the heart of the Old Continent. Her sire, Leopold—who is now departed from this world, yet was ever as a true son to me—promised her then that he would soon grant her a wish: that one day, she too should guide a great omnibus through the streets of some magnificent city. He possessed a heart like that, you see—ever bathed in smiles. And though time denied him, and he did not live to fulfill his vow, the Creator of all things did not let his words be forgotten..."

"Aye, I cannot but feel that within all of this, a mysterious thread of destiny was woven." With this phrase, she parted the deep and solemn silence that had enveloped the room.

Throughout her speech, Leo remained utterly spellbound by her dreamy, snow-kissed words, which resembled those nostalgic tableaus painted upon the Christmas greetings of childhood. Wrapped in that quietude, he listened with a profound and reverent devotion. Aye, it was as if for the very first time time in many a passing year, she felt a vivid, living quickening within her soul—utterly enveloped by a solemn grace. Then, as if passing through a hidden tunnel forged between space and time, she suddenly and abruptly returned to the realm of their newfound days, pulled back by some invisible power into these very minutes. She broke the stillness with a sentence that was almost a query to her own spirit:

"Can we truly bring aid to one another, young man... so that we may soothe each other’s deep and aching wounds?" Aye, the elder questioned him with a touch of rhetorical grace. At that moment, Leo partook of his coffee, his countenance reflecting its pleasant savor, and softly replied:

"Perchance... we may achieve even more than that." And within the sanctuary of his own mind, searching for a path both inside and outside his soul, he continued: "Alas, I am bound by fate to trouble your peace now, and perhaps even to bring offense to your heart. Yet I am but a man of flesh and blood, and so I implore you—nay, I conjure you by all that is sacred—to tell me: do you perchance divine that the broken, lifeless form found yonder in that dark hour belonged in truth to Marlena, your other granddaughter?"

"Nay... I cannot utter such words. I hold no right to claim it, neither for the sake of my own soul nor for the sake of others," Lady Florina answered. She spoke with a voice heavy with disappointment, or perhaps merely wrapped in a sharp, sudden sorrow meant equally for herself and for him. Yet Leo, driven by a power grander than his own being, continued to unearth the truth, as if digging into the stubborn, frozen earth:

"Did they differ in any manner? Was there any token by which they could be parted?"

Stirred once more by a wave of deep unrest, the elder answered:

"They differed in absolutely everything."

And with that, Leo softened the edge of his previous inquiry, clothing it in gentler terms:

"Yet, did they differ upon their very person—within their physical form—in any manner whatsoever?"

Unwillingly, and with a mind that seemed to wander into some faraway, absent realm, she merely whispered her reply:

"Every soul who beheld them declared they did not."

Following those heavy words, a profound and burdened silence fell upon them both for a season. In that quietude, as if seeking sanctuary from their own thoughts, they partook of their coffee in small, hesitant sips. They remained thus until Lady Florina discovered within her soul words that bore the sacred weight of a deathbed confession. Letting forth a sigh she had guarded from long ago, she began:

"I sought her by every path and means imaginable upon this earth... yet it is as though the ravenous wolves of the forest had carried her away in that fateful hour of destiny. She is gone..." At that moment, her gaze grew utterly hollow, as if life itself were fading from her frame. Then, she spoke with fierce emphasis:

"She is nowhere to be found."

And in that very breath, a sudden dizziness seized her; she began to slide from her seat—down into a dark abyss, where the hidden currents of sorrow run deep and tear at the soul and a scalding tear coursed its way down the withered contours of the elder's face. Yet after all had passed, when she had returned from the shadows and gathered the fragments of her gentle mercy, she mournfully remarked:

"I perceive that you hold a steadfast faith that you shall find her..."

"I believe that my soul can choose no other path," Leo answered, his voice ringing with a majestic and exalted resonance. Yet she was already entirely bound in the chains of her misfortune. Then, suspended somewhere between the realms of waking life and shifting dreams, she suddenly began to speak, appearing utterly beside herself:

"Aye, perchance your eyes shall behold her once more, Leo, in those faraway seasons when the green meadows, even in the very heart of summer, are suddenly draped in a shroud of snowy white. Clad in a mantle of frost, she shall wend her way toward you with a frozen heart. It was in such a guise that I beheld her in my dreams but a few nights ago." And after locking her gaze with a fierce and striking intensity upon his eyes, she continued from the very depths of her aching heart: "I too held faith for a long season... but for me, broken by sickness and weighed down by great age, the twilight is drawing nigh. My remaining strength is fast ebbing away."

Leo offered naught but silence, yet within the mirror of his gaze, one could clearly read the words: My heart bleedeth for your sorrow...

"Trust me, it is even so," the elder confessed with absolute sincerity. She then flung wide the portals of her soul to Leo, yet amidst her mournful words, she let fall a secret he had never known until this very hour:

"Your youth cannot even divine how bitter it is for an old woman to accept that she hath lost all three of her granddaughters."

And Leo, utterly besieged by surprise and driven clean out of his senses, gasped:

"There existed a third granddaughter?!"

"Aye, my sweet son. Before we could even bestow a name upon her, she had already departed from this world," she explained, unraveling the hidden threads of her past and laying before Leo the entirety of the secret she had guarded: "My departed daughter had brought triplets into this world, yet one of those three twin maidens left our side at the very moment of her birth."

"My heart bleedeth for you, dear elder," Leo whispered. Aye, within the sanctuary of his heart, he had already adopted this gentle woman as his own grandmother.

"Aye... I stood upon the wrong side of fate in the days of my youth," she confessed. "I placed my faith in false and hollow ideals. Perchance it was written in the stars that this bleak solitude could never pass me by..."

And after they had exchanged the fiercest, most resonant words of their souls—two beings now bound heart-to-heart and turned toward one another—they surrendered themselves to a solemn silence, which enveloped them until the hour of supper arrived.

And following all that had transpired, the now exceedingly pale Lady Florina extended an invitation to Leo, bidding him to find shelter and rest within her home after their shared supper on this eve. Aye, Leo could by no means deny so tender an offering.

Yet, throughout the entirety of the night, slumber refused to claim him; he kept a sleepless vigil. He spent the dark hours gazing upon every single portrait of Liliana that the elder held in her keeping. Among them all, he chose the one that appeared to his soul as the most beautiful—for it seemed as though a melody known only to the two of them was softly poured across its canvas—even though every single image was wondrous in his eyes.

Thus, over the very first cup of early morning coffee, he gently implored the elder to bestow that singular portrait upon him as a gift. Yet, to his immense and joyful wonder, she resolved to present him with every last portrait of Liliana, save for one which she claimed she would soon bear away with her (though she unveiled not the destination of her final journey). Upon that solitary canvas, Liliana and her twin sister stood side by side, cradled within the arms of their sire and mother. Overwhelmed with devotion, Leo offered his deepest gratitude:

"My heart thanks you, that you deem my soul worthy of so majestic a gift." To these words, the elder replied with absolute and unshakeable grace:

"There is no need to offer me your thanks, child. In truth, I believe that you are the only soul truly worthy to receive them, for within your hands, their worth remaineth boundless and everlasting."

And since Lady Florina’s frame was truly held fast by a most fragile and ebbing health, she escorted him only as far as the threshold, where at their final parting, she made a last plea:

"Forgive me, young man, that I have surrendered my arms to fate... but sorrow hath truly slain my soul."

Yet Leo, capturing her withered hands—hands deeply furrowed by the tracks of time—within both of his own, bestowed a solemn vow:

"Nay, it shall not end in such a bleak design! Even if it be the final deed of my life, I shall cause the echo of your last sigh to mist the very eyes of Lili."

And so, followed by the weary gaze of the elder, he stepped forth to meet the rising sun. Aye, that path guided him through the crisp, fragrant breath of a northern morning toward the railway station of a town still deeply wrapped in slumber, far up within that vast and mighty kingdom of the North.

And when a great season of time had already flown past—according to the chronicles of man's fleeting life—since Leo's encounter with Liliana's grandmother...

Still, nothing of great moment had shifted within his quest. No joyful tidings had arrived from any quarter of the earth. Thus, during yet another of his countless journeys to the great city nestled in that ever-silent, wide and sweeping plain, to seek out his many companions there... through those labyrinthine streets that now wore the soiled and ink-stained visage of autumn, he guided his steps with the heavy heart of a melancholy wanderer. Yet within the deepest sanctuary of his soul, a flame of hope still burned bright—a hope that even on this day, he might receive yet another wondrous revelation, or by the supreme mercy of the Heavens, a true miracle! Aye, the entirety of his gaze was cast upward, straining toward the sky with a fierce, burning desire.

Within his polished leather shoes, he carefully wended his way around the frozen puddles, which were locked in shackles of mud-colored snow. Like a silent retinue, the leaden, autumn clouds followed his every stride. It was a street that had ever bestowed upon him the most powerful and haunting impressions, though he had never truly unraveled the mystery of why its stones held such a spell over his heart.

To his right, the path was flanked by decaying, weathered houses so typical of the sweeping plains, with only an occasional building of modern design breaking the line. To his left, the earth was bound in the tight embrace of withered, wild grass, now almost entirely drowned beneath the heavy shroud of damp snow.

And upon this opposite side of the way, there dwelt but two companies of souls: weary masons and broken elders. The latter—there, in that very place—were still keeping a long vigil for the warmth of a hearth to call their own, waiting within one of those newly erected structures where they had invested the whole of their now withered and extinguished fortunes.

The former, however, made their dwellings within a multitude of camp-carriages. Upon their metal frames, on this bleak autumn afternoon, there gleamed a sickly hue resembling a feverish chill; yet in truth, it was a warm, scalding tint of molten brass,born merely from the reflection of the newly ignited city lamps. Aye, a wild, untamed life brings both bitter pain and sudden warmth—and all around him lay naught but a sorrowful autumn.

Yet, in defiant contrast to this scene, an even heavier atmosphere reigned—one that made the breath grow thick and laden with a slumberous, endless torpor. This suffocating air held dominion over those bleak barracks yonder, raised with great haste for another breed of men, a company marked for an entirely different destiny amidst those souls upon that far side of the street.

And it was precisely within one such uninviting courtyard, belonging to those humble human settlements, that an old woman was washing her face with ice-cold water...

For reasons locked deep within his breast, Leo feared—aye, he feared, not with a sudden fright, but with a deep, echoing dread—to capture her stoic gaze. He wished not on this day, nay, by no means did he wish to become conscious of the weight of her misery. Yet, was the greatest terror within Leo the secret dread that he himself might one day venture to flee from that sometimes frozen countenance of human reality, and seek a sanctuary for his soul within that singular ...martyred warmth belonging to one of those humble dwellings that stretched along his left hand. Or perchance, what terrified his soul above all else was the sudden realization that he would rather look upon the weathered face of that destitute old woman every single day, than gaze upon the ever-hideous countenance of a man (and a life) completely devoid of love.

...while beside her stood a small, poorly fashioned kennel, leaning awkwardly and almost entirely stripped of its color—a tiny house for a hound, from which the fierce, echoes of barking could still be heard spilling into the street. And that wordless, primal tongue seemed, above all else, to scatter tales from the very depths of life—stories that until this hour remained completely unknown to Leo’s world.

...And the barking echoed from somewhere deep within that ever-misty distance, into which that long, abandoned meadow seemed to dissolve. Upon those fields, especially during the warmer seasons of the year, one could chance to spy countless wandering souls and their peculiar settlements. Even steeds could be seen there, bearing a plundered, weary, yet unyielding and dark countenance.

That wild expanse of land, bearing a spirit akin to raw poetry, divided two distinct neighborhoods of a now deeply frozen city, nestled within that valley of ever-dreamy sunflowers—which tonight held naught but dead and silent stubble.

...And it would seem to Leo, every time his boots trod upon those stones, as if for him… some hidden reason, this particular street carried within its chest, in a deeply mysterious fashion, the very countenance of the whole wide world.

For indeed, it would seem to him that however multifaceted the earth may be, this street was equally diverse, revealing itself anew every time his eyes caught its many changing faces, and whenever it withdrew other aspects from his sight. Upon its stones, especially during these fading days of late autumn, there would intertwine the rustic warmth of a highlander's hearth—above which some thin, simple broth would most often be simmering—the steady heat of radiators within new chambers, and the radiant glow of electric stoves where soups heavily seasoned with modern chemistry were prepared. Yet right alongside these stood the deep, traditional warmth of homesteads that were still rural in their heart, within whose ever-toasty kitchens some restoring, life-giving broth would be boiling upon the iron plates of everlasting wood-stoves. This final scene was most often betrayed by the pungent, earthy aroma of stable manure, which during those damp seasons hung heavily over the vast, rain-drenched city of the plains... While high above, in the very center of the thoroughfare, a newly erected vessel for fuel stood with a solemn grandeur, a beacon fashioned for the dawning of the twenty-first century.

And having wended his way past all those tiny, narrow taverns built directly into the foundations of colossal palaces and into the corners of humble ground-floor dwellings, Leo turned his stride into a boulevard far, far grander than the last. He passed by a makeshift omnibus station, which on this night was entirely besieged by a vast multitude of exceedingly weary souls, upon whose shoulders it seemed as though the entire, crushing weight had fallen the crushing weight of such bleak autumn weather. Aye, they were in some profound manner one and the same, as the voice of sorrow conversed directly through Leo’s own soul.

And there, nestled behind the workshop of a leather craftsman, exactly across the way from the makeshift omnibus station, stood a building somewhat withdrawn from the path. Within its equally shrouded foundations lay a gambling den. It was here, upon this very threshold, that Leo’s long wanderings came to an end on this day.

IV - The Re-dressing

 

Inside...

...he was greeted by souls whose countenances were but faintly known to him, bearing little to no gravity within the tapestry of his life. Courtesies were exchanged, and there spilled forth those weary, everlasting queries that ever haunt such sanctuaries, where men whose fates are scarcely bound are wont to meet. To a passing gaze, it might have seemed as though Leo was a frequent wanderer within these walls; yet such was not the truth. Rather, it was his exquisitely tailored, costly dandy’s attire that had gathered that multitude of foreign words around his person.

Aye, it was a cavernous chamber, its inner perimeter completely ringed by gaming machines of every breed, form, and design. And in the very heart of the hall, nestled between the heavy supporting pillars, stood a small cluster of tables, forever shrouded beneath thick clouds of drifting incense-like tobacco smoke.

On this day, Leo took his seat upon one of those towering chairs that are custom to stand beside a tavern bar. He staked a majestic sum of wealth... yet was it merely the gluttonous iron beast that was being nourished by his gold?

Amidst the many tables, Leo loved above all else to sit—and to wage his fortunes against—a singular gaming machine. It was adorned with the grand tableaus from the epoch of the ancient Pharaohs. Aye, the golden mask of a legendary King, painted upon its iron surface, stood sentinel over hidden pyramids, while all around lay naught but a vast and echoing wilderness of sand... “Is there naught but sorrow, dark night, and bitter grief to answer this multitude of ravenous moments?”

The chamber was otherwise filled with the relentless clatter of hands striking against the keys of those iron contraptions. “What a cruel and pitiless game is this...? From every quarter, there breathe naught but silent threats.” Yet Leo did but lightly touch those keys. And as time flowed on, he would most often amass an enviable, princely treasure of points.

Yet, having turned those tokens into heavy coin, he would depart once more into that previously chronicled street, or others akin to it. He would wend his way toward those households of a seemingly doubtful and shadowed countenance—havens from which many a fine gentleman would most often avert their eyes in disdain and there he would surrender the entirety of that gold which, within his own conscience, he deemed foully earned. He would veil his identity, presenting himself merely as a devoted friend sent by some of their faraway kinsmen.

Through this noble deed, it was as though he desired not only to restore the true worth of that coin, but to transfigure its very purpose. For deep within his breast, he felt that by waging war against that iron machine, he was only draining the chalice of his own family’s fortune—a fortune that was not grand enough to grant him those sacred moments where his eyes might once more behold the breathtaking gaze of his beloved Liliana.

...for he would frequently listen to their deep confessions, which for some hidden reason were immensely precious to his soul—so much so, indeed, that he chanced to believe that one day he might commit their sorrows onto parchment. On those evenings, he would partake of a heavily sweetened coffee and even unveil a few of his own personal chronicles... yet never those that touched the very core of his being. Aye, he spoke only of those tales that ever seemed new to his ears, yet remained eternally the same.

And at last, beneath the dark canopy of the midnight sky, they would escort him to the nearest station of the city omnibus. He would step inside and ride the carriage until its final halt, standing as a silent sentinel who watched the people, the pulse of life, and the entirety of the visible metropolis, before finally summoning a taxi-coach to bear him home.

Aye, a multitude of his extraordinary deeds, and the profound reflections that bound them—which Leo would perform or in any manner kindle—had been sown deep within his childhood by his now-departed Max and his still-living Grandmother Petkana. Upon that foundation, Uncle Alimpie and Aunt Anastasia had raised an even grander edifice of virtue... yet a singular, mysterious fragment of it all belonged to him alone, and remained forever a secret.

Then, all at once, in that very breath! Through the portals of the chamber stepped a woman of a deep, sun-darkened countenance, her entire being heavily steeped in the winter of her years.

Every twisting furrow upon her countenance bore witness to the heavy, perilous path of her life, while the ragged garments wherewith she shrouded her frame—plundered by time and fate—spoke only of her bitter discomfort.

...And the moment her boots crossed the threshold, they hurled words at her that were utterly unworthy of mankind:

"Get thee outside! There is no labor for thy kind within these walls."

Yet she, casting no heed upon their cruelty, drew near to Leo with a step so feather-light and spectral it seemed well-nigh invisible, and made her soft plea:

"Young man, surrender thy palm into my keeping."

"Art thou deaf, old crone? Didst thou not hear the words I flung at thee?" With a fierce, stomping stride, the previous voice advanced upon her, his lips bearing sounds of supreme malice.

"All is well, my friend," Leo uttered in that selfsame breath, moved by a multitude of reasons both within his conscience and outside his soul.

Beholding the gold that Leo would regularly bring into his house, and casting an eye upon his tailored raiment—which ever seemed to whisper of a high and extraordinary station in this world—the keeper of the gambling den retreated. Yet as he withdrew, he flung one final threat at the maiden of rags:

"Thou! The very minute thy business is done, see that thou art gone from this sanctuary!" But she, paying no heed to those coarse, jagged words, began to overturn the intricate engravings upon Leo's palm, delivering her dark tidings:

"Thy chronicle poureth forth from a river of blood, young sir. Within its currents, a young maiden hath also drenched her hands. Thou art hunting for her footprints." Then, she locked her gaze with his eyes—a look so piercing and convincing, yet lasting but a single heartbeat—before lowering her head once more over his hand:

"Thou canst not find her.Thou fearest within thy breast that perchance she walketh no longer among the living. I cannot unveil that truth to thee, even wert thou to slay me, yet there existeth a youth who holdeth the power to aid thee in thy quest."

And having listened with absolute devotion to those words that rose far above the dusty everyday world—and indeed, far above the earth itself—Leo presented to the elder of the sun-darkened countenance a singular, final query, which after all was said, remained essential to his soul:

"And where may he be found, sweet grandmother?"

"Somewhere... somewhere yonder, behind the gentle, rolling hills, far out upon the bountiful plain beside that grand and glistening river," answered this woman, whose wisdom surpassed all human understanding. "In the very city where the life-blood of thy Great Saint was once spilt, within a certain grand and honorable street. And from his dwelling, thou shalt hear echoing... that modern, youthful music of yours."

"Would gold be any worthy recompense for all that you have so graciously bestowed upon me, dear lady?" Leo inquired. For you see, her mysterious words had entirely warmed and ennobled the light within the gambling den—a light otherwise woven from the densest sorrow, which had ever seemed heavy and stained with chalice-like bitterness to his eyes (yet it stood as a sanctuary of silence against the roaring tumult outside, a place where a man could at least shroud his deepest pain).

"Thy merciful deeds are all the reward I require, my sorrowful boy," replied the elder, she whose countenance bore the deep hue of midnight. With that, she retreated from the hall, vanishing somehow almost like a fading mist. Yet before she departed, she cast one final, pitying gaze upon that churlish man who had sought to cast her out before her hour from that forever accursed place—which was, after all, naught but a petty gambling house. He, moved by some sudden impulse, swiftly followed her footsteps to discern whither she would wend her way... yet the moment his boots crossed the threshold, she was nowhere to be found, as though the earth itself had opened and swallowed her whole...

And in that selfsame breath, a strange, unwelcome sensation—hitherto unknown to their hardened spirits—seized all those fierce and violent youths within, a cold dread they could by no means explain to themselves... - returning to their presence immediately after that first keeper of the den, having recovered his senses, had chronicled all that his eyes beheld.

For you see, he had even gone so far as to inquire of his charming companion from the merchant’s shop adjacent to the gambling house—she with whom he was wont to share his coffee hours—whether her eyes had chanced to perceive whither that old crone of a thoroughly unwelcome countenance had departed. Yet the maiden solemnly declared that she had not beheld her at all.

And Leo, having gathered all these wondrous tidings, believed even more fiercely in the absolute truth of the words she had delivered into his keeping. Soon thereafter, having surrendered a sum of gold that many would deem a princely fortune, he abandoned that place forevermore. He departed escorted by the suspicious and heavy gazes of all those who remained trapped within that sanctuary—a house forever stained with the foul breath of vice.

Was it indeed a message from beyond the dusty everyday world that the elder had desired to bestow upon Leo? Or perchance, through the shifting mist of her words and the potent notes of her voice, had she merely wished to offer a sacred counsel: that he should seek out the aid of a certain young man, a youth of valiant spirit and a warm, sheltering family?

Aye, regardless of the riddle, something monumental and fiercely potent had unfolded on that fateful day.

No longer did Leo shroud his true self in shadows or flee from his own soul. It was as though the sorrow within his breast had at long last discovered its rightful words.

And as they bent over the map—a scroll long since scanned by the sharp, discerning eyes of Uncle Alimpie—they forged together what was perchance the only true and possible conclusion. (For what other path was left to his feet? All the words he could muster for the elder who had bestowed that mystical counsel were: "Strangely doth her counsel fragrance... what dark secret lies buried within its folds? Yet what power had a youth like thee against such fate?"—whereupon he traced the sacred sign of the cross upon his breast).

For you see, Uncle Alimpie and Aunt Anastasia stood by him to the very end, sheltering his grief and supporting him in his fierce crusade. They locked their thoughts with his, agreeing that this elder—shrouded entirely in shadows and exiled by the multitude—had most likely spoken of a certain grand and magnificent city, nestled beside that noble of that certain grand and magnificent city nestled beside that ancient and Holy River, yonder within that ever-bountiful plain. For you see, amidst all other places, it stood as the sole great metropolis upon this corner of the planet that was baptized with the name of his own Patron Saint—the very Holy Guardian who ruled over the icons of Alimpie’s house.

Following these realizations, Leo resolved within his breast that destiny could choose no other path. Aye, he determined that he must journey to that named city, carrying the fierce hope that a miracle would truly unfold, and that he would find there his prophesied benefactor.

And so he did, casting himself away from the city that sat upon the banks of the silent river, wending his way toward that other realm which forever smells of forgotten wines, the dreaminess of the plains... and deep, deep within his soul, of sacred holiness.

He arrived at a small, makeshift omnibus station—a place that seemed forever bound to a solemn, final farewell—shrouded entirely in shifting shadows. It was night, yet this sanctuary rested upon a most peculiar ground; for no matter how wildly life swarmed above it, the place remained locked within a strange, echoing silence. (Well-nigh every traveler experienced it thus, though many walked blindly, unaware of its spell).

The station was held fast by two ancient taverns, standing like twin sentinels on either side. Leo made use of the telephone within one of these halls, while throughout those minutes, his movements were tracked by those familiar, sluggish gazes so common to such wayside sanctuaries. From those eyes stared living wounds—the bitter sorrows that belong only to the pages of tragic romances.

Before long, a taxi-coachman arrived—one of those souls who claim to hold the keys to all knowledge, without listening to any manner of human explanation. Leo then commanded him to bear his carriage unto the very gates and entrance of the city.

And he brought his carriage to a halt right there, alongside the very iron veins of the railway track. He cast a sharp and deeply suspicious gaze upon Leo—aye, his mind spun a multitude of dark thoughts in that hour, yet he chose not to entangle himself in the youth’s fate. He looked only to his own affairs, as though he had forever spent his days dwelling upon the hidden, dark side of the moon.

The railway track traced a stark frontier between that ever-fragrant city and the fertile fields, as black as charcoal, which on this night embraced the velvet sky with such fierce passion that one could no longer discern where the heavens commenced or where the earth reached its twilight (aye, and the twinkling lamps in the far distance resembled fallen stars).

Before his eyes stretched a monumental, endlessly long avenue; scarce any other city on earth could boast such a thoroughfare. A mute midnight reigned supreme, echoing from every quarter.

And it felt as though the stars were being extinguished one by one, while a shroud as dark as pitch began to veil the heavens above this metropolis. Ah, those heavy rain-clouds... it seemed as though no deed of grand importance could ever unfold without their solemn presence. A passing shadow drifted through his breast, bearing a brief yet chilling anxiety, and step by step, his stride began to grow heavy and slow (it was an hour that demanded a deep, bracing breath!). A sudden dread caught up with his existing fears from time to time. A multitude of unknown lives, closely packed beneath the iron shells of automobiles, rushed past into undiscovered distances. Meanwhile, by some strange enchantment, the utterly desolate pavement groaned and creaked beneath his boots.

Then, all at once, there loomed before him a solitary, crimson box. A deserted telephone kiosk, guarded by a silent triad of cypress trees, stood frozen in time, yet its mechanisms were still in service. Enfolded in his green leather gloves, he lifted the iron receiver into his hands. Digit by digit, the secret number was spun, and after a few breathless moments, Leo spoke into the dark:

"I pray you... play for me that melody: 'I am but a creature of the fen'."

And there arrived these verses:

"I am but a creature of the fen,
Of muddy feet and mournful face,
Shunned by the proud worlds of men,
Yet herons grant me sister's grace.
From the deep mire I seek my path,
While rains let fall their weeping wrath.

Yet perchance my wings shall fly,
Borne by the snowy stork on high;
Perchance my parched lips shall claim
Clear waters, worthy of my name.
My only dread is that I see
The downy feather of my kin,
Floating in silent misery
Upon the murky waves of sin.

For then I shall curse the fox's bite,
Should its sharp fang pierce through the night,
To tear wounds upon my grief,
Bringing pain without relief.
Yet perchance my wings shall fly,
Borne by the snowy stork on high;
Perchance my parched lips shall claim
Clear waters, worthy of my name..."

— and the melody bore him away into the very heart of the stars, into that secret cosmos of deep melancholy known to his spirit alone—a realm that forever fragrances of evergreen, the very first hours of early night, and wild blueberries. Aye, it was as if he desired to awaken some forgotten memory within his own ghost. Yet those finely embroidered moments soon thinned the melody until it faded into nothingness, and he abandoned the kiosk, leaving it once more to the absolute silence.

The ever-hoarse lamps of the night spilled their fading glow upon the deserted carriage-ways and an endless parade of dwellings, most of them fashioned in modern attire. From their walls breathed a dreamy, sheltered family warmth... yet Leo no longer possessed coherent thoughts, but merely scattered fragments of moving pictures. Past his person, only from time to time, wended faces entirely shrouded in darkness, and for some hidden reason, every single one of them appeared to his soul to be warm and profoundly human.

And perchance he had already reached the very heart of the avenue, where all transit had been severed. Beside the barriers in the dark, amber-orange lanterns flashed their warning signals. Yet this did not trouble Leo's spirit in the least.

He pressed onward... and soon arrived at the first grand crossroads. There, upon the corner, stood a café that still kept its gates open, illuminated from within by deep, emerald-green lights. A fragment of this hue spilled out into the night air, where two towering tables with matching chairs kept watch. Seated at one of them were two men who, with half-empty and sluggish gazes, did naught but track Leo as he passed.

Leo continued his march..

 On this night, there was no hour for rest. That weary, scalding, and dreamy atmosphere of silence did not belong to his soul tonight. “Only a little further, and I shall unearth this man...”

Slowly, he crossed the carriage-way, escorted only by fading puddles of light. Above the rooftops, dark and heavy clouds coiled in the air. Their monumental weight seemed to crush everything beneath them, forcing even the street lamps to flicker with a muffled, stifled glow. It appeared as though only those towering poplars—resembling majestic giants frozen in mid-march along the pavement—still held those clouds back, preventing them from collapsing upon the dark-blue velvet of the asphalt.

And in that breath, Leo’s stride shifted from that of a cautious seeker into the frantic pace of one who is late for his train... a train that perchance still rested at the station somewhere on the far edge of the metropolis. Something—that nameless thing which walks through the dead silence—was drawing nigh.

Yet his amber-red shoes had already begun to leave glinting tracks upon the stone flags of the dark pavement. Upon his golden-blue hair, the very first gentle reflection of the storm appeared. And the night air seemed to whisper a secret.

It was the rain. The first weeping drops. Yet swiftly, the deluge began to fall with fiercer and fiercer strength. Leo merely buried his hands deeper within his greenish mantle, which until then had hung loosely about his frame. He quickened his stride... “Shall fortune truly find me on this night?”—the query drifted through his thoughts and echoed beneath them.

And the lightning flashes had already begun to chase one another across the heavens. The reflections from the clouds cast a wild brilliance into his eyes. Had the timepiece upon his wrist also become charged by this unseen force? A quiet fire seemed to ignite within his breast... quite simply, electricity began to ripple across his frame. And through his heart, a warm, trembling chill began to weave its path.

Then, burning whips of light began to rip the heavens asunder. All at once, a genuine, warm downpour broke loose upon the world...

An omnibus from a distant and alien realm wended its way down the avenue, bearing a multitude of slumbering faces illuminated only by the faint, muffled glow of the tiny ceiling lamps. Two young maidens, cloaked only in their thin vernal jackets, hurried along in the opposite direction from Leo’s path, letting forth soft, stifled cries as they trod with swift, delicate steps. Meanwhile, upon the far side of the thoroughfare, a young man wrestled in vain to unfurl a colossal, wide umbrella, which chance had perchance lent to his hands.

Then, all at once, the tempest broke... it was as though the entire sea had collapsed from the heavens! Torrents of driving rain washed down Leo’s face. Thunderous peals ripped and severed the heavy night air.

Yet, from moment to fleeting moment—whenever the roaring thunder chanced to fall silent for a brief heartbeat—an ear attuned to the whispers of the night could still discern, amidst that fierce stampede of giant raindrops, a sound from the wayside. It was the rustling of wet wings, as drenched sparrows sought sanctuary within the canopies of the surrounding trees and the dense, unyielding thickets of the low shrubs.

The only object that remained untouched by the deluge was a violet envelope, which lay dry within the deep sanctuary of his mantle's pocket. It rested there alongside Liliana’s portrait from those few winters ago, the parchment bearing every fragment of knowledge he possessed regarding her fate, and three heavy, monumental bank-notes of grand value.

Leo slipped his hand beneath his heavy mantle to assure his heart that all was safe. The very moment he found comfort in their safety, all at once—indeed, by some sudden enchantment—he perceived a wondrous aroma beginning to sift through the rain-swept air. It was the sacred fragrance of burning frankincense, intertwining with the weeping storm and the rich, primal scent of the damp earth, laced with the ghostly breath of waking vault-damp.

And with the rolling peals of thunder, there began to weave, from passing moment to moment, the fierce and piercing cry of an electric guitar. With every new stride, Leo could now discern, with absolute and ringing clarity, a dreamy yet venomous echo of rock and roll. Oh, what a sound it was—a rock and roll forged of nothing but fiery, burning sugar! A beauty so exquisite, it brought sharp pain to the soul.

What manner of alien atmosphere could be ruling—defying the world and enduring without end—within those hidden walls yonder? And what manner of strange, undiscovered rain was falling inside that sanctuary? For it was from that very spot that this mystical fragrance poured forth... These extraordinary omens, bound to the majestic charm of the storm-drenched night, served only to strengthen every note within his rising hope. “Aye, I must find those prophesied portals at last.” Oh, how his will was nourished in that fateful hour! A fragrant hope, breathing the very spirit of spring, began to expand wildly through Leo’s breast.

Far down into the misty distance, at that precise moment, the lanterns of a traffic signal caught his eye. They burned with a fierce, blood-red brilliance—a solemn warning that everything which moved upon this earth must instantly halt and surrender to the stillness!

...yet right there, still a long season away from that crimson beacon, a carriage-car abruptly ground to a halt exactly behind Leo’s stride. Within the dark puddle that lay beside his shoe, the amber-orange reflection of the words “White Taxi” could be dimly discerned through the ripples of rain. And as Leo turned around with the slow, deliberate grace of a tragic poet, he was suddenly intercepted by a voice—a sound that seemed to drift from some faraway, forgotten kingdom:

"Sir, I implore you... can you unveil to me the path that leadeth toward the Avenue of...?"

And as Leo was answering him:

"Alas, I am no native of this domain; nay, I cannot guide your path... just as, by all appearance of the stars, you surely cannot aid me to unearth the soul I so fiercely hunt after..."—speaking with a gentle, melancholy smile and a touch of that strange, elusive magic—his eyes caught the visage of the coachman, and a wave of sacred dread washed over his frame. For those dark, midnight eyes followed every single syllable that rose through Leo’s throat. “Why did his heart ever fancy that their paths would never cross again...?”

Aye, a countenance well-known to him through past misfortunes awaited him. Yet from the iron carriage came a voice that knew him not—for how indeed could any soul recognize him after all the tempests that had broken over his life?

"Young man, such is the cruel turn of our present state," the coachman called out, even as the mechanical beast began to wend its way into the dark distance.

"...and yet, perchance, the fault lieth within our own souls," Leo whispered to himself, his voice soft yet echoing with the grand solemnity of Fate itself.

And the dark distances had already swallowed the weary countenance of that man, who on this day seemed to know within his soul that he had sinned greatly in this life (yet for some hidden reason, he harbored not the slightest inkling as to whom he had just crossed paths with). Leo could not discern, nor in any manner succeed to grasp in that fleeting second, this new token bestowed upon his destiny by the hands of Fate. And so, even without its wisdom, he merely quickened his stride all the more, until he at long last arrived before the house where the wild cry of rock and roll was almost screaming into the night.

It was yet another of those towering ground-floor dwellings, a house heavily stamped with the architecture of that newly liberated and somehow warmed socialism which in those days had spread beneath well-nigh every roof—aye, those grand seventies years. A gate of wrought iron stood sentinel before his chest. And upon the brick beside it, the button of a chime cast a soft glow into the dark.

And though he walked as a true romantic, as a seeker for whom the perfume of adventure breathed ever warm... yet within his breast, he could not but feel a touch of strange unease. For there still dwelt inside him a powerful dread: the fear that he might somehow overly disturb the very ghosts of the household he was about to enter. (Yet so much of the Sacred ruled this hour, and everything stood grander and mightier than any ordinary day... and his heart dared not allow itself any other course). Then, all at once, he resolved to ring the chime... and since his life’s journey had taught his heart that wherever his boots tread anew, he must advance with the gravest and most honorable intentions, he divined that from this very moment, a monumental, entirely fresh chronicle was being set in motion within the moving pictures of his life.

And for a brief, fleeting season, there endured a wondrous, soul-perfumed intermezzo upon the rain-swept air—a deluge that seemed to know no ebbing. Yet at long last, this spell was severed by the parting of the entrance portals, behind which appeared a maiden of a thoroughly refined, gentle, and pleasing countenance.

She appeared to be but a touch younger than Leo.

...She kept a solemn silence, as though she were pained by some deep, aching quietude that dwelt within the shadows behind her. It was then that Leo resolved that the destined hour had arrived to let fall his loud, ringing words—syllables that perchance bordered upon the very limits of proper courtesy:

"Young lady, my name is Leo Prince. I stand in dire need of thy brother’s aid," he called out against the still tumultuous rain, before adding but a few heartbeats later to complete his plea: "That is, of course... if thou dost possess a brother."

Now, such a bold declaration might have sounded passing strange to any other soul upon this earth, yet to her ears, it did not. She merely drew near and drew back the heavy iron latch from the portal, allowing him, through that selfsame silence, to follow her footsteps into the dwelling. And while he kept a long vigil within the corridor—which breathed the heavy scent of long, vaulted confinement—he caught the whisper of her quiet words echoing from the deep distances of the house:

"Brother, a certain refined and unknown youth seeketh thy presence."

"All is well, Kalina," answered the elder youth. His voice carried a touch of wonder, yet he remained, as ever, steadfast and certain in his own deeds.

"Shall I brew or bring forth some draft for you to drink, brother?" his sister inquired, her voice seeming to echo from some incredibly remote and undiscovered depths.

"Tarry but a moment," he replied to her, his tone bearing a gentle, paternal gravity.

And then... the flashing eyes of both youths—burning perchance from the sheer weight of the moment—crossed and locked with one another, though they had never met nor known each other until this hour. For some hidden reason, Leo chose to forestall the words of his host:

"I am deeply filled with regret, my friend—if thou wilt allow me to call thee so—that I disturb thy peace in such a manner, at so late an hour of the night, and trouble thy household... but a certain soul prophesied to me that thou—" Leo then cast his gaze into some invisible distance, searching for a worthy reason, yet finding naught in the shadows, he brought his eyes back to his host, and finished: "—that for some mysterious reason, thou alone couldst bring aid to my quest..."

"I am listening... my friend," his host replied. His voice was like a portal that he kept but a fraction ajar—far more closed against the world than open to it.

"I arrive with none but the most honorable and noble intentions."

"If thou wilt grant me leave, I shall unfold my purpose within some room more fitting and grave than this narrow entrance corridor," Leo strove to explain, choosing the finest words his mind could muster in that fleeting second.

Weighing Leo’s speech and discerning the ring of pure truth within it, his host—a youth possessed of a sharp, wondrous social intelligence—invited him deeper into the heart of his dwelling. It was a home so warm, so deeply rich with the spirit of humanity, that Leo’s heart grew well-nigh intoxicated by the frozen, timeless family grace that seemed to hover through the air whichever way his eyes turned. And as they wended their way toward the parlor, the host reflected within his own mind:

“This elegant, dandyish figure cannot possibly arrive bearing none but sinister designs.”

They settled themselves within the drawing-room of that secretive, comforting family house, adorned with the noble, faded furniture typical of a middle-class home of yesteryear. Yonder in the corner, as if keeping a long vigil beside a stove, lay a treasure of musical gear: monumental speakers, a towering stand bearing a microphone, a labyrinth of cables, and a mixing console. And in the very heart of this array, as if locked in a deep trance, an electric guitar lay strewn across the couch like a beautiful, slumbering reveller.

"Brother, make thyself at home as best thou canst," the host remarked, lowering every defense of his guard.

"My deepest thanks to thee, my friend," Leo replied, stepping closer toward a bond of kinship.

"I am listening to thee, Dandy," Konstantin uttered through the whole gravity of his presence, bestowing his full attention upon his guest beneath a light veil of expectancy.

"Ah, my gratitude is thine," Leo answered, acknowledging his host's remark, before launching into his long-awaited introduction with those monumental words:

"My name is Leo Prince, though those who are near to my heart call me Leo."

And once Leo had unveiled his name, the musician performed the selfsame courtesy:

"I am Konstantin Ostrvski, known to my companions as Kosta."

"You see, Konstantin, my chronicle is somewhat extraordinary," Leo began. Though he himself could not fully divine the reason, he launched into his discourse in that very same spirit with which Max used to begin fairy tales for his children long ago... Yet for some hidden reason, Konstantin parted his exposition with a hospitable offering:

"Shall we perchance wet our throats, my friend, before we venture into the heart of thy matter?"

"I would not wish to be particular... I shall gladly accept whatever draft you choose for yourself," Leo answered with swift grace, harboring no great concern for the choice.

"Kalina, bring forth two cups of brandy... that which is perfumed with the harvest of wild herbs," Konstantin commanded his sister.

And when she had brought their desire, both youths bestowed their gratitude upon her. Thereupon, in that deeply mysterious fashion of his, Leo continued to unveil the tapestry of his designs:

"Thou hast surely heard of the city of my birth..." Leo remarked, presenting to his host the most striking countenance of that place, frozen upon a photograph by the sharp lens of some once-charismatic master of imagery.

"Aye, many a grand master of music once made their dwelling within those walls," Konstantin replied.

"A certain young maiden dwelt there as well," Leo uttered, and the moment those words escaped his lips, he fell into a sudden stillness—while Konstantin enveloped him with his gaze, fixing him with a look with a tense and uncharacteristic devotion, which he had perchance veiled within his breast beneath a tint of exotic curiosity. Thereupon, Leo disclosed his secret:

"The final hour my eyes beheld her face was when she delivered my body from the clutches of death. That transpired in the spring season of the very first year of the war."

And... then Konstantin, for but a fleeting heartbeat, parted his discourse with an inquiry—as though he desired to bring comfort to his guest's aching soul—offering a divination that many a seeker might likewise have gathered:

"Thou hast lost the footprints that guide thy path to her, my friend?"

"For four winters and summers, I possessed absolutely no tidings of her fate, until in a most unlooked-for hour, and within an entirely unlooked-for sanctuary, my eyes fell upon these heavy tidings... that alas, there exists the peril that she hath perchance already commended her sweet and exquisite soul unto the keeping of the Lord." Thus, Leo brought his answer close to the very heart of his grief.

"There exists but a peril, an unconfirmed possibility?" Konstantin uttered with an inquiring tone, yet he spoke in such a guise as though he desired above all else to illuminate that other, boundlessly joyful outcome for Leo's sake... though perchance, he whispered it first and foremost to his own spirit.

"Aye, a monumental misfortune hath unfolded... a tragedy," Leo whispered, his voice dropping into a low, solemn murmur, as he sought to lay bare the deeper, more intricate folds of his chronicle before his host. "A calamity in which one of two sisters, identical in their matchless countenances, hath surrendered her life to the grave, while the other vanished in that selfsame hour, leaving no trace behind upon the earth."

"Thy chronicle, in its wondrously tangled design, is in truth deeply troubling," Konstantin remarked. He made a brief, heavy pause, as though his spirit were weighing whether that was the most fitting word to cloth his thoughts. "Yet, there remaineth a singular riddle I cannot yet untangle: why hast thou chosen my threshold, above all others, to unveil this sorrow before me?" Aye, within the cadence of his voice there dwelt a soft, guarded, and heavily shrouded anxiety.

"A certain extraordinary elder prophesied to me that thou wouldst surely aid my soul to unearth the living truth," Leo answered. With this declaration, he cast Konstantin into an even deeper maze of wonder, offering a reply that breathed the very essence of pure mystery. Konstantin, with a grave countenance and a sharp, searching gaze, strove to pierce through this veil:

"Of what manner of elder dost thou speak, if I am permitted to ask?"

"Alas, my spirit could gather no knowledge of her name or lineage, for by some strange enchantment surrounding her person, she vanished from my sight with wondrous swiftness... Such was the peculiar turn of our meeting..." - yet nay, such words could by no means suffice. For all at once, Leo grew utterly absent, his spirit beginning to stumble through both his thoughts and his syllables... as though he were now walking across a dense, suffocating mist. Through this faltering grace, he served only to deepen the riddle and strengthen every thread of mystery... while for a brief heartbeat, he completely shattered every sense of certainty within Konstantin’s mind.

"Aye, the entire tapestry of this hour, since thy boots first crossed my threshold... is in truth well-nigh beyond belief," Konstantin uttered. Within that pause lay the very heaviest weight of waiting. No sudden fright dwelt within the room, yet there was present an immense, looming caution. A sharp sense of intrigue, above all else, held dominion over every other emotion in those fleeting moments. Yet despite this shroud of doubt, he raised his goblet to toast with Leo... performing this rite, perchance, in the sacred name of good faith alone... before illuminating his mind with a fresh inquiry:

"How many more fragments of knowledge dost thou possess regarding this fair maiden, my friend?"

"My friend, I hold naught but this singular chronicle from the daily press—behold... which I have brought into thy sanctuary that thou mightest read it with thine own eyes." Leo spoke, his voice now laced with an uncertainty that reached across every dimension and every measure of his soul. expecting and yet not expecting a grand revelation all at once, while Konstantin accepted the scroll with an equal measure of gravity.

"Let us perceive what lies within..." he muttered, casting those words first and foremost into the silver depths of his own beard—syllables of a faint and ebbing energy, for these were by no means his accustomed hours, and it felt as though he were now treading across a dark and haunted forest. Yet his actions belonged to a grave resolve to confront this sudden, strangely woven obligation that had materialized from absolute nothingness. And the moment his eyes had scanned the recommended chronicle, Konstantin simply declared (offering, as it were, his first passing thought):

"Hm... This entire tapestry is in truth tangled and complex... wondrously so!" Leo received these words with a solemn silence and a patient waiting—aye, for patience is ever a wise shield against such breathless seconds—yet did everything else in the room now belong to mere unease?

"Thou, my friend, standest in dire need of the aid of men who are ready to face any peril and cast themselves into any deed. Those who never lower their guard..." Konstantin remarked (for at first glance, he was utterly besieged by the weight of this misery; there were far too many knots in this thread for his liking).

"What is the meaning of thy words?" Leo inquired, inviting Konstantin to unveil his true thoughts. And Konstantin, with absolute resolution—resembling a sudden burst of steam escaping an iron valve—did so through his next utterance:

"I chance to know a certain lady... a 'mafia queen' of the underworld." Yet something within those words seemed to shatter and profane the sacred majesty of the moment for Leo.

"Mercy upon us..." Leo gasped. Yet Konstantin, desiring not to waste a single fleeting sand of time, swiftly tapped his shoulder, letting fall these words:

"Come now, untangle thy mind and be at ease!"—syllables which, above all else, seemed to whisper, “I still stand by thy side.” Thereupon, he expanded the true meaning of his declaration: "I bestow that title upon her merely because she possesses a perilous, magnificent skill to discern every hidden mousetrap within this dusty everyday life." Thus, he illuminated the matter in that unique fashion known only to his own spirit. Yet Leo felt that on this night, he could by no means allow such a worldly perspective to rob his soul of its silver moonlight:

"Aye, I take thy meaning. Yet those words of thine bear a somewhat twisted, distorted value." He spoke as though he had merely peered through the golden portals of his own oasis—that sanctuary inhabited by eternal romantics and linguistic dandies—looking out into this everyday (yet only at a passing glance...) well-nigh faceless and murky reality. But this did not confound Kosta in the least, for he had already encountered a vast multitude of souls and weathered many a long season before this hour:

"We, who walk through the world with a slightly more unburdened step, call that... quite simply... speech." At those words, a gentle smile graced Leo’s countenance, for he now softly comprehended the true nature of the matter. And following all that had been spoken, he sought to assure his heart that Kosta and he had reached a perfect and harmonious understanding:

"Therefore, it is thy belief that she could bring aid to my soul to unearth the living truth," Leo remarked. And Kosta bestowed upon him the selfsame confirmation:

"She is among the very rare souls upon this earth who could truly aid thee to unearth thy truth."

"And by what name is this extraordinary maiden called, Konstantin?" Leo inquired, his words revealing that Konstantin’s recommendation and his whole counsel had found favor in his heart.

"Kosta, if it please thee," the host replied, before speaking in a guise as though he were unveiling a matter of universal knowledge that demanded no explanation: "She is named Sophia."

"And so... thou wilt indeed grant me this favor... Kosta?" Leo spoke as though he desired, above all else, to translate his words, his time, and his glances out of the heavy shadows and into a living tableau (aye, for the hour had truly arrived to seal and sign all their previous minutes).

"To a romantic of such noble stature as thou art, extraordinary man... possessed of a chronicle even more extraordinary, I believe my soul would ever grant a favor." (Aye, for he was a master of music. He was a youth fashioned entirely from his own exquisite taste. Yet his heart could never turn away from bringing aid to another... His own inner world, and that unique stance of his, he guarded solely for his own spirit... and for those rare souls who sought a true value within it. Yes, he was born of such divine music). Thus, Konstantin locked his agreement with the youth's plea.

"My monumental gratitude is thine, my friend," Leo answered. "And in truth, it is not merely seekers like my own self who are rare upon this earth, but souls like thee are rarer still." ...and Leo, at long last, felt within his breast like a wanderer who had somehow arrived in the close sanctuary of his own home. Following all those momentous words that had crowned their previous minutes, Leo was slowly made known with the tapestry of Konstantin’s own life-chronicle (for these were by no means ordinary or everyday hours). Thereupon, he brought forth all that belonged to his own spirit, yet was so sorely needed by theirs...

Namely, Konstantin unveiled to him that his parents had commended their souls unto the keeping of the Lord following one of those monumental railway calamities of the eighties years—an era when the strength and vigor of many socialist engines had already begun to wither away. This dark turn of fate had cast the being most cherished to his heart, his sweet sister Kalina, into a hidden world known to her spirit alone—a silent realm of her own deep retreat. Throughout that storm, despite the immense weight of the burden, their maternal grandmother, Dragica, had watched over their young lives; yet upon the fulfillment of that task, which she held as a Sacred Mission, she too departed from this earthly kingdom. Thus, Konstantin now stands as a solitary sentinel, guarding his gentle sister from the ever-sharp and ravenous teeth of the adult world. And thus he labored as a master of music, and thus he lived as a true artist.

Following his host's confession, Leo unveiled the tapestry of his own life-chronicle, sharing only those fragments that could bring service to their shared path. Very soon thereafter, the hour of supper arrived. It was an extraordinary family gathering, wrapped entirely within those solemn yet living secrets—resembling a scene where a hand had ignited sacred waxen tapers around the table in the very midst of a bright and cloudless day.

During the feast, the host discerned something profound and pure within Leo’s character—that unblemished virtue which belongs to the noble heart of man. Moving with this trust, he went so far as to offer Leo the sanctuary of their guest chamber, for after all the tempests of the night, it was sorely needful to borrow at least a brief comfort from slumber itself. Leo accepted his grace, yet resolved to rest for but a few fleeting hours... merely until he could greet the dawning of the light.

And in the morning, long before the breaking of bread in any household, while Kalina was still wrapped in the soft velvet of sleep, Leo and Kosta bade each other farewell at the station of that city, which breathed nothing but ancient, timeless fragrances. They sealed their parting with monumental vows.

Thus Leo abandoned those walls, caressed by the very first crimson tresses of the morning sun. Now, his own newfound city awaited him yonder, nestled upon the banks of the River of Rare Butterflies.

And as the omnibus ascended that grand, dreamy island of stone, rising high above the vast and endless sea of the plains...

The sun was still silently piercing the glass panes of that carriage-machine, which had ever been dear to Leo's heart—a vessel of transit that, to his mind, could well-nigh never be surpassed. And its tender, morning tresses—ever so gentle at that hour of the dawn and in that season of the year—softly bathed Leo’s eyes, which were now brilliantly illuminated with fresh hope. Within his gaze, the dusty highway and all the mundane, everyday happenings upon its path had utterly vanished. Aye, they were transfigured by the majesty of Konstantin’s promises.

And upon his return to the threshold of his homestead,

He was once more welcomed with magnificent grandeur by the hands of Aunt Anastasia and Uncle Alimpie. For you see, his returning home, from whatever faraway realm and at whatever hour he might arrive, ever possessed within that dwelling the fierce strength of a monumental arrival... resembling the return of a hero coming back to his castle from a perilous voyage across the oceans after an eternity of time.

He then unveiled to them that, upon his journey yonder, a true and genuine little miracle of the Heavens had indeed unfolded before his feet. He related how he had truly succeeded in unearthing that very soul whom the elder—she who was wrapped entirely within such a mysterious shadow—had prophesied to him on that fateful eve, within that still wild settlement of the grand city of the plains. And he recounted further, that he had brought back monumental promises from that selfsame youth his host.

He spoke none but the absolute truth.

For you see, from that monumental moment, not even seven suns had completed their journey across the heavens...

...when Leo caught the chime of Aunt Anastasia’s voice, and the resonance of her words:

"Aye, young sir. This is indeed the threshold and dwelling of the Nikolajevski family..."—and upon the very breath of his aunt's opening syllables, a wave of magnificent joy began to expand wildly through Leo’s entire being. Before long, that joyous tide well-nigh stole the very breath from his chest, the moment his ears were graced by these further words: "I pray you, tarry but a fleeting moment, so that Leo may receive your tidings."

And then Leo, having taken up the message, learned from the lips of Konstantin that his fair acquaintance—she of whom he had given his sacred oath—had consented to grant Leo her favor. Aye, she possessed the noble will and desired to bring aid to his quest.

Yes, she was Sophia, a maiden completing her fourth year of study in the art of dentistry within one of the grandest cities of the peninsula. She was endowed with a piercing discernment, a luminous wit, and a majestic power of observation.

Yet in a bygone season, she had even offered her vows of service to the famous detective Vasil Zlatnik, seeking to become his chosen disciple. But he, in the end, had denied her the chance to step into his shadow as an apprentice... for a singular reason—one that appeareth pale and withered in the eyes of our present day. Namely, Master Vasil Zlatnik had gathered well-nigh the entirety of his vast lore during those faraway, prostrated eras when the minds of men held that female beings possessed not the fierce strength required to guard monumental secrets—a virtue custom to belong solely to great detectives. And it was not that this rejection had failed to pierce and wound her noble heart.

...yet despite the sorrow she bore, she could by no means divine in that hour that by the deeds she was fated to perform one day, she would perchance rival the grand detective himself. "I shall bestow my trust upon thee, yet let this remain thine own chronicle alone."—aye... she was a maiden fashioned from such a rare and unyielding mould. She was slow to soften, for she had been guarded and tutored across a long season of discipline. Yet despite all, her spirit cried out: “But nay... I shall by no means allow my soul to become one of those sorrow-stricken, broken beings of the earth...”

...and having devoured all those heraldic words from the lips of Konstantin, Leo’s countenance was at long last illuminated with pure joy and triumphant satisfaction. Thereupon, he called out into the line:

"My friend, thou hast brought a magnificent dawn to my heart." Kosta, by the very law of nature and with that easy, expected grace of his, fully comprehended the entire measure of Leo’s joy... and simply gathered it to nestle within the pockets of his own mind. Then, drawing from the well of his youth and the music that burned within his breast, alongside a few other secrets, he delivered these playfully hidden, rogue-like words:

"As much as lay within my power to achieve until this hour, I have fulfilled. Now, a fragment remaineth for thee to conquer."

"Whatever the task may demand, I shall bend my whole will to it..." Leo answered, accepting that proferred uncertainty with a valiant heart. Kosta straightway unveiled the entirety of their gentle riddle:

"It demandeth no monumental labor, young sir. Merely guide thy steps hither to look upon the face of thy future benefactor." Having wholeheartedly accepted Kosta’s 'witty turn' (as Kosta himself was custom to name it), Leo let his voice softly echo back:

"Ah... but of course!"—speaking in a guise as though a majestic smile had just graced his lips. And upon those very syllables, that pivotal, monumental covenant between Sophia and Leo was firmly struck. Before they parted, they marked a time for their meeting, destined to unfold in the very closest of days.

And on this occasion, not even three suns had completed their course, when that pivotal meeting unfolded within that selfsame, deeply fragrant, and ancient city nestled beneath the sweeping plain—at the exact threshold where Leo’s path had first crossed with Konstantin.

Before his departure, Uncle Alimpie had aided Leo to choose one of the finest, most exquisite garments tailored by his own hands.

...The shadows of evening had fallen once more when Leo arrived at his destination. Yet this night stood utterly cloudless and clear in comparison to the tempestuous eve of his previous arrival. The heavens on this night were strewn with thousands of burning stars, and the city itself was entirely bathed in a warm, amber-orange, and ever-romantic radiance.

Leo’s stride had even lost that wandering, hesitant air which had once dwelt within him. For you see, his step was now that of a grand conspirator—aye, a conspirator in the sacred service of life, and in the name of truth. In this majestic guise, he retraced well-nigh the identical route he had trodden before (for some hidden reason, both inside his soul and outside his person, the power of sacred symbolism had ever been of monumental importance to his heart).

Having rung the chime in the exact manner as before, Kalina appeared once more behind the parting portal. And in that selfsame fashion, he found himself reinstated within the parlor, though on this eve, the chamber had been visibly refreshed since the hour Leo had last beheld it.

There, in that room, Leo first introduced his own soul to Sophia... and for the very first time, his eyes looked upon this maiden, who for some hidden reason was immensely intriguing to his heart—a lady bearing an ever-suspicious, searching gaze that was framed beneath a pair of tiny spectacles.

(Aye, she possessed a most striking, sharply contoured aquiline nose).

Yet nay... despite her sharp wit, she had by no means desired to remain a mere fox of the underworld. Aye, she was already far too deepl read the world with a piercing clarity).

...She stood noticeably tall for a maiden, and she possessed a remarkably steadfast, commanding bearing—aye, a presence that captured the room. Leo managed to discern this majesty because, as he first stepped into the chamber, she remained standing, examining Kosta’s electric guitar as if she were testing its iron frame for some hidden flaw...

"Thou art, then, that star-crossed youth whom life appear-eth to have deceived," Sophia uttered the very moment her eyes beheld Leo.

"I cherish the hope that I am not a youth whom life hath utterly deceived, even though my soul hath walked hand-in-hand with misfortune... perchance even in the first person," Leo answered, his voice ringing with a calm dignity.

"Very well. I am Sophia, Kosta’s companion, and I shall venture to bring aid to thy quest." (For you see, she was a maiden fashioned from pure practicality, and she suffered from no excess of hollow sentiment). After Leo had returned the courtesy with his own introduction, all present took their seats, partaking of a small measure of a fiery elixir to digest and weigh all their previous declarations.

During the grand discourse that followed, Sophia strove to guide Leo so that he might lay bare every fragment of knowledge he possessed regarding Liliana. And the moment Leo surrendered well-nigh every single detail within his grasp, Sophia began to divine a masterly design to unveil the truth of Liliana’s fate—a truth so sorely needed, so essential to the survival of Leo’s aching soul. Aye, and before many heartbeats had passed, she displayed this grand plan before the eyes of all company within.

Indeed, the pivotal cornerstone of Sophia’s design—a detail of supreme and monumental importance—was to unearth Liliana’s secret dental scroll and chart from those long-forgotten winters in which this whole dark chronicle was born.

And such a daring prize she intended to conquer by weaving a counterfeit medical mandate and scroll under Liliana’s own name, pretending it was required for an unperformed treatment within the grand dental halls of the very University where Sophia pursued her studies.

Yet there dwelt a singular, harrowing assumption that cast a freezing chill over the fire of her enthusiasm; for you see, there existed the dark peril that Liliana might possess no dental chart whatsoever from those long-passed winters so vital to their hunt.

But such a bleak and wounding thought she simply dared not display before the eyes of Leo. He, in that selfsame hour, had likewise cast away and ignored that ill-fated doubt, embracing with a quiet, triumphant joy the monumental grandeur of Sophia’s design in its absolute entirety; and thus, every dark omen that perchance lingered behind the horizon was utterly hidden from his sight.

Aye, the solitary riddle that truly burdened Sophia’s mind was whether Liliana’s dental scroll existed at all upon this earth... yet her spirit felt no dread whatsoever as to how she would seize the secret forensic testament and report from the hands of the International Forces. For it was those foreign battalions that, in those now faraway and catastrophic hours, alongside the regional guards of the law, had meticulously examined the mortal remains of the slain after the tragedy that besieged the house of Schönberg in that ill-fated, fateful year.

And when the final, binding covenant regarding their quest was at long last struck, it became brilliantly clear to Leo, as well as to the other conspirators, that upon the coming moon—when the halls of study would grant Sophia a brief season of respite—four souls would set forth upon a grand pilgrimage toward Leo’s ancient domain... that land of his childhood memories. They were Leo, Sophia, Konstantin, and a fourth companion... a youth by the name of Vuk.

Aye, he was a chosen comrade of Lady Sophia and a valiant cadet of the Military Academy. Upon their perilous road—according to Sophia’s masterful design—his presence would stand as a monument of absolute security across a multitude of diverse and shifting perils. He was (at least within her own sharp estimation) beyond all doubt the one among them most fiercely prepared to brave any sudden tempest.

...The gold and material treasure required to sustain their grand crusade—as honor and nature demanded—was wholeheartedly taken up by Leo.

And once their entire, magnificent design had been embraced by every soul within the chamber...

Leo resolved to part straightway from this company, which had now become unexpectedly dear to his heart, so that his boots might bear him back to his own homestead with all swiftness. For you see, it was needful that he prepare his soul and resources with the utmost care for the grand duties he had sworn to uphold.

And while Sophia and Kalina remained behind within the sanctuary of the parlor, Kosta escorted Leo to the outer portals. Before they parted, the musician cast a sharp, suspicious eye down the length of the avenue and into the dark velvet of the night, seeking to discern whether the prying eyes of any curious neighbors kept watch from the shadows. Yet, there was no living soul outside...

The clocks struck four hours after midnight when Kosta bestowed upon Leo these encouraging words—as refreshing to Leo’s dry throat and to his fading will as the cool taste of mineral waters following a cup of potent, finely brewed coffee:

"My friend, Sophia never scattereth words that lack the armor of truth."

"My heart is gladdened to hear it," Leo replied with absolute sincerity, for in some hidden manner, his soul already divined and felt this truth.

And after they had locked their hands in a firm, honorable grasp, Konstantin strengthened his final parting by tapping Leo’s shoulder, before sealing his previous words with a brief declaration, spoken in a conspiratorial, quiet murmur that served to simplify and untangle its meaning:

"She ever keepeth her sacred oath."

To this, Leo offered naught but a gentle yet steadfast nod of his head, leaving his quiet smile to serve as a final punctuation. With that, he began to distance himself from Konstantin.

And that avenue, alongside all the lanes in its close embrace, lay entirely bathed in that soft, amber-orange radiance—a light which, for some mysterious reason, ever possesseth the power to warm a seeker's hope—and they were utterly desolate. Leo’s eyes, now swollen and heavily burdened by the tempests of the previous day, had already begun to intertwine the realms of waking life and shifting daydreams. Yet, they still guided his steps with expert grace toward his destination, which could already be dimly discerned in the far distance... aye, yonder at the very edge of his gaze, which was now completely overwhelmed by those midnight visions.

Before long, his boots brought him to platform number three, and scarce any time had flown across the dark when his eyes beheld the arrival of the omnibus. It was the vessel that would at long last, and after all trials, bear him back to his homestead, yonder upon the banks of the silent river... Having secured his place upon a seat directly adjacent to the glass window, that exquisite mixture of reality and dreams began to flood his senses, anointing his truly weary eyes like a soothing oil... until at long last, a profound slumber completely conquered his soul:

“And within his slumber, he beheld a monumental, massive wardrobe of antique design, resting inside a roofless, ruined dwelling. Before the shattered house, he spied shadows of folk who did naught but run past in haste, and only from time to time, as if in a wild race, would they cast a fleeting glance toward that selfsame wardrobe. Then, his eyes caught a glimpse of certain bolder souls among them, who for some dark reason were hiding behind the broken walls of that once honorable homestead, whispering secrets so low and unintelligible that Leo, despite all the striving of his spirit, could by no means comprehend the meaning of their speech. Yet the moment he drew near to them, despite all their vaunted courage, they scattered like frightened beasts and vanished into the shadows... But he gathered his fortitude—for a certain sacred curiosity was in that hour mightier than his dread—and stepped inside the dwelling through those battered, prostrated portals.

And as his boots brought him to the very edge of the wardrobe, he beheld a thoroughly broken and completely plundered man lying right upon its crest. Yet this fallen figure failed to confound Leo's spirit; he reached out and began to part those monumental, cumbersome doors beneath the stranger's form. And as the iron hinges groaned open, all at once, from every hidden quarter of the room, there spilled forth that ever-foul and stagnant stench of stale alcohol.

When the heavy doors were at long last flung wide, his eyes looked upon a vast multitude of military uniforms hidden within the depths of the wardrobe. And as his hands parted a few of these garments, they struck upon a bright, freshly spilt torrent of crimson blood... and in that very heartbeat, he suddenly perceived all around his person that suffocating fragrance which belongeth to burnt and overturned milk... and it seemed to pour forth from some hidden and utterly undiscovered distance known to his spirit alone.”

And such visions struck so deep a terror into his soul that his slumber was instantly scattered into millions of fragile bubbles. As he forced his heavy eyelids open, his gaze peered through the wide windshield of the omnibus, catching sight of that ever-dear tablet bearing the name of the River of Rare Butterflies. In that comforting breath, he comprehended that his boots had once more brought him back into the sanctuary of his lovely, warm, and newly cherished town.

And the morning broke crisp, fragrant, and bathed in pure light.

Leo stepped once more into the deeply familiar courtyard of his estate. And the very moment his boots crossed the threshold of his most cherished home, the warm, comforting fragrance of a freshly prepared breakfast rose to greet him.

Yet it was only as he partook of this feast, conversing with his beloved aunt and uncle, that a sudden, monumental realization struck his soul. For the first time, though the truth had been arrayed before his eyes all along, he truly comprehended that he would soon look upon the face of his birthplace once more—for the first time since that great and terrible carnage of yore.

Aye, within the walls of that city, a wondrous world of his childhood memories had vanished into dust. And today, a deep dread filled his breast as he thought upon that realm, now utterly prostrated and shrouded in ruins painted with the hue of blood. Indeed, his soul recoiled at the mere peril that his eyes might catch naught but the fading ghost of its former countenance, and nothing more... Yet no other path lay open before his feet to reach Her—to find his beloved Liliana.

Moved by this sacred duty, he resolved that upon this journey, he would not seek out the presence of Grandmother Petkana, nor Master Blaž, nor any other kindred soul among his people... nay, he would not even visit his brothers and spiritual sisters from Mahir’s home who still made their dwelling yonder. For the entirety of Leo’s world today still wore the heavy bandages that had been bound there far into the futures of time.

Aye, beneath those very shrouds, the flower of love begins to quicken and bloom... yet Leo, keeping his eyes fast closed, strives to pluck its stem as he wends his way between the steep, unyielding cliffs of mystery and dark ignorance... leaning over the very abyss of fate. “Yet amidst those jagged crags, doth that once-gentle river still flow?” Aye, if there remained a riddle he could by no means untangle, it was the nature of the fierce emotions that would seize his heart once he arrived yonder...

And however fiercely he strove to conquer the anxiety that besieged his spirit, all the remaining days before their pilgrimage fled past his soul either with wondrous swiftness or with a cruel, agonizing slowness. (Until this hour, hope had possessed the power to sustain everything... but now, the fated day was already knocking at the portals of his life—a day when his entire world might collapse into the abyss of hell, or rise on the wings of triumph up to the very Heavens).

And it was tonight, the final eve...

The night before the grand departure. Leo found no comfort in slumber until the dawning of the light, and it was then that he once more fell into a most peculiar dream:

“He beheld a monumental, majestic moon chasing the shadows out of an utterly desolate night. Beneath its silver radiance, he found himself standing upon a vast and wide sea, yet it was wondrously shallow—reaching only as high as his knees. Beside his frame swam a multitude of tender lambs. And they wended their way together through a certain strait that divided two distinct cities. One of those cities was deeply known to his heart, while the other wore a completely undiscovered, alien countenance. And from the gates of this known metropolis, whole packs of ravenous wolves rushed into the waters, hunting and driving the tender lambs toward that city whose countenance was alien to Leo.” — and in that very heartbeat, Leo awoke from his slumber.

The sun had already scaled the center of the heavens, and his aunt was calling him to partake of the midday feast. Yet the food could bring no comfort to his frame, for his stomach, held fast by a tight net of nervous anxiety, refused to receive it.

...And soon thereafter, enfolded by powerful and deep words of support, Leo was warmly escorted and, bearing a heavy burden upon his soul, sent forth toward the borders of the neighboring kingdom by the hands of Uncle Alimpie and Aunt Anastasia. Beside them stood his devoted friend, Dragana. Despite the multitude of her duties on this day, she had found the hour to stand as a pillar of strength for her secret favorite among all her companions in this monumental moment... and on this eve, she simply could not allow herself — aye, for someone was bound to fling open those long-barred portals upon the path — she could by no means miss the chance to bestow upon him her final words of courage, speeding him onward toward his grand crusade (for in some mysterious guise, she had ever known far more than all the others).

And twilight had already stepped heavily upon the earth...

When Leo found his boots once more treading the stones of that ancient city of the plains. And the moment the omnibus ground to a halt within the station... the very place suddenly appeared to his eyes on this evening entirely altered from all that had existed before — aye, different from every previous hour when Leo had arrived here. On this night, the station seemed wrapped in a solemn grandeur, vast... and entirely possessed by a strange, mysterious significance.

And while Leo stood thus, scanning the platforms with his gaze entirely fixed through the glass window of the omnibus, wondering within his heart why Konstantin had not yet appeared... he was suddenly startled out of his anxious reflections by words that drifted from behind his shoulders:

"Brother, are our souls prepared to set forth upon this crusade for the truth?" — syllables delivered all at once, appearing out of the shadows behind his back.

"Ah... but that path is ever a monumental journey," Leo replied, choosing those specific, grave words so uniquely custom to his character, delivering a meaning that rose far above a mere answer.

Before long, the omnibus set itself in motion, and there began to awaken a multitude of powerful and fierce anxieties within Leo’s breast. For you see, it required but a brief flight of time for a modern carriage of today to reach the banks of that very river... that mystical water which divided his two worlds.

And even so the omens unfolded...

When before Leo’s wide eyes, those wild and untamed crests of her waves began to loom through the dark. Yet on this night, by some strange enchantment — “What manner of mystery is ruling here...?” — her currents were prostrated in an extraordinary, breathless calm. “What secret is she striving to bury beneath her breast?”

Aye, a blanket of midnight silver had entirely blanketed both the earth and the river on this eve. The moon’s tresses did but mirror the dark image of the night and the secrets of the prostrated heavens within her depths... and only an eye attuned to the hidden ways of the world could discern how her cold waters (waters that in prostrated, evil seasons had frequently run purple with blood) were still diligently washing away those malicious, festering wounds of a land so cruelly wounded once more.

Yet to those selfsame eyes, it would also appear as though this river—a water so often trodden with malicious intent—was still letting forth a hoarse, muffled roar against the passing omnibus... Aye, she had ever been a fickle, moody river, a water woven of perilous whirlpools, even as many a soul among the folk had custom to whisper of her nature.

And all at once, the heavy brakes shrieked into the night, and upon the window panes, the images of foreign banners and flags were mirrored. There followed a sharp rustling of many scrolls of travel-parchment and passports. A multitude of countenances, frozen in time, cast rigid and stiff glances toward the man bearing badges of rank upon his shoulder, who held a flickering, hoarse lamp within his hand...

The master of music did but briefly catch the attention of the guard wearing the official visor-cap upon his brow, yet the officer swiftly retreated once his duties were fulfilled. The omnibus pressed onward, rolling along the same, yet now an entirely different highway—treading a foreign realm on this night, yet remaining beneath the selfsame prostrated sky.

Then, as if by a sudden stroke of enchantment, a wondrous wave of life's magic began to expand through the air. A surge of euphoria, resembling a rolling avalanche, began to mount within Leo’s breast after but a few verses which Konstantin let fall into the heavy, burdened air that hung above the passengers' heads, singing to an improvised melody of his own lips:

"Hey, my heart, why dost thou tremble in the midst of spring?
Art thou ashamed of the silken tunic wherewith thou art enfolded,
Or doth its celestial, burning brilliance sear thy flesh?
Oh, but thou hast it no longer! The blood-letters have torn it away,
Staining the sweet air of longing with rivers of gore.
Whither have you fled with her, servants of vice?

Hey, my heart, why dost thou tremble in the midst of spring?
Art thou ashamed of the golden ring that adorneth thy being,
Or doth its warm, radiant brilliance sear thy flesh?
Oh, but thou hast it no longer! The blood-letters have shattered it to dust,
Staining the sweet air of longing with rivers of gore.
Whither have you fled with her, servants of vice?"

The sheer power of those heavy words simply slipped and cascaded into what had now become—by some hidden turn of fate—a wild, untamed consciousness within his breast during those fleeting minutes. And once he had, in a single heartbeat, succeeded to stand entirely before her—capturing the whole of that dancing message woven from all those words—the melody nevertheless faded into twilight, right swiftly, even as any variegated spring butterfly would perish when tangled within a hunter's net...

Aye, it would resemble one of those exotic butterflies adorned with eastern patterns and fluttering hues, such as his eyes had already once beheld within the sanctuary of his own garden.

...And it appeared to his soul all at once that he would have surrendered everything, surrendered and performed well-nigh any deed, merely to catch the echo of that melody and those verses but once more... yet nay, for some hidden reason, they would never again possess that selfsame, fierce strength as they did following their very first performance—that hours of their first dawning.

Aye, it might well have seemed that Konstantin himself was utterly besieged by wonder at that monumental strength wherewith all those verses, transfigured into sound, had fallen upon his own ghost and upon Leo's spirit. Indeed, a certain sweet, trembling chill held him fast, once his mind comprehended how completely unconscious that creation had been. For perchance, his eyes had already grown weary and sated with the density of the world, yet never could his soul look its fill upon the majesty of true art...

Yet Leo did not venture to implore Konstantin to repeat that melody—aye, that sound of words which to his own heart was pure magic. For it was deeply known to his spirit that such a wondrous thing exists in its true glory only for the very first time; and the more we gaze upon its reflection, the less real it becometh thereafter. (...for far too monumental a mystery is the labyrinth of the human soul!)

And Konstantin had quite simply dreamed those verses—fashioning them, perchance, within that singular alpha-state of the mind, somewhere suspended between waking life and shifting dreams—aye, in those very breathless moments while the officer in uniform was just beginning to examine the countenances of the travelers frozen upon the portraits of their parchments. Thus, he had woven his words into that still slumbering kingdom, completely hidden from the knowledge of the guards of the border.

Yet for Leo on this night, slumber was far more than a mere need; but despite the fact that sleep would frequently and with soft ease conquer his frame even inside a moving omnibus, on this eve, that whole violent and immense tide of emotions now rushing into his soul shattered every effort to find rest. And so, he began to slowly gather all those mist-shrouded lamps that spilled their light from moment to passing moment across the wide windshield...

Then, all at once! Within a mere handful of heartbeats, the moving tableaus of the night aligned themselves. He caught the fierce roaring of the wind—aye, right there, close at hand, deflecting off the heavy frame of the omnibus. Long beams of headlights crossed and locked in the dark. Aye! At long last... the heavy brakes shrieked into the night!

...for those wheels which had been overtaking the omnibus had scarce passed by all their neighboring frames, when straightway—aye, in the very next heartbeat—by some malicious and evil force, their two iron bodies collided (. . . those walls of the adjacent vehicles grinding together). There was produced a monumental, deafening crash, and countenances still heavily bound in slumber within that entire chamber did, in that single, fleeting second, suddenly look upon a thoroughly loud and waking night.

And a tumultuous clatter of diverse sounds began to stir... yet none rose higher than the storm of human words, cutting through that now exceedingly crisp, somewhat sharp and frosty evening air.

Meanwhile, the glinting sign of a taxi-coach was mirrored upon the wide windshield... Aye, one could clearly discern through the dark the title of the house—letters which to Leo’s eyes bore a well-known, fateful significance from past moments he still hunted after:

“White Taxi.”

A man clad in a snow-white raiment heavily streaked and patterned with crimson blood was locked in a fierce, well-nigh maddened dispute with the driver of the omnibus. (Whilst another silhouette, woven entirely of darkness and shadow, whose life-blood had stained the coachman's attire, vanished silently into the depths of the night). And lo, by some supreme wonder, that driver was neither more nor less—“Heavenly mercy, could such a thing be possible...?”—than Vitomir himself! (Aye, he had stepped behind the iron wheel to relieve his fellow driver back at the very frontier—in that selfsame hour when Leo was still held fast in the chains of a deep slumber).

Leo was utterly and profoundly besieged by wonder at this monumental moment... “How indeed could his soul explain such a design...?” (Yet, there dwelt a fragment of the Sacred within his breast).

For it seemed as though he had forever possessed the right to await such omens beneath this specific canopy of the heavens; a sky which, every single time his paths crossed with that selfsame taxi, appeared to his eyes smaller and smaller... Aye, it seemed that a dark, unyielding tradition was the mirror and image of every turning of fate.

Before many heartbeats had passed, Vitomir turned his face toward the company of travelers, calling out:

"Folk, we are bound by law to keep vigil here for the guards of the peace... and then we shall discern our further path. Perchance a second omnibus from our house shall arrive later to bear you onward."

And while he was thus delivering his words through the iron throat of the omnibus loudspeaker, Leo and Konstantin, moving softly and in a thoroughly incognito fashion, made their retreat outside into the dark. “Nay, this is by no means the destined hour. This is no hour for our meeting... my noble, chosen brother” — thundered and beat the pendulum within Leo’s breast.

...It was as though a secret force within his soul refused to hear those very phrases that might have risen: “I know not the meaning of this design... thou hast ever understood far more than I, but somehow, something hath plundered all the sweet spices from my life...”

Aye, they set forth in deepest secrecy, as if they merely intended to wend their way down the highway to stretch their limbs yonder, along that path which but a heartbeat before had remained behind the omnibus. They abandoned the wounded carriage and the very ground of the calamity; for you see, there was no great wealth of time left for them to squander, and every fleeting minute on this night was of monumental value to their quest. Indeed, something had already begun to boil and rage within the fabric of both time and space. It was needful to hasten into the sanctuary of loneliness; it was needful to fly anywhere at all, so long as their lungs could drink the fresh, untamed air.

And in truth, scarce any time had flown across the dark when the guards of the law materialized upon the very ground of the accident. And as it so frequently transpires upon the highways of men, immediately following their arrival, a monumental column of trapped carriages and vehicles formed right behind them...

And within that long column of iron, to Leo’s wonder—which was perchance no longer so monumental, yet remained ever deeply dear to his heart—there was found none other than the "Black Taxi." Aye, it was Master Vlado himself, Dragana’s own uncle and that coachman who, for some hidden reason, had ever been Leo's most favored driver from that plain-metropolis which many deemed the most charming upon earth. For you see, he was wending his way toward a destination in the very close vicinity... And two human souls who had for a long season numbered time beneath the selfsame canopy of heaven straightway discovered a harmonious, shared tongue.

And Leo began:

"A most blessed evening I desire for you, Master Vlado."

And Master Vlado, who was but lightly besieged by wonder at the sight before his eyes, spoke on this night in a guise that perfectly matched Leo's own grand and custom manner:

"Upon what noble errand dost thou stride past this colossus of iron beneath a star-strewn night, my friend?"

"As your eyes may discern, the iron carriage wherewith my worthy companion Konstantin and I set forth toward those ancient domains of my heart... is the very author of this calamity," Leo answered with calm elegance.

"Behold, look you... I have struck a covenant with certain grave gentlemen regarding the hire of my coach. Yet its terms grant me leave at least to bear your frames unto the gates of the nearest city," Master Vlado offered his knightly aid.

"My deep gratitude is thine, dear friend," Leo accepted the gracious offering.

And soon, enfolded within the sanctuary of the "Black Taxi," Leo and Konstantin abandoned the ground of that thoroughly unlooked-for delay.

A star-strewn night.

It was as if millions of fireflies, swarming yonder within the thickets and the surrounding gardens, had on this night fixed themselves fast to the vaulted canopy of the heavens.

The "Black Taxi" dissolved into the midnight hour... The profound sense of serenity which this iron carriage bestowed did simply lull Leo into a gentle slumber, while that companion upon the helmsman's seat—a man ever so deeply calm, yet at the selfsame time a wondrously jovial and light-hearted friend, despite the immense weight of accumulated winters upon his shoulders—poured forth without a single pause a tapestry of tales regarding the diverse tableaus of life beneath their destined sky. And those chronicles of his, woven entirely from a simple, earthly sensuality and painted with ever-living hues, did nourish with a fresh quickening the still weary eyes of his two passengers (and though no tale was that singular one their souls truly required, yet in the final hour, only the Lord above knoweth the turning of things).

And when at long last this portion of their voyage reached its twilight,

Master Vlado by no means allowed even the mention of gold or coin. Nay, above all else, he did but let fall this noble maxim: "The hand of a friend healeth many a bitter woe..." And after they had bestowed their deepest, heartfelt gratitude upon him, the travelers, now thoroughly awakened from their drowsiness, hastened... they hastened onward into the dark. And even as they distanced themselves from his coach, through the crisp midnight air, there drifted from the retreating carriage these echoing sounds:

...from the retreating carriage, through the crisp midnight air, there drifted these echoing sounds:

"To whom dost thou extend thy hands, my sweet companion,
Now when we are severed by the blades of soldiers?
Whither dost thou cast thy weeping eyes, my sweet companion,
Now when the rays of our sixfold flame have turned to embers?
One day, a noble lord and lady with faces hardened by grief
Shall tread upon the sepulcher of an extinguished age.
The song at the depths of the abyss shall fade without relief,
And every memory of our kindred bond shall vanish from the page."

...aye, a ballad singing perchance of that deeply wounded companionship born within their once monumental and grand homeland, aye, a ballad that had, for a long season of time, been cast out and recorded upon the scrolls of forbidden songs in certain regions of her domain; and its echoes did but bring sharp pain to their ears on this night.

And so, they found themselves standing amidst the deep shadows of the midnight hour upon the desolate platforms of a certain omnibus station, yonder within that small, wayside town nestled beside the ever-ancient river. Before many heartbeats had passed, the grim knowledge reached their souls that no further carriage would set forth toward Leo’s birthplace on this dark night.

A multitude of tiny, silent hours had already escorted the sabbath day into the past... yet the station, despite the late watch after midnight, was uniquely swarming with a restless crowd of folk. The grand majority of them kept a long vigil beside platform number seven... as though their spirits were awaiting some phantom-like, spectral omnibus... illuminated only by the overflow of that ebbing, stagnant light which spilled outward from the station tavern, stretching its pale tresses well-nigh to the very edge of the concrete flags.

And time, with a ravenous hunger, seemed to be drinking the night to its dregs. Aye... and within Konstantin’s breast, his heart had now fully recognized the weight of their grand mission. The hour demanded that he take swift steps... and so, the master of music—that extraordinary, suspicious-looking youth—advanced into the tavern with a thoroughly unburdened, confident stride. His entry was tracked by those sluggish, leaden gazes, heavily enfolded in drifting clouds of tobacco smoke. He commanded that wine be poured. Straightway, the iron-like glass within his grasp caught a rich, crimson hue, and from moment to passing moment, he poured that ever-warm, blood-tinted elixir across his eternally parched, song-woven lips.

Aye, for he had ever beheld every earthly dwelling of human ghosts as yet another living fountain of hidden lore. Armed with this steadfast design, and employing his unique, artistic wit, he strove to capture the attention of the surrounding souls within the tavern.

And lo... it appeared as though the triumph of his artistic design was already looming upon the far horizon of his endeavors...

During that selfsame season of time...

Leo stood utterly spellbound by that uncustomary, restless tumult which possessed the platform-grounds of the omnibus station—a place so small, yet by some hidden decree so monumental—nestled right upon the very frontier of the peninsula, where true-hearted brothers still hold the reins of life. Thus, his boots remained fixed outside, drinking that crisp midnight air which nevertheless, in a sudden heartbeat, became heavily stained and burdened with clouds of leaden smoke. Aye, this dark incense had been exhaled by a newly arrived carriage—a vessel which, judging by the changing countenances and masks of the folk around, was the long-awaited phantom of the night.

And in those breathless moments, Leo was seized by a sudden, thoroughly unlooked-for tempest of the soul—a fierce spiritual whirlwind—so that all at once, he resolved to hunt after a fragment of hope amidst that vast multitude of undiscovered eyes. He sought a saving grace among the pairs of all those foreign, glittering pearls... aye, even among those souls that were deeply drenched in the bitter chalice of vice; yet there returned to him naught but a stampede of mute, unhearing glances, and a heavy weight of small, human misunderstanding...

Without any need for measure, it seemed as though the folk, even as the cosmos itself expandeth and groweth ever grander, were surrendering themselves more and more to one another's silent shadows.

...Aye, Leo would at seasons gather the dark sensation that a certain century-old grove and rut, running deep between human ghosts and human glances, was gaining strength with ever swifter and more frantic speed. On this night, it well-nigh appeared to his soul as though a time belonging to some foreign stranger had long since held dominion over the world (aye, a heavy sensation, and a burdened feeling indeed). Yet this bleak cloud was lightly softened only after his boots had carried him past two young souls who (even to his sharp eye, right obviously) had for a long season kept vigil for their meeting... until this very heartbeat, when she, though bearing the traces of great trials, stepped forth from the omnibus enfolded in a magnificent, triumphant joy, while he yonder leaped to his feet, a thousand burning stars reflecting within his eyes, his entire stride racing toward her embrace... and this spectacle did but lightly soothe that heavy sensation, and that burdened feeling.

And having surrendered that triumphant heartbeat of mankind unto the keeping of space and the world behind his back, Leo cast his gaze upward toward the heavens, seeking at least to unearth the moon (which to his eyes had ever resembled a long-forgotten golden ducat, cast into the celestial fountain above to purchase the fulfillment of all human hopes, high up where the stars spray their light). And the moment his eyes caught sight of it in its absolute and unblemished brilliance, he did once more nourish every fragment of his own hopes—hands that still stretch forth, hunting after that seemingly long-lost fortune which had been bestowed upon his soul in a bygone season...

Meanwhile, during that selfsame watch of the night,

That unique, silver moonlight which ever inhabited Konstantin’s ghost had succeeded, within the smoky confines of that typical wayside tavern, to discover the “Band of Troubadours”—men who viewed themselves first and foremost as true masters of art. Namely, the companions of this musical league had likewise cast their path toward the selfsame metropolis that Konstantin and Leo intended to seek out... aye, yonder... into Leo’s former city.

And there was no great wealth of time required for them to lock their designs and set forth upon the path together.

Throughout the entirety of the night, Konstantin exchanged his thoughts and lore with those kinsmen of his craft... while Leo, for the grandest portion of that journey, was held fast in the chains of slumber.

Aye, in this wise, he slept through well-nigh all those monumental approaches that led toward the gates of his birthplace. For indeed, his soul today could by no means have endured the sight of them (and on this night, everything was bound to remain strictly incognito). They had already wended their way past all the unofficial portals of the metropolis...

Until at last, when they had drifted into that once-fragrant depth of his childhood world, Leo was startled awake. The night air was still strewn with thousands of glinting stars... The city was still wrapped in the soft velvet of sleep. And in that very breath, his eyes caught sight of the exact gate belonging to the exact theater of moving pictures from his earliest childhood days...

Triumphant joy... and then wild fury and bitter sorrow, were in that magical fashion intertwined within his breast (as if mingled by the spoon of some invisible virtuoso, within that singular chalice forged by the hand of Destiny itself). They stirred without path or direction, resurrected into life by the fierce power of awakened memories, coiling and rushing through his entire frame. Everything within him now fought against that grief, against that heavy mist... and that long-adopted, deep-seated melancholy. From passing moment to moment, these emotions were stifled only by a wave of futile, ebbing rage.

“Whose monumental injustice is this world?... and what fragment of its weight do I bear within my own soul? It seareth, it seareth... like the dawning of the light within my chest doth this sorrow burn. And for what hidden reason must she belong to its shadow—she who is so precious to my heart, my most cherished being? The wounds I shall one day comprehend, but will this city... will it survive their scars?”...

Nor did Konstantin possess unblemished, clear emotions... yet within his breast, they were far weaker and of an entirely different nature.

...Leo very swiftly gathered that haunting sensation that he now held within his hands naught but the tattered rags of that faraway era, a time entirely obscured by the mist of a past romance. Yet within his soul today, there still dwelt the profound, unshakeable faith of a sacred order, and because of this, he began to acquire (yet in a guise well-nigh imperceptible and slow) a certain thin, rarefied dread (resembling a fragment of early morning fog) lest his memories should rise like vampires from their graves—for the true Resurrection could only unfold when his eyes should behold Her face once more...—and drink up the entire freshness of this present, living moment.

They stepped forth into the very midst of the dawning light—in that hour when the first stars had already begun to fade into twilight—leaving the interior of that carriage-vessel, which wore a thoroughly hippie, evergreen countenance, belonging to those joyous masters of music (for they, after all, had custom to live solely for the present day).

And having exchanged mutual desires of good hope for that still entirely uncertain and dark future (...yet such a spirit belonged rightfully to their carefree nature...), Leo and Konstantin parted ways with their benefactors. Right beside their boots lay that selfsame river into whose currents Leo had once... spilt his first monumental stream of blood.

Aye, the morning broke crisp, fragrant, and bathed in pure light. Yet Leo was seized by a fierce, tight spasm of nostalgia, made even more potent by that sharp freshness of the morning air, which was somehow entirely embroidered with those scents deeply known to his soul from the days of his earliest wounds. So completely did this spell possess his being, that his very limbs began to grow rigid within that gathering tension, born from all that lay behind him as well as from that sudden shift of air, as they stepped from the warmth of the carriage into the biting chill of the dawn. They stood now within that deep valley, guarded beneath those eternally dark and brooding hills, whose mysterious depths did at long last cast their heavy shadow over Konstantin’s spirit as well.

"My friend, I hold the belief that the hour hath arrived for our first morning coffee," Leo recommended to his companion.

"I lock my agreement with thee, sir," Konstantin adopted the counsel, which was so sorely needed by both their frames.

Yet in those earliest hours of the dawning light, a mere handful of houses were keeping open gates under their hours of labor. Nevertheless, following a long season of journeying on foot, they chanced upon one such sanctuary. Within its walls, they resolved to keep a long vigil until the clocks should strike nine full hours of the morning, at which season they would set forth to await the coming of Sophia and Vuk, yonder, high upon the fields of the airport...

...the ground upon which their aerial vessel was fated to alight at ten full hours of that still young morning.

The tumultuous clamor and vibrant quickening at the gates of the airport seemed, above all else, to signify that monumental importance which this vessel of transit held for the multitude—an attraction which, even after the flight of so many winters, had lost none of its unique and specific allure... yet perchance there dwelt something far grander than that within the air: whether it was the mere turning of the calendar, or something more majestic even than history itself... (Yet to Leo’s mind, not even all that proverbial luxury of the flying machines could ever replace or match the absolute freedom of treading upon the solid earth).

"A most blessed greeting, Sophia," Leo welcomed the maiden who held the power to unveil so grand a portion of his monumental secret...

"Ah, a very good day I desire for you, young lady," Konstantin chimed in, welcoming his cherished kinswoman and friend...

"Greetings, my friend, I am Leo," thereupon Leo extended his hand toward Vuk, that sturdy youth summoned to bring aid in the event of any sudden and unlooked-for perils.

"And I am Konstantin," the musician appended his own name straightway onto Leo’s courtesies, so that following all these opening syllables, they might guide their steps together toward the outer gates. Outside, at the very threshold of the structure, they were welcomed by the "Black Taxi." Aye, Leo had struck a firm covenant regarding this coach during the hours of the previous night. The carriage bore them swiftly toward a luxurious sanctuary-inn, chosen by the company according to their shared and mutual desire.

And this was the very first season in all his wanderings outside his own homestead that Leo resolved upon such luxury regarding his shelter. He performed this grand deed solely for the sake of his fellow crusaders... aye, to manifest a solemn and magnificent reverence for their labor... yes, for the sake of a certain "priestly" dignity, since these were by no means ordinary days... these were hours of supreme solemnity.

And once they had made use, to the very last grain of sand, of the time allotted for their rest,

Vuk and Konstantin were granted absolute liberty to wend their way and explore according to their own pleasure that metropolis which, at least within memory... had ever been uniquely charming. Meanwhile, Leo and Sophia directed their strides toward a goal that belonged to their eyes alone, walking with an entirely different, purposeful step... moving toward that institution upon whose pillars the success of their entire crusade heavily depended.

Aye, they journeyed by taxi-coach toward the halls of the dental clinic. And she—who throughout her life had never been wont to hold her stance by the laws of blind faith—was on this day well-nigh entirely enveloped in a wondrous, joyful belief. Yet within the city boundaries, a thoroughly suspicious and shrouded weather held dominion, and the sun once more did but smolder with a muffled, ebbing glow. And what manner of heavy, ominous clouds chanced to veil its light from passing moment to moment... These were heavy, leaden hours... and before their eyes stood the monumental moment of truth. To whose spirit upon this earth was the burden heavier on this day than to the aching heart of Leo… - aye, in such a frantic measure did the pulse within his breast thunder.

“Doth her soul catch the echo of my steps on this afternoon?” — Leo questioned his own ghost. The burning anxiety that consumed him was but lightly cooled upon the surface by a fragrant breeze which, from passing watch to watch, drifted from the orient paths of the East. Nay, neither dread nor hope showed any mercy toward one another... Yet Sophia remained completely unshaken in her confidence. Aye, this was (perchance in a way far too deep for the world to grasp... yet) her destined hour as well.

And so they marched toward the hospital, which even unto this day still bore—though only upon certain scattered stones—the deep scars of all those wartime tempests. Yet even wrapped in such a guise, bearing a countenance so heavily wounded in a multitude of ways, it did even now radiate that supreme dignity which belongs solely to houses of healing. And as their boots drew near, for some hidden reason they gathered the searching gazes of many foreign eyes upon their persons (for indeed, though not all is clear to the sight, a vast multitude of things can nevertheless be felt by the soul)...

Leo, walking as an eternal dandy—whether by some sacred faith, or perchance by the very law of his spirit—had on this day donned a solemn vestment, chosen according to the laws of his own days and by no means by the measures of others. He wore a long jacket of a lunar, light-blue hue, interwoven with shifting tresses of pale silver, and trousers of the selfsame cloth that hung partly shrouded beneath its hem. And upon their fabric, resembling a shower of glinting sequins, was strewn a vast multitude of tiny, eight-pointed stars. He moved with a stately grace in high shoes of an ashen, grey tint. His lapels and his entire tunic were fashioned of pure, heavy velvet, bearing the deep color of a summer midnight sky, likewise enfolded beneath a whole constellation of those small, brilliant stars.

Sophia, however, wore a checkered jacket of fine cloth and a matching skirt of a thoroughly proper and modest length. For you see, she did simply radiate such a presence, as though there had forever dwelt within her the sharp, disciplined image of a high official. Aye, such was the spirit that ruled her ghost... (ever correct, everything according to the iron decree of the law, and everything measured to the finest grain)...

...And before many heartbeats had flown, they crossed the threshold and entered the clinic, where they were straightway welcomed by that ever-heavy, pungent fragrance of chlorine, so uniquely custom to all hospitals or, at the least, to public sanctuaries of labor...

Was it merely chlorine, or perchance that spiritless, cold alcohol—aye, that singular scent of almost every house of medicine which was well-nigh forever custom to spill a sudden chill and dread across the ghosts of the sick... and perhaps even more fiercely across the souls of the living who walk in health...

...Yet Sophia cast not the slightest attention upon all these omens, which so heavily besieged the mind of Leo.

Memories... from every hidden quarter around him now rose nothing but memories. It was as though this hour belonged solely to their spectral dance. Aye, the sharp breath of that place was felt with fierce intensity both then and now—even as it was during that final, catastrophic season when his eyes had possessed the chance to look upon his beloved Liliana for the very last time. And that terrible moment of supreme upheaval had likewise been painted with that sickly, yellowish-green hue... that color which had forever belonged to the breath of chlorine. And would that selfsame... — and may the Lord forbid it! — pursue and haunt his soul for the remainder of his days on earth? The answer he was fated to gather only in part... and perchance right soon! Aye, in that very hour when Sophia should succeed in turning her grand design into reality! Yet for now, everything was still but a single step... and everywhere there hung that dark, suffocating atmosphere of bleak autumn nights. Indeed, it was as though such a shroud held absolute dominion over the entire house of healing on this afternoon. Nor did this tempest rage within his breast alone. Inside, the halls were woven of a thoroughly somber and heavy darkness, brooding beneath a multitude of leaden shadows, most especially within those narrow, labyrinthine corridors. And everywhere wended a vast crowd of folk... souls who for the grandest part did but flit past in absolute silence.

And the moment their boots drew near to the reception desk, Sophia already held fast within her hands that counterfeit scroll—Liliana’s false medical mandate for dental treatment within the kingdom from whence they had journeyed. Aye, through its power she intended to demand that, acting as the maiden's proxy, she be granted that dental chart from that fateful year of 1991, so vital to their hunt. Yet... behold. For some hidden reason, the sister of medicine keeping watch at the desk, letting fall a few brief and accompanying explanations (which to Sophia’s ears were thoroughly hollow and without sense), completely refused to grant them her favor. And when Sophia began to voice a fierce and grave discontent, the nurse did but point a finger, adding above all else:

"Yonder walketh the Chief of the Clinic," — indicating a gentleman clad in a snow-white medical mantle, who at that very precise heartbeat was wending his way down the corridor in their immediate vicinity. Leo, in that breathless second, comprehended nothing of the dispute. And so, he gently implored Sophia that they withdraw for a brief watch of time, distancing their frames from the immediate presence of the desk... Whereupon, she unveiled the grim tidings to his soul:

"We possess a small impediment upon the path to unearth that truth which I swore to bring into thy keeping, Leo. Yet let not thy heart faint... " — and above all else, she did but whisper this secret: "Leo, behold... he is of their very generation." She indicated the Chief of the Clinic with the tilt of her gaze, adding: "Surrender everything into my hands..."

Following those words, with a grace that was both courteous and grave, yet enfolded in a maiden’s charming eloquence, she brought the Chief of the Clinic to a halt while he was yet in mid-stride. She made her solemn declaration that they were bound to converse upon a matter of supreme importance, and if it were possible, without a heartbeat of delay. Whereupon, the physician invited them both to cross the threshold of his private chambers.

Yet even within those walls, their purpose did by no means wend with ease... Following a season of brief encounters, of explanations and unraveling of clauses, Sophia gripped Leo’s left forearm with her right hand. Then, all at once, without a single breath of warning—resembling a flash of righteous, holy anger, her voice transfigured into an entirely different key—she began her crusade:

"Doctor Mahir, Doctor Petkana, Doctor Matija, Doctor Alimpie, Doctor Anastasia..." She spoke with a theatricality that perchance rose a touch higher than the hour demanded, yet it was a courtly, judicial theatre born of a stifled, burning fury... aye, in truth, it was the very image of a righteous wrath—carrying the unyielding command of “I have poised no queries to your lips” and “Now you shall bestow your full hearing upon my words.” She cried out: "He is the child of their own flesh and blood!"

But the Chief did but watch her with wide, astonished eyes, wrapped in a silent, brooding suspicion... keeping vigil for the final sense of her assault:

"Until what dark hour shall you continue to slaughter our children?"

"They practiced the art of healing yonder in realms where no soul had summoned their aid... Look you, no soul had called for them!" the Professor answered, his voice tight. Yet within her breast, a sudden relief flooded her frame; she had struck the chord, she had triumphed!

"Yet for our part, Professor, we stand in dire need of a singular, solitary dental scroll, so that we might deliver—should the Heavens grant it—even two living souls from the dark." With that, she let fall upon his desk, in a guise as though it required no explanation, a small parchment card containing every necessary fragment of knowledge. (While he, within the silent chambers of his own mind, questioned his spirit: “What manner of shadow is this... what new brotherhood or organization hath appeared before my face?”)

And after he had measured them with a heavy, searching glance... resembling a weary, ancient owl... or perchance a grey wolf of the forest, he merely whispered:

"Keep your vigil... right here."

And after a passage of some half an hour, when his boots once more brought him back into the sanctuary of his private chambers,

He let fall the desired scroll upon the desk, arrayed directly before their eyes... and above all else, in a measured yet visibly sullen guise—bearing a stance that seemed to radiate from his silence the words: “I cherish the faith that I have acted with honor”—he did but let fall this final speech:

"I hold the hope that our eyes shall never cross again upon this earth."

"Rest assured that we never shall," Sophia replied, for some hidden reason absolutely certain in her syllables.

Yet as she crossed the threshold and exited the clinic, she too was now held fast under the heavy shadow of a supreme anxiety.

Aye, for this would be the very first season in her yet unwritten career... that her lips might be forced to deliver unto a kinsman a message so foul it bordered upon the very pits of hell, should the whole of their labor reach its twilight in the most sorrow-stricken design. Even within her own breast, there was ignited an immeasurable, towering dread—one which her spirit could no longer master—the moment her eyes fell upon Leo’s gaze, which was hungry for hope beyond all human suffering. Aye, in that breathless heartbeat, he appeared once more like naught but a solitary, outcast stray hound, hunting for a passing smile from any wanderer upon the path.

And thus, their steps guided them toward the banks of the river. They wended their way to that exact ground where he had once been grievously wounded... yonder where the entirety of his first known world had perished in blood. Yet could destiny have woven any other course...?

There they kept their vigil... upon the very edge of her waters. And it was upon that spot that she began to compare the secret forensic dental scroll of those slain in the calamity that had besieged the house of Schönberg, with this newly conquered dental chart of Liliana’s which she held fast in her grasp. Aye, that ancient testament had been meticulously examined by the emissaries of the international community, working in concert with the regional institutions of old. Yet for the countless time upon this earth, it was made manifest that the paths of the Lord are truly wondrous and beyond human understanding... for it had so unfolded that her very own Professor from the bygone year, when she pursued her studies in foreign realms, had been a chosen member of that selfsame commission which had then investigated the remains...

...and it was precisely he who stood as the responsible guardian for that pivotal dental scroll of the slain maiden from the house of Schönberg. Aye, this wondrous thread of fate had signally aided her spirit, granting them the power to seize that very document into their own keeping.

And then:

"The lateral incisor... beyond belief... the second tooth... Ah, my Lord, how truly monumental and magnificent art Thou..." — enfolded in absolute exaltation by the sight that had just graced her eyes, she let fall her syllables into that air which, all around their frames, was heavily charged with electricity—a lightning-like aura which, by the very law of their nature, is exhaled solely by those souls who are granted a truly grand and momentous turning of fate. Thereupon, she drew near to Leo, bearing a gaze from which well-nigh the entirety of its former brilliance had been spent by the storm of her recent excitement (...for quite simply, her spirit was unaccustomed to such fierce tides of emotion, nor did she frequently grant them leave to enter her heart), and this sudden ebbing brought a cold, trembling sweat upon her brow...

Yet, after that fleeting heartbeat, from the lips of Sophia, his ears caught these words:

"I possess no further right upon this earth to hold thy soul in the chains of suspense." — and as she uttered this decree, Sophia nevertheless made a brief, exceedingly gentle pause (for on this day, her own heart was likewise a kinsman and sharer in his trials), during which Leo, gripped by the spasm of a supreme, well-nigh Stygian dread, managed only to gasp from his throat:

"Mercy... s-p-e-a-k...!"

"Liliana, the maiden whose footprints thou art hunting across the earth, resteth not among the slain who perished in the calamity of that ill-fated, fateful year," — in a guise that was truly celestial, her voice ringing with a solemn grandeur, Sophia made her monumental proclamation. And having devoured these tidings... Leo let fall but a single cry:

"Oh, Ma-a-ax!" (for he had been both sire and mother to his childhood... and this city, after all, was still his domain)... spoken from a soul entirely possessed by triumphant joy. He seized both of Sophia’s hands, folding her palms into tight fists, and pressed a deep, reverent kiss upon her enclosed knuckles, which were cradled fast within his own palms. Then, as if he had exhausted the entire breath of his lungs in that singular second, he spoke once more, posed a final query, as though some hidden vulnerability still lingered uncovered behind his back:

"Sophia, art thou entirely certain within thy ghost of everything thou hast just unveiled to me?" — standing there, desiring naught but that she confirm her previous decree, so that he might utterly slay, aye, slaughter every lingering shadow of doubt within his breast.

"With my whole soul, I am," — with absolute and unshakeable certainty, Sophia answered his plea. She then unfolded the lore of the scrolls, explaining how Liliana’s ancient chart clearly revealed a fractured—“let us say chipped,” she whispered—upper left lateral incisor, a physical token which was entirely absent from the forensic testament and report of the investigators who had examined the mortal remains of the fallen from that catastrophic year.

And having devoured these tidings, Leo well-nigh ran with a frantic joy... commanding that a grand round of drafts be poured for every soul within the closest tavern yonder, in their immediate vicinity. Thereupon, he and Sophia directed their path back toward the luxurious sanctuary-inn where they had taken shelter, boarding the very first taxi-coach their eyes chanced to unearth.

Through the glass windows of the carriage, there flitted past a multitude of strange clouds—clouds that appeared to his soul as though they were but lightly offended and struck with shame. It seemed as if they were fleeing the prostrated heavens in haste, shedding the whole of that leaden, dark color which had held dominion but a heartbeat before, dissolving entirely beneath the clear brilliance of a newborn sky. Aye, the sun was now pouring forth its golden tresses into Leo's lap—strands of light such as exist solely upon the pages of childhood storybooks. And all of this did but bring a healing balm to both his flesh and his aching ghost...

Until at last, their boots crossed the threshold and they entered their private chambers within that most celebrated and grand inn of the metropolis.

Yonder they discovered both of their fellow crusaders... resting upon the exact ground where they had left them. They were completely unaware of the supreme drama that had unfolded across the hour of their absence.

Within those walls, Konstantin was displaying unto Vuk—whose spirit had been heavily besieged by boredom throughout those hours—the latest ballad which his league, the “Gateway of the Peninsula Band,” had newly composed. To Leo's ears, the melody was enchantingly and transcendently beautiful—aye, to a human being from whose heart a monumental mountain of stone had just been delivered. Yet in truth, it remained but an amateur transcription recorded upon a tape-cassette, and by no means a finished work of the master-studios, for the entire creation dwelt still within its initial, prototype form.

And when, at Leo’s earnest pleading—having discovered them just as they were bringing their audience with the melody to its twilight—Konstantin once more set the tape-wheels in motion, through the silence there drifted these following words:

*"Burn, burn, my guiding star,
Illuminate each path and way
Whither my wandering boots have set;
Cast out the troops of sorrow far,
Consume and melt in ash today
The bitterness of yellow lemons met.

Thou art that saving joy of mine,
Grandest and most profoundly human of all,
Rising above each earthly fray;
Before my grief, a shield divine,
An ambush where my shadows fall,
Chasing the winter of my soul away."*

And since Leo was completely and strangely spellbound, commanding them with a frantic, unexplainable haste to set the tape-wheels in motion once more to play that selfsame ballad, Vuk and Konstantin failed to divine the true outcome of his and Sophia’s grand crusade (for in truth, amidst all this tumult, they dared not even pose a query to his lips...).

"Leave him to his joy. He possesseth a monumental reason to rejoice," Sophia declared to them but a few heartbeats later, after she perceived that they stood utterly transfixed and astonished by Leo’s wondrous bearing. For you see, following his outburst, he had simply rushed away to seize the receiver of the telephone, leaving them without a single syllable regarding the nature of the true oracle (...yet they remained entirely unaware of the supreme drama that had unfolded around them, and remoter still from the state of his own aching soul—for so much had transpired, and there was far more yet to unfold).

"She walketh among the living, then?" Konstantin remarked with a dreamy, brooding air, lost within the hidden chambers of his own mind—aye, moving in a guise as though he were striving to capture some vast, planetary joy (yet an inquiring, hesitant tone still lingered within his voice, for such is the nature of well-nigh every mortal upon this earth; it is not mere doubt, but rather that dread and fear are present from every quarter).

"I hold the sacred faith that she doth. The solitary certainty we possess is that she perished not in that dark hour when our hearts fainted with the dread that she had, but rather that it was her identical twin sister who surrendered her life to the grave," Sophia appended, her whole being wrapped in a solemn piety and a majestic gravity...

"My soul is gladdened for his sake," Konstantin whispered.

...Konstantin uttered with a singular, profound depth within his soul, so that right swiftly from that selfsame well of feeling there came forth well-nigh a whole song:

"Thou shouldst have but looked into his eyes on that tempestuous, rain-swept night, when his boots first brought him to my threshold to hunt after my aid."

And while they continued to weave their discourse,

Leo was already delivering via the telephone a message that was of all joyful tidings the most joyous, sending it yonder to the realm where his heart had left all its treasures... unto them, aye, to his Uncle Alimpie and Aunt Anastasia. And the very moment that faraway homestead upon the banks of the silent river was illuminated by the brilliance of his words, he did not squander a single heartbeat. In that selfsame stride, he hastened to gather from the warden of the inn whether there dwelt within this municipality a certain regional gentleman who would stand prepared to offer diverse services of a strictly confidential nature. Aye, he sought one of those unique figures who possess a grand mastery over many things, who know weightier secrets still, and who, for an honorable and just recompense, would consent to come forth and bring aid to a stranger... yes, one of those souls who perfectly comprehend every hidden path of the local terrain and can be of monumental utility to foreign travelers.

For you see, Leo knew with absolute certainty that such unofficial couriers and guides make their dwellings within well-nigh every city upon the earth.

The warden of the inn straightway recognized the nature of Leo’s query.

And to Leo's supreme fortune, the keeper did indeed possess knowledge of one such gentleman, and so he bestowed upon Leo the secret numbers of a telephone whereby he might summon a soul of that character.

Having graced the warden of the inn with words woven entirely of satisfaction—such as overjoyed clients are custom to surrender only to those who bring exemplary service—Leo departed from his presence and rejoined the company of his fellow crusaders.

Aye, he brought back into their sanctuary a monumental and heavy assumption...

Namely, Leo had purchased for his own soul a fresh cargo of hope, drawing it from an idea that was by no means entirely devoid of sense.

He held the faith that it was possible that Liliana, on that ill-fated and catastrophic night, had perchance stepped forth and exited the perimeter of the carriage-van... doing so for a multitude of diverse reasons utterly unknown to their minds today. Thus, she might have succeeded to distance her frame sufficiently from the vehicle, surviving the slaughter and prostration of her identical twin sister and the entirety of their escort. And enfolded beneath the shock and the sudden dread—after her eyes had looked upon that selfsame ruin—she had peradventure fled remoter still, and so became lost within the depths of the forest. And there existed the possibility... that the inhabitants of the villages nestled yonder, high upon the ridges of the hills, had chanced to unearth her fragile form, keeping her inside their own sanctuaries that they might eventually bring aid to her soul in any manner possible... sheltering and hiding her face from all those towering tribulations and perils which would have hunted her down had she remained solitary in the midst of the war's wild gale. He even permitted his heart to believe that she might, even until this very day, still be treading the earth alive, dwelling somewhere high among those remote, isolated hamlets...

...And the moment he had delivered this grand assumption regarding Liliana’s fated path unto the very end, for a long season of time they surrendered the strength of every comment into the keeping of a muffled, brooding silence. Thereupon, the first to break the stillness was Vuk, he who across all their hours was custom to be the most close-mouthed of the company:

"It possesseth a certain sense."

"Of course it doth," Leo confirmed with a vibrant, excited resonance, before delivering further tidings unto their ears:

"For this very reason, I have already taken specific steps, harboring the hope that our souls shall press onward together in all things thereafter." He then disclosed to them that he intended right soon to summon that certain regional gentleman who stood ever prepared to bring aid to foreign wanderers for a just and honorable recompense, and that during the entire watch of his recent absence, he had already set these designs in motion. Furthermore, he unfolded his purpose: that his unbending desire was, should the Heavens grant it possible, that they all set forth as a united league to stand upon the exact ground of the ancient calamity... for peradventure, walking as a united league, they might in truth command a far greater measure of fortune, or perchance even of skill, so that in whatever guise they might catch the rumors from the mouths of the folk who even unto this day still inhabit those surroundings, some fragments of useful knowledge would be won... Or peradventure a miracle of truly rare proportions might even lay siege to their path, so that they might unearth or cross tracks with Liliana herself.

And every single soul among them did after his own fashion bestow his faith upon such an adventure. Every soul locked his agreement...

And before many heartbeats had flown, Leo made use of the secret numbers which he had previously gathered for this very purpose. The voice that answered his call belonged to the lady-spouse (...for in that era, look you, mobile sending-machines were still a possession of exceeding rarity) of the gentleman who held the power to bring aid to their quest. Her name was Mubera.

And she extended a gracious invitation for them to cross the threshold of her own homestead.

It was a monumental green house adorned with a vast multitude of terraces and an equal count of weight-bearing pillars, a dwelling thoroughly characteristic of the architectural spirit of that region.

And well-nigh from the very edge of the avenue, one could perceive a somewhat wild and, in a guise far too fierce, yet above all else pleasing aroma of roasting coffee. Namely, the gentleman in question, who bore the name of Sreten, was among his various affairs the master and owner of a coffee-roastery. And that fragrance which scattered outside, drifting over the fence and onto the open street, did in a wondrous, magical, and eastern fashion intertwine with those ever-intoxicating scents of white lilies, planted in grand abundance within the courtyard (avliја) of Master Sreten... And the moment their boots wended inside the house, the powerful scent of timber joined this entire array... aye, for within the inner perimeter of the dwelling, well-nigh everything was fashioned from pure wood.

And amidst the vast multitude of footwear resting within the corridor of that truly monumental house, the shoes of the newly arrived guests soon found their place. Straightway, his lady-spouse escorted and settled them inside their thoroughly spacious parlor, where before many heartbeats had flown, Master Sreten himself appeared before their eyes.

And after they had, before all other things, "unveiled" unto Master Sreten that their boots had trodden hither by the strict law of academic duties—namely, to perform a certain exploration and write a joint scroll and treatise in the realm of geography—for you see, it was more than essential that the true designs of their coming remain utterly unknown to every soul within that region—Leo, acting in close counsel with Sophia and above all with Vuk, commanded and placed an order with Master Sreten for a vast multitude of necessary and useful provisions required for their pilgrimage... among which were: sleeping sacks, colossal battery-lamps, a gas stove, diverse canned rations sufficient for a full couple of days' vigil in the wilderness, several bottles of ethanol alongside a wealth of drinking water, sleeping sacks and a sufficient count of towels... and even a singular satellite telephone... whilst yonder, in the deep silence and sanctuary of the home, they did even bargain for two pieces of iron weapon-craft (aye, two short barrels, one destined for the hand of Vuk and the other for Leo, for his spirit had never possessed the slightest faith in the loneliness of the forest, and for those grave reasons he had even stepped over his personal maxim that a weapon is custom to bring forth a far greater measure of misfortune than utility...). Now, Master Sreten had in the days of his fresh youth been a monumental regional champion and lawless defiance (кабадахија)... yet today he stood highly respected among all those whose spirits are inherently more restless than the majority, and so he harbored absolutely no impediment to unearth and provide all these things. He straightway took up the order, binding his word with a sacred promise that by the day after tomorrow, he would hold the entirety of these treasures in his keeping. And above all else, he went so far as to offer the aid of his own son to stand as their helper...

His son, Fadil, was among his various pursuits a youthful member of the huntsmen’s league and possessed an excellent, thorough knowledge of every mood and custom of the forest.

...And the entire company of four did by no means hesitate for long... and they wholeheartedly accepted Master Sreten’s proffered grace—aye, for a man never commandeth an excess of strength, nor can there ever be a superfluous count of hands upon a pilgrimage of such character...

They spent the following day according to the pleasure of their own free will...

Leo, for the grandest watch of that time, did but read and scan a multitude of chronicles within the regional press. While performing this vigil, he partook of the coffee roasted by the deft hands of his host; yet nay... he ventured no more to step outside into the gates of his beloved city—quite simply... aye, according to his own judgment, it was already far too late and still far too early for a sudden resurrection of his childhood memories (...and such a stirring could have grievously disrupted the entirety of his Holy Quest). For you see, his heart was on this day completely filled and possessed by that singular purpose which rose grander than all else belonging to his spirit... and to such an immense measure that every other anxiety—born of a scarcity of blood for its survival, or for the sake of any other care upon the earth—was in this hour simply choked and stifled. In the final turning of fate, this monumental hope wherewith he now liveth holdeth the power to ransom and redeem every other sorrow.

Vuk had quite simply lost and submerged his frame somewhere within the depths of the metropolis until the falling of the evening watch, whereupon he returned to the sanctuary of the inn in his custom, close-mouthed silence. Sophia and Konstantin, from time to time, parted paths and then drifted back together amidst the ever-teeming avenues of that romanesque city—she to admire the showcases and venture inside the shops, and he to explore the wayside vendors of second-hand journals in a fierce hunt after those unique comic-strips so dear to his craft—before locking their strides once more to sit inside diverse cafés and share those conversations known to their ghosts alone.

...And thus arrived that destined morrow...

The entire company of four found themselves gathered within the courtyard of Master Sreten’s estate. They were embarking upon a true vessel of the wilderness—that rugged jeep-wagon which scarce any hunter had ever bypassed upon his path... aye, that mechanical beast so deeply recognizable to every untamed wild wood and to a multitude of moving pictures. A specimen of that selfsame character was held in the possession of Master Sreten, and it too had been chartered into the service of Leo’s grand mission.

And scarce any time had flown across the day... when they, having meticulously verified the entirety of all the ordered treasures and provisions, launched themselves outward, wending toward those high hills without whose shadows this city could well-nigh never have existed. Namely, Master Sreten possessed a perfect and thorough knowledge of the location which Leo had marked—the exact ground where that second, monumentally tragic calamity had besieged the house of Schönberg.

And once their vessel had approached sufficiently close to that valley which had been eternally enfolded in well-nigh every nuance of emerald-green...

And as their strides softly wended inside the very line of sight of that castle which stood high above, looking as though it had been since the dawning of time profoundly lonely, sleeping memories were suddenly startled awake within Leo’s breast:

“The massive glass windows of that classic carriage—an old-timer still mechanistically vital, yet having long since wended its path into the distant eighties from a design born in some bygone fifties year—did, before those eyes but newly emerged from slumber, lay bare a masterpiece of Divinely bountiful Nature. It was a spectacle which Uncle Max, employing those almost always magical words of his, had strove to portray with a greater or lesser distance, after that never officially fulfilled literary guise of his, a style that had somehow forever dwelt beneath the mantle of pure poetry:

"Behold yonder, beneath the canopy of the azure sky, it appeareth as though those heavy, deep-green needles of the centennial pines are reciting a singular ballad of some long-forgotten joy. Through its cadence, and with the swiftness of rolling centuries, they sculpt the stones below, which bear the hue of jade—aye, beneath that eternally translucent cloak of infinity mirrored yonder in the emerald river of that deep, dark valley.

And across the olive grove, the wind, in a gentle rustling... softly, resembling the shadow of centuries inside that unique river of time, drapeth everything in a velvety mantle of leaves. Meanwhile, the breeze—like a sudden, whispering sigh of the ancient mountain—doth intoxicate the air with droplets from that fragrant sweat of wild blossoms, embroidering upon the atmosphere those exotic ornaments custom to belong to some faraway Orient. And the fallen cloak of the centennial timber doth look with a withered, silent gaze toward that sky which, to its eyes, is eternally deep blue. Thus all those kilims, left as it were but half-unwoven, yet spread wide beneath the roots of the mountain, dissolve into a profound slumber.

And from every quarter, water-pepper letateth forth a haughty, proud fragrance over the forget-me-nots, while those eternally long-lived dervishes of the forest—the steadfast pines below—aye, like a company of moody, ancient Druids, do with a meticulous and rogue-like grace gather the sparks of the final afternoon sun. And yonder, look you, upon that very ground, centuries remain frozen in time, expanding a sharp chill through that eternally heavy shadow, reaching even to the boiling eye of our present day... whilst somewhere high above, upon that naked, barren rock, there still standeth that petrified longing of man to remain forevermore within the close embrace of his mother: a ruined, once magnificent castle that even now, with a silent and steadfast dignity, looketh toward the heavens... looking as though the entirety of its frame standeth poised upon a single leg."’

And to his dear ones, an eternally warm and deeply cherished man, wearing upon his brow a woolen beret on that day, brought his unique monologue to its twilight, appending these final syllables:

"My boy, this is by no means an hour for slumber. To wend through this domain and fail to look upon the face of everything thy eyes currently behold, is a loss of time far more than prostrated, even though I cherish the faith that thou, by the grace of God, still possessest a bounty of winters and summers to squander." — lecturing, perchance, on the lineage of many noble lords who once made their dwellings yonder, and on the entirety of their grand world... which today lies sepulchered beneath all those heavy layers of accumulated time.

Aye, Uncle Maha had forever been a master woven of stories, almost always spinning them beneath that singular... romanesque veil which well-nigh every soul in his close circle, and most uniquely the youths, loved with a fierce devotion. Following a wide, deeply sacred and nostalgic sigh, Leo continued to remember how, in that bygone season, the entirety of that magic which expanded across the landscape had appeared before his eyes with the very color of pure milk... Yet today... today, after all the tempests that had broken over his life... he comprehended that this entire enchantment had, by some unknown hand and in some hidden quarter, completely vanished... And following all trials... naught but a heavily scarred and soot-stained veil remained behind, still hovering above the length of the valley.

And scarce any wealth of time had flown across the hour from that heartbeat, when a multiple-layered bend, twisting and coiling upon the path like a serpent, loomed within their sight... Aye, a thoroughly awkward and perilous ground for a parking-haven was already coming into view. And that completely wild harbor was confirmed by Master Sreten himself as he struck a flame to ignite his cigarette.

The white jeep-wagon, forged somewhere in the midst of the 1970s years, resembling those mechanical beasts from the vintage portraits of Safari voyages, soon came to a halt yonder... right at the dawning of that singular forest trail, which was but a lone fork branching off from the highway... right beside the hollow of the cove. Thereupon, the white scroll-envelope slipped and nestled, down to its half, into the pocket of Master Sreten's freshly sweat-stained striped tunic.

And enfolded in russet-yellow shoes bearing the very color of the forest litter, stepping upon that earth now with a soaring euphoria…

Leo was the first to set his boot upon the earth, whereupon he parted the carriage portals for his fellow crusaders. Konstantin stepped forth into the clearing in a guise that was well-nigh choreographic, spinning inside the hidden chambers of his mind certain playful, witty thoughts known to his ghost alone. Directly thereafter, Vuk emerged from the vehicle, measuring their guide with the unyielding, iron gravity of a soldier... while the guide, right from the dawning of their path, had excellently begun to play his part, wearing the mask of a thoroughly carefree and unburdened Sherpa. Meanwhile, with a certain moldering, heavy gaze, Konstantin tracked the motions of both youths.

Aye, Vuk and Fadil laid their hands upon the heaviest portion of the cargo, whilst the remaining companions of the league took up for their share the lightest of the burden. Scarce any time had flown across the hour when the white jeep-wagon was utterly swallowed by a bend of the highway... and those who had exited its frame directed their strides toward the depths of the forest that loomed before their eyes.

And Leo, his whole being nourished and saturated with a soaring hope, advanced with the conquering step of a knight heading toward that high and long-ago conquered castle, while Konstantin was still turning and scanning fragments across the parchment of the map, treading with his boots—boots of a strict military cut—as though he were walking across the surface of a treacherous, living quagmire... aye, those footwear artifacts that even today remain famous, and to the minds of many, thoroughly notorious, belonging to the fallen forces of the once grand Federal Army.

And Sophia, throughout the entirety of that time, did but deeply inhale that ever-fresh forest air, which was intertwined with those distinct scents of emerald-green dew and the leaf-litter of the woods whereon she trod in her high, feminine boots, warming the faculties of her sharp, detective intellect with a vast multitude of both bound and unbound queries for the ear of Vuk.

And before many heartbeats had flown, Konstantin too began to pose unto Leo certain seemingly awkward and passing strange inquiries regarding the true nature of this entire crusade—resembling a guise as though he merely desired to unearth within his own ghost a newborn bud of some fresh melody.

Thus, the siege of that eternally shadow-brooding hill, which exhaled so wild a fragrance into the night, was commenced by five young souls enfolded within yet another mission—a pilgrimage that by the laws of the heart was beautifully simple, yet by the decrees of the earth was extraordinary.

Step-by-step, they drifted into the deep distances of the forest. They marched along a narrow, winding trail, one behind the other. Leo held the second station in that line. The first sentinel was Vuk, the third was Konstantin, the penultimate was Sophia, and yonder, behind all their tracks, wended Fadil. Thereupon, somewhere far beyond... after that narrow trail had utterly lost its path amidst the towering trunks of the trees, they resolved to halt for a brief watch of time that they might break their bread (for indeed, the wilderness air possesseth a powerful virtue...).

And to the general wonder of the entire company, upon a small gas-stove, right there in the very heart of the forest, Leo set about preparing a light, warm, and swift instant-soup from a paper pouch. Beholding this spectacle, Konstantin let fall a passing comment:

"Some things on this earth are in truth fated never to alter," — and following those syllables, he appended: "May it bring thee comfort." Whereupon Leo, thoroughly steadfast and certain in his own deeds, returned the courtesy: "My thanks to thee."

Aye, Leo had even chanced to possess both pepper and salt directly upon his person (he had quite simply drawn them from the depths of his pocket), yet in this guise he did but seek a healing balm for his stomach, which was ever lightly gnawed and corroded by a vast multitude of aperitifs and digests as though by some third category of affliction... wherewith, above all else, he had for a long span of winters strove to medicate that deeply wounded spirit of his (for it seemed as though every fine garment a man donneth carryeth some unique vice of its own...).

And following that somewhat extraordinary and unlooked-for feast, they continued for a brief watch of time to wend their way through the forest, their faces incessantly washed by that unique, wild ballad of the birds. As they marched, they did but chatter like those selfsame birds regarding all manner of things upon the earth, yet touching upon naught that was heavy and upon nothing of a monumental stature, until the moment their boots struck upon a rustic country highway. And in that precise heartbeat, a gathering wave of euphoria aided their spirits to quicken their already weary paces... Before long, they at long last arrived at the gates of that first neighboring hamlet.

And the initial cottages were already beginning to loom within their sight. All around their frames, there was fiercely felt that rich fragrance of freshly mown grass. And above all else, Sophia began to be enveloped beneath a certain... vague, shifting uncertainty (for perchance, across the entire company, it was her ghost that did most bitterly pine after the stone sanctuaries of the city).

And the very moment they arrived before the first courtyard ()—from whose depths there broke through a powerful fragrance of stable-manure and diverse domestic animals—their eyes beheld yonder upon the adjacent field a master, who was peradventure gathering his hay. Seeing this, Vuk and Fadil wended across that singular brooklet flowing right before their frames—a water that divided the green field from the highway running beside its edge—marching under a sovereign escort of a multitude of dragonflies, so that they might thereafter bring aid to Leo that he might perform the selfsame deed. For you see, on this day Leo was treading the earth in low shoes, stepping across a vast cargo of those smooth white pebbles (белутака) scattered along the bed of that cold, swift mountain stream. Meanwhile, Konstantin and Sophia remained behind, keeping their vigil upon the main highway.

And while they were yet approaching that tightly built, silver-haired elder... Leo softly commended certain specific syllables unto the ear of Fadil. Fadil delivered them in that exact and fated guise:

"Master of the hearth, is there a sanctuary found inside this hamlet for newly arrived, unknown guests who journey hither bearing none but the most honorable intentions?" — posing the query to the lord of the estate whereon they had just found themselves.

"For guests of such character, there is ever a sanctuary found," — replied the host, who was visibly well-disposed to share an discourse.

"On this watch of the hour, we desire to wish you a very good day, a courtesy which a moment before we chanced to omit," — Fadil remarked, softly veiling his syllables.

"I likewise wish a good day unto your souls, young sirs," — the elder answered with a thoroughly benevolent grace... And once those words had escaped his lips, he extended a solemn invitation for them to cross the threshold of his own home.

And within those walls, the league of five young souls was once more gathered together, that they might first and foremost launch a discourse with their hosts upon diverse and passing casual themes (...seeking through those devices to gradually intertwine their false testament: that they had materialized inside their hamlet, above all else, for the sake of academic duties, being students of the Faculty of Geography currently weaving a treatise upon the theme of climate and its fierce influences over the living and non-living world across this territory). Yet following those opening watches, Leo’s heart did utterly overflow, and he lost that deep sanctuary of peace within his breast, and with it every grain of his patience fated to wither away. Thus, he began with a clumsy haste to pose queries regarding the events inside their surroundings from those long-forgotten, vital winters of old... whereupon their hosts straightway began to harbor a dark suspicion toward the genuine designs of their visit, steadfastly claiming all the while that their eyes had looked upon nothing extraordinary within their borders, neither then, nor across the entirety of those bygone years.

Yet Sophia’s piercing intellect did completely divine that, despite their denials, those souls possessed a hidden knowledge of everything which had broken yonder in that dark season. Aye, she read that oracle clearly within the shifting masks of their behavior... and she did by no means and that previous denial of theirs was fated to bring them absolutely no aid or shelter.

And once they had completely secured their temporary station upon that rural estate, she softly recommended unto Leo that they should right soon wend a brief walk together, entirely by themselves... And during those moments, she unfolded to his spirit everything her sharp intellect had read and gathered from the syllables of their hosts. Furthermore, she counselled him that they must abandon that selfsame house this very day, directing their steps toward some other quarter of the hamlet... or perchance even into another neighboring village yonder. Aye, she added that this deed must be performed within the briefest flight of time, before the tidings of their arrival and the peril of their suspected designs should spread and echo through the length of that entire surrounding region. Yes, her masterly design was that only she and Leo should part from that house, so that the movement might appear to the world as little conspicuous as possible.

And locking their covenant with the remaining companions and sentinels of their league, they performed that very deed.

They wended their way now along the main highway... the selfsame path whereby they had first arrived before the faces of their hosts, yet on this watch of the hour they pressed remoter still... advancing into the very depths of that small mountain hamlet, whose cottages were scattered to diverse quarters and across diverse widths of the hills. And only from passing moment to moment would the heavy gaze of some lone villager track their motions, yet not a single one of the houses past which they marched appeared to their eyes possessed of a sufficiently rock-firm and welcoming strength that they might venture to plead for a newborn hospitality within its walls.

Yet all at once, an uncustomary human figure materialized directly before their advancing strides. Aye, it stood as a man who led peradventure the most sorrow-stricken life within the boundaries of this entire hamlet. (A few among the villagers went so far as to brand his name as naught but a scoundrel, others merely a drunkard, yet his true name was Jovan). And he was enfolded inside a certain tattered, ancient vestment of bygone days, wearing upon his brow a hat of the selfsame character.

And they graced his presence with a greeting, letting fall these words:

"A very good day unto you, worthy man."

"I am by no means a worthy man, yet I nevertheless wish a good day unto your souls," — he answered them, his voice rich with a broken sincerity.

"Would your spirit stand prepared to bring aid to our steps?" — Sophia inquired, straightway (and in that very precise heartbeat) assuming that he, above all others, might well be the most perfect soul to hold all those... secrets and lore so vital to their hunt.

"Hjh, the aid I can bestow is but barren and sterile," — he answered them, speaking entirely in perfect harmony with his own ghost, yet in a guise somehow coming from the very heart, honest... after the finest measure he knew and could muster (for you see, that was his unique way of rendering a solemn reverence unto them).

"We stand in dire need of any manner of shelter so that we might not—look you—appear conspicuous yonder, lest in the midst of our academic and scientific explorations we bring disturbance to you worthy folk. For example, you see: some long-abandoned dwelling, or perchance something of that nature... And for any fragment of useful lore you bestow upon us, as well as for your absolute silence regarding our presence, we shall right handsomely recompense your soul. Gold and coin are by no means a problem to our league..."

Yet all at once, an uncustomary human figure materialized directly before their advancing strides. Aye, it stood as a man who led peradventure the most sorrow-stricken life within the boundaries of this entire hamlet. (A few among the villagers went so far as to brand his name as naught but a scoundrel, others merely a drunkard, yet his true name was Jovan). And he was enfolded inside a certain tattered, ancient vestment of bygone days, wearing upon his brow a hat of the selfsame character.

And they graced his presence with a greeting, letting fall these words:

"A very good day unto you, worthy man."

"I am by no means a worthy man, yet I nevertheless wish a good day unto your souls," — he answered them, his voice rich with a broken sincerity.

"Would your spirit stand prepared to bring aid to our steps?" — Sophia inquired, straightway (and in that very precise heartbeat) assuming that he, above all others, might well be the most perfect soul to hold all those... secrets and lore so vital to their hunt.

"Hjh, the aid I can bestow is but barren and sterile," — he answered them, speaking entirely in perfect harmony with his own ghost, yet in a guise somehow coming from the very heart, honest... after the finest measure he knew and could muster (for you see, that was his unique way of rendering a solemn reverence unto them).

"We stand in dire need of any manner of shelter so that we might not—look you—appear conspicuous yonder, lest in the midst of our academic and scientific explorations we bring disturbance to you worthy folk. For example, you see: some long-abandoned dwelling, or perchance something of that nature... And for any fragment of useful lore you bestow upon us, as well as for your absolute silence regarding our presence, we shall right handsomely recompense your soul. Gold and coin are by no means a problem to our league..." - Sophia delivered unto his keeping those syllables which, to her mind, had been wisely and meticulously planned (and in truth, his spirit harbored not the slightest shadow of suspicion toward the genuine designs of their crusade).

"Thou art scholars and scientists, then," — he remarked on that watch of the hour.

"Precisely so," — Sophia answered, convincingly veiling the living truth.

"I perceive by the grain of thy speech that thy boots have journeyed from a far distance," — he concluded.

"Once more, the truth is upon thy lips," — Sophia replied with absolute self-assurance.

"If it be so..." — he paused for a fleeting heartbeat in his discourse (as though his mind were briefly turning and scanning some hidden fragments within...), before declaring unto them:

"Joka’s house standeth empty... I keep the vigil and watch over her threshold..."

"Lady Joka is an acquaintance of thine?" — Sophia inquired, striving to seize more detailed fragments of lore.

"Nha, tha..." — their companion let fall a muffled, nasal laugh, before declaring unto them: "She was never a lady upon this earth, may the Lord commend her soul unto His mercy."

"Ah, then that maiden hath departed into the grave..." — Sophia remarked, but lightly besieged by wonder and only for that passing heartbeat transfixed.

"I keep the vigil over her dwelling until the heirs shall materialize, even though her kindred and lineage dwell far away from these borders," — thus they gathered an even more detailed chronicle from his lips.

And in this wise, following those syllables, they struck a firm covenant with that man, that he should in the final hour guide their steps toward that aforementioned house, the iron keys whereof he held in his own possession. And the moment their boots arrived before its threshold, they looked upon a tableau yonder that was but little expected.

The dwelling was fated to be antique, weathering peradventure more than a full hundred winters. It was almost entirely fashioned from pure timber. The window shutters were crafted from those rough, coarse boards of old, and that entrance portal—painted in a bygone season with an emerald-green hue, bearing a colossal cast-iron latch—hung heavily, askew upon its hinges.

Through some magical—nay, wondrous sorcery, that man of the ruddy countenance, wearing that thoroughly tattered hat, succeeded to fling open those doors—aye, he who had been their companion but a heartbeat before. Whereupon, the eyes of Leo and Sophia looked upon the entirety of the inner chambers... a space thoroughly rustic, bearing a destitute and withered visage. The absolute interior was besieged and enfolded by cobwebs of a truly formidable and magnificent size. A wardrobe, possessing a value custom to belong solely to a sanctuary of muses, stood poised directly opposite a singular, antique, and poverty-stricken timber bed. Meanwhile, yonder in the very corner of the room, adjacent to the glass window that kept watch over the country highway, there stood a table well-nigh entirely worn away by the fierce teeth of time, bearing upon its crest a solitary, diminutive candlestick (/ʃædæn/). (When all components were weighed, it stood as an antique, lightly ruined, and heavily desolate house, yet somehow... thoroughly natural amidst the wild ridges of those hills).

"What manner of realm is this?" — Sophia uttered, yet her voice was custom to sound like a low whisper, moving in a guise well-nigh reminiscent of a young maiden, treading with exceeding care and watching where her boots fell, her hands poised as though she were holding fast to the very air, as if—peradventure—fearing lest her frame should sink into some hidden depth... and her face wore that unique expression of “I cannot bestow my faith upon this.”

"A house," — Leo answered, his spirit untroubled by any great wave of disquiet... enfolded in a certain dignified silence... his bearing radiating the unspoken declarations of “It is what it is, and here we stand...” and “Let our souls show reverence to the hour.”

"A house." — a definitive period taking the station instead of a passing “Very well” or any mark of a query.

"Perchance it could have worn a alternative, scanter countenance," — Sophia whispered unto Leo’s ear, employing that unique manner of light sarcasm so deeply custom to her character.

And after Sophia, despite all her doubts, declared unto their in many ways barren host that his offering found favor in their sight... she bestowed upon his hand the scroll-envelope (which he, the very moment his boots crossed the threshold to exit the house, tore asunder... straightway seizing the entirety of its golden cargo). Thereupon, he abandoned their presence.

And immediately thereafter, Leo and Sophia set about clearing away—nay, crusading against!—the cobwebs... In this labor, they were aided by fresh branches of elderberry which they had broken off right yonder, within the perimeter of the courtyard. Then they pressed onward, wending through the chambers to arrange and adorn the house, striving to the utmost of their power to establish conditions that were, at the least, loosely worthy of the life of man.

And beneath a heavy shroud of dust... Leo chanced to unearth an icon portraying that Holy Man of the Wilderness. He did but wipe its surface clean with the cloth of his sleeve. (Whilst Sophia, keeping her watch as if from a distance, peering as it were from behind the portal, observed the entirety of his movements... her ghost touched by a certain silent joy, a feeling thoroughly incomprehensible to her own practical intellect). And a few heartbeats later, he poured fresh oil into the hanging vessel of the sanctuary lamp (/kænˈdɪloʊ/). And in this wise, they ignited a holy flame to illuminate the night for their souls within that desolate, foreign land.

For the midnight hour was already arriving upon the earth,

And the entirety of their surroundings had captured that eternally unique, bluish-crimson color of the twilight watch.

And following a labor that was perchance but half-fulfilled... they struck a firm covenant regarding their slumber in this wise: they would bring down that monumental, antique wardrobe onto the floor planks, so that Leo might find his rest upon its frame, enfolded inside his sleeping sack, whilst Sophia should sleep upon that structure which bore a resemblance to a bed—even as her own lips had custom to name it.

Thereafter, they partook of their supper together, after they had boiled a few of those savory huntsmen’s sausages upon the iron burners of the gas stove.

And right before surrendering their frames to slumber, they did furthermore push and wedge that aforementioned ancient table against the entrance portal (aye, and this they performed despite the fact that Leo held fast upon his person that singular fire-weapon which but a few suns before had been ordered from the hands of Master Sreten. For beneath all these movements, both souls knew right well how monumental a burden such an iron piece truly was, and how, above all else, its possession was forbidden by the decrees of the state... yet the entirety of their present crusade was now grander even than those laws, and peradventure on this night, for the very first time upon the earth, Leo broke the statute, honoring neither his own custom nor the law of others...).

And well-nigh upon the very threshold of sleep, Sophia made use of the satellite telephone to hold discourse with the remaining sentinels of their league, explaining with a sharper clarity how the matters of their hunt stood poised. Furthermore, she commanded them to deliver unto the ears of their hosts the false chronicle: that Leo and she, by the law of some urgent and pressing matter... had already retraced their steps back toward the gates of the metropolis, yet that they would right soon materialize once more for the sake of their academic task, though upon that coming watch they would camp inside their canvas tent upon whatever clearing they might unearth within the wild freedom of nature...

And while the two souls were yet spinning their daydreams and slumbering...

Through the dim distance, the listening ear could already discern the ballad of the very first roosters. And cutting through that chant of the early roosters from afar, there soon burst into flame a dewy, fragrant morning.

And Leo was the first to unlock his eyes from sleep...

Whereupon he was the first to perform his unique—and beyond all doubt uncustomary—"morning ablution." Aye, inside a diminutive chamber adjacent to the main parlor, a space filled with a multitude of diverse, strange artifacts, Leo chanced to wipe the entire surface of his flesh with pure medical ethanol.

And after a brief flight of time, in that fated season when the midnight hour was abandoning its final hiding-places (yonder behind those portals and windows that still remained fast barred by the inhabitants of this hamlet and a few other neighboring villages), dissolving into a thoroughly clear and cloudless day, Sophia likewise awoke. In that precise heartbeat, Leo directed his speech toward her:

"A most blessed morning, Sophie?" — syllables which on this watch were colored in a tender measure with a questioning resonance, to which she, still heavily bound in sleep, replied through a stifled yawn:

"It shall be blessed indeed, provided a spider hath not wended its way into my mouth while I slumbered." — and through those very words, delivered in her own unique and custom manner, she manifested her excellent goodwill.

And scarce any wealth of time had flown from that heartbeat, when her boots likewise wended inside that selfsame diminutive chamber adjacent, that she might perform yonder the identical deed as Leo. And once she too had brought her "morning ablution" to its twilight, she set about to brew the first morning coffee, before beginning to unfold her newborn, and to Leo's spirit monumentally significant, design.

And that momentous strategy of hers she commenced to unveil using syllables that, at the very first glance, appeared by no means weighty or, at the least, grand:

"Behold, Leo, this mortal who hath granted us our shelter is a drunkard."

Yet drawing from those private wells of understanding custom to belong solely to the two of them, and peradventure for reasons known to his ghost alone... Leo failed to read the true key and cadence of Sophia’s words. Therefore (resembling a guise as though...), he strove to soften and temper her previous declaration in that manner already habitual to his character, letting fall these syllables:

"No living soul upon this earth can possess knowledge of all the trials that have besieged a man's life, Sophie."

Whereupon she, once more employing that manner of gentle sarcasm so uniquely custom to her character, brought it to Leo's knowledge:

"Behold, I have by no means burdened my intellect with such concerns..." — indicating that his previous speech was of no decisive importance in comparison to the oracle which was yet to follow: "...yet a singular matter is brilliantly clear to my mind. He possesseth a vast lore regarding the secrets inside this hamlet."

Leo, at long last unearthing the hidden message within her speech, and enfolded in pure exaltation, poised his query:

"Art thou of that faith?... that his ghost might hold some knowledge concerning all that befell my beloved Lili?" — standing there, desiring with the whole of his beating heart a fresh confirmation of that desperately needed certainty, and such an answer he did indeed unearth inside the words of Sophia:

"I hold not merely the faith, I steadfastly assert it," — delivered by her lips, she who by the law of her character was well-nigh forever sovereignly certain of her own syllables.

And following a brief watch of silence between her words, which (resembling a guise as though...) she had utilized to measure that brilliant fire and luster inside Leo’s eyes wherewith he was still devouring her answer, she pressed onward:

"If any soul from these borders knoweth a fragment concerning her fate, he knoweth the grandest share." — and thus, entirely inspired by her own design, she brought her whole explanation to a momentous twilight: "And enfolded beneath a certain count of small glasses, he shall unfold the entirety of that chronicle unto our ears."

And the moment these tidings struck his ears, Leo was quite simply enchanted by Sophia’s masterly design, and not long thereafter, the two souls—bound closer still by the cement of their shared crusade—resolved to turn this stratagem into a living deed upon the earth.

Sophia made use of the satellite telephone to summon the remaining portion of the team—for the second season since their paths had been sundered—ordering them to ransom and purchase a specific measure of high-quality, regional fiery plum-spirit or brandy from the hands of their hosts. Furthermore, she commanded that a messenger be dispatched to bear this elixir unto their threshold, doing so after she had unfolded unto their ears a detailed chronicle of how to unearth their exact location, alongside the current posture of their entire crusade.

And before many heartbeats had flown across the hour, Fadil arrived bearing a colossal bottle of the finest apple-brandy (/ˌjɑːˈbuːkɔːvɑːtʃɑː/) which the lord of that estate held in his keeping, right after he had, in private and solely with the host, shared this brief comment:

"A passing strange sanctuary have they chosen for a revelry and feast..."

"Suuuch are the children of the grand metropolises today... they know not what to perform with their own ghosts."

And upon beholding his arrival, Sophia’s eyes became strewn with that unique, conquering fire and luster custom to belong to passionate mountaineers when they scale the heights. Already her sharp intellect was divining the fulfillment of that well-nigh... diabolical stratagem of hers.

Yet Fadil, once his eyes looked upon the ground where Leo and Sophia truly made their dwelling, did naught but roll his eyes, pondering within the silent chambers of his own breast that perchance the conditions of life had by no means been excellently arranged for their frames, especially while they, walking as self-declared gentry and noble folk, chose to tarry in such a destitute ruin. Nay, his spirit possessed not the faculty to comprehend how, within their ghosts, there had become intertwined whole pounds of untamed adventure, many pounds of absolute constraint born of the entire crucible that was guiding them toward their Holy Quest... and aye... perchance a mere dram of rogue-like wantonness... yes, that spirit born of pure, reckless romance.

And once he had abandoned their presence, Leo, working in close concert with Sophia, set about preparing their midday feast. First and foremost, they brewed a hot soup, so that they might thereafter employ the selfsame gas-stove to roast small barbecue fish, utilizing as an improvised grate a certain iron frame resembling the shelf of a cooling-box, which their hands had unearthed right yonder, adjacent to the house. And though Leo, across the vast multitude of ordinary days, was spiritually sensitive to cleanliness and such hygienic straits, spending a vast cargo of alcohol to wipe that metal piece clean as well as that ancient table inside the chambers (even though they subsequently blanketed its crest with a layer of nylon), their so-called host materialized at the outer portal at that very precise heartbeat.

And Leo and Sophia were enfolded in a guise as though their entire ghosts had been keeping vigil solely for this hour, that they might in the final hour turn their shared stratagem into a living deed upon the earth. Thus, they did with a courtly grace recommend that he tarry and bide with them for the feast, until at long last they shattered his hesitant reluctance with a singular, well-nigh hellish offering (—for it seemed, look you, as though destiny could by no means allow any alternative path...).

Aye, they recommended unto his hand "merely a solitary watch"... a single glass of that regional, exceedingly costly home-brewed brandy.

And yet, glass after glass aligned and settled inside the stomach—and straightway into the very life-blood—of their host... so that but a brief watch of time later, Sophia launched an discourse touching upon all those heavy, catastrophic conditions wherein his own hamlet had found itself, once it was captured and devoured by the war's wild gale. And by the fated hour when the small glasses began to settle with an ever slower and more sluggish speed, the entire tone and cadence of their host had already captured that distinct, heavy color of pure ethanol.

And at that precise watch of the hour, Sophia made mention of that catastrophic, tragic calamity from the year 1992, and the pupils of Leo’s eyes did completely pierce and expand outward into a wide, transfixed stare.

Within the grand discourse that followed, Sophia cunningly guided their so-called host to harbor the belief that, according to her own estimation, it was most likely that every single soul inside that aforementioned disaster had perished. Whereupon, there arrived syllables from his lips that fell like pure sulfuric acid, corroding and burning the entire bond of Leo's life... words whereby their guest unfolded the chronicle: that in the midst of that entire devastation, a solitary little maiden had nevertheless survived, and following all trials, had chanced to reach the gates of his own hamlet... only to declare further that right after her coming, she was captured by the hands of soldiers, who bore her away into a direction that stood utterly unknown to every soul within these borders... and all this had unfolded directly before the weeping, hidden eyes of the villagers, who by no means possessed the power or the courage to rush forth and bring aid to her rescue.

Following these tidings, Leo possessed no further strength even to remain seated, for in that precise heartbeat he was held fast by a terrifying, monumental... Stygian dread that those “cursed soldiers”—as his young heart thundered inside his breast, and his intellect thundered with it—had in some guise brought harm to his angelic being. He made a swift, frantic retreat outside into the fresh air, exiting the threshold in a guise of absolute protest. Moving as though destiny had left no alternative choice to his ghost, he was forced to strike a flame and ignite a tompy-cigar (which he had custom to preserve solely for situations of such gravity), seeking at least to shroud and obscure the entirety of his fierce anxieties beneath the drifting smoke of tobacco.

Sophia thereupon, in her own unique, expert manner, escorted and sent forth their host along a path known to his boots alone, so that thereafter... she drew near to Leo’s side with a courtly grace. Moving with a sincere and carefully gathered piety (pijetet) within her breast, her lips firmly pressed together, she approached him as a true, warm comrade (drugarski), striving to unearth a fragment of solace:

"It must by no means signify that the ultimate, darkest doom befell... " (Yet he was entirely—now... and in that heartbeat—submerged somewhere in the far distance, thoroughly numb... bearing a gaze that was completely absent). "...thy beloved Liliana, when she was captured by the hands of the soldiers." (And still, he kept a locked silence...).

Leo offered her no response in syllables for several fleeting moments... yet just as she was beginning to retreat, he made his declaration:

"We shall tarry inside this hamlet for yet another night." — delivering his words well-nigh with the commanding resonance of an decree. Then, following a brief watch of silence dictated by his beating heart, inside a softer yet equally steadfast key of his voice, he simplified and closer explained the entirety of his bearing: "I bestow no faith... upon that drunkard." (For you see, he was seized by a certain fury that did for a passing heartbeat dispossess and overthrow the whole of his hitherto calm stature—defeating within his breast countless winters, summers, and days... for peradventure a multitude of things that belong not to the Almighty had been planted upon the earth today). Thus, in a heartbeat of supreme despair, he even sold back unto his own soul that fond daydream: that Liliana might, despite all omens, still be dwelling somewhere close at hand, inside these hidden hamlets...

Namely, there had gathered within Leo a singular, unbending purpose: to wend a pilgrimage and walk through the length of the village where they tarried across the dark hours of the night, as well as through a multitude of surrounding valleys, harboring the hope that perchance... by some unique and specific miracle of the Heavens, they might cross tracks with those... those exquisitely beautiful eyes, which his own gaze had last looked upon across a vast chasm of now monumentally powerful years.

And as the midnight hour drew closer to the earth, Sophia summoned the remaining portion of their team, commanding them to depart from the homestead of their hosts and secure their shelter solely for the duration of this night yonder, beside their frames, inside this antique house... And they performed that very deed, taking their leave enfolded inside a thoroughly pleasant atmosphere... aye, and bearing along with them even a few small offerings (of a completely edible character...).

And following all trials, the league was once more gathered as a united body.

And Vuk and Konstantin were for some hidden reason besieged by wonder at the ground where they chanced to unearth Sophia and Leo; yet unto both of them (even though each felt it after his own... distinct guise), the atmosphere of that ancient house wherein they found themselves after all trials brought a deep solace.

And while partaking of the brandy which remained behind the man who had on this day been present for their midday feast—they set about to hold discourse touching upon everything that had broken across these two preceding days...

And in this wise, the night fully arrived upon the landscape. From the outer world, there commenced to drift onto their senses the fragrances of smoke... and for some hidden reason, Leo comprehended in that precise heartbeat that this stood as the rightful hour to launch himself alongside Vuk down the highway, wending lower through the hamlet. For it was the fated watch when the surrounding inhabitants, a multitude of villagers, were bringing all their daily labors to a definitive twilight.

And they marched thus... and in a guise that appeared to a passing eye thoroughly joyful, they did but share stories that were at the moment perchance insignificant, lest the villagers harbor a dark suspicion toward the genuine designs of their walk—as would beyond all doubt transpire had they merely wended, scanned, and kept a locked silence.

Yet despite their vigil... not a single poultry-coop was being fastened by the hand of any young maiden; along no path was any young maiden guiding the cattle home; and... and, nowhere... and, naught of any alternative omen, nor from any alternative path... and through not a single window of any cottage was the silhouette or form of any young maiden formed even within the shadows (yet Leo’s heart did still, in a guise somehow sweet and somehow terrifying, softy rustle and murmur). And in this wise, their boots wended through and explored the adjacent hamlet as well.

The long journey on foot had by no means brought weariness to their frames... for Vuk, as a cadet of the Military Academy, possessed no leave to permit such a weakness within his flesh, nor did Leo grant it unto his own ghost... walking as a traveler who would traverse and conquer the longest and widest wilderness-desert upon the earth, if he merely harbored the suspicion that inside some faraway oasis, nestled upon some hidden edge of that path, his beloved Liliana had chanced to find a sanctuary.

And in this guise, they wended deep into the heart of the midnight watch. The night air was well-nigh... completely mute and breathless. Those unique birds of the dark would but from passing watch to passing watch release into the air what manner of... and whose roll-calls upon the wind (were those cries, peradventure...). Yet amidst their company, it was the owl that knew best how to charge the atmosphere with a sudden electricity, employing her mysterious and somehow eternally ominous... calling.

The heavens bore, for the countless time on this night... the very color of black pitch. And the stars were sparse and rare... looking as though on this eve they had fled to hide themselves yonder, deep within the crowns of the timber... trees which tonight did but softly, quietly rustle. And the moon alone still kept his vigil yonder... high above, upon that singular, still cloudless quarter of the sky, yet the entirety of his face was somehow... cut in half by a heavy cloud that, for some hidden reason, bore the fierce likeness of a yataghan-blade.

Across the entirety of that time, Leo did but continuously listen unto the rhythms of that midnight air, still playing a game with his own hope... seeking whether it might peradventure bestow upon his hearing the resonance of those light, soft steps which he had once, long ago in his delirium, for the very first time chanced to hear. Aye, he was weaving a conspiracy with his own intellect, surrendering unto its keeping more and more the sheer power of fantasy. And every passing murmur of the wind appeared to his senses like Lily's deep sigh. Thus, a certain sweet anxiety had already blanketed the length of his entire soul. So completely did this spell hold his being that for certain moments he would even forget that Vuk wended close behind his tracks.

And in this wise... after a long watch of time, he possessed no further strength to endure. He struck a flame and ignited a tompy-cigar once more. It was as though he desired to unearth at least some smoke that was deeply recognizable to his spirit... And his lips already fainted for the touch of something burning and hot. For you see, this midnight air could by no means suffer the weight of loud words. And he performed this deed following that unique, custom stance of Master Mahir—that a man, even in the hour when he chooseth to poison his own flesh, must at the least remain elegant and noble... for that was one of those primary amendments engraved upon his boyhood mind. The years of his youth had nevertheless, after all trials, cast him aside somewhere far beyond... after they had commenced to burn his soul with a love whose ephemeral presence was nevertheless completely sufficient to ignite that fragrant candle (a flame custom to belong to man alone) within his chest.

And in this wise... tracking his strides, all at once, as if by a sudden turn, Vuk addressed a query unto him:

"Have I thy leave for a brief heartbeat to rupture the thread of thy reflections, romantic man?"

"Thou hast already done so," — Leo replied, his voice un-joyous by the weight of all those, and other, far graver events unfolding around them.

Releasing a tight, masculine smile, Vuk posed a second query, well-nigh in a rhetorical guise:

"What is the measure of thy faith... as to how deeply Sophie and Konstantin know one another?"

"Sufficiently well to bring aid to my quest... I cherish that faith," — Leo answered, for some hidden reason manifesting his indifference toward shadows and days whose depths remained to him with good reason undiscovered... yet he spoke in a measured, noble fashion, at least across his tone, at least within his bearing. Nevertheless, by some mysterious turn, he soon relaxed his guard, and after a handful of fleeting heartbeats, as if desiring for some reason to elevate the query of his fellow crusader... he nevertheless appended: "Triangles are a perilous architecture, my friend. Those sharp angles possess ever the power to pierce and wound, even as I hold the faith... or at the least, as others have handed down unto my keeping."

"Peradventure the truth is upon thy lips," — and Vuk, employing naught but a singular, enigmatic smile, in that key uniquely custom to his own character, brought a definitive curtain down upon the entire discourse (perceiving within his intellect that Leo was being heavily sea-swept by anxieties far deeper and weightier still).

Yet to Leo’s spirit, for some hidden reason... the absolute atmosphere inside their surroundings chanced to find less and less favor in his sight, whereupon he recommended:

"I hold the belief that it would wend better for our steps if we, after all trials, retrace our path back yonder, toward the cottage."

"Even as thy lips decree, sir," — Vuk quite simply accepted, yet after a brief flight of time, he nevertheless observed: "For what reason art thou so deeply scowling, Leo?"

"I possess a certain strange sensation that something is tracking our steps tonight," — Leo replied, as if cutting through a soft, gathering anxiety.

"Art thou indeed!" — Vuk let fall in that specific tone conquered through the defying of whatever manner of threat... no matter to whom and no matter to what, whereupon with absolute stability and iron firmness he turned his frame, casting a sharp, suspicious eye into that surrounding landscape, which was now entirely of the color of charcoal.

And then, following those moments, he slowly extracted that iron weapon, chartered from the hands of Master Sreten and prepared solely for the event of any monumental tribulation, right yonder, inside those woods heavily burdened with a thick, dense fragrance...

Aye, Vuk had taken for his share the huntsman's rifle, whilst Leo—who under all ordinary suns harbored a profound aversion toward any manner of weapon—had on this watch resolved to take up a revolver forged by a certain refined house, crafted solely for the hands of gentry. For on this night, it appeared as though he possessed no alternative choice, and so he forced his own ghost to step over his maxim regarding such things (Aye, for this time he beheld his own frame engaged in a war, a Holy War—the solitary crucible wherein he held the faith that violence is justified... though he possessed no knowledge as to against whom or against what he stood poised, precisely... he knew with absolute certainty solely for whose sake!).

...And in this wise, they wended their steps in locked silence through the midnight fragrance of the thickets, until they at long last drew near to the cottage wherein the remaining three souls known to their ghosts kept vigil.

And in that precise heartbeat,..as if by a sudden turn, there arose the ominous, death-like gasps... resembling the growls of some boundlessly weary, ancient beast. All at once, the pupils of both young men's eyes expanded into a wide, transfixed stare. Their hearts, beating in high and frantic cadences (тактови), spilled and poured a torrent of life-blood through the muscles of their entire frames. And in the end, their bodies lightly hunched,..they turned their faces toward the quarter of those terrifying, ghastly sounds.

And behind their tracks, there was found a tiger! ...Aye! A beast similar to, or identical with, those creatures that dwell inside the moving pictures of Far Eastern princes, which their eyes had last devoured without a single blink when they were yet but tiny children.

In that selfsame guise did they look upon this beast now. For you see, it was the exact same tiger that, during a faraway night of the war's wild gale, had escaped from the zoological gardens of Leo’s own city. And Leo, having not the slightest inkling of this hidden thread of fate in this breathless second,..did but whisper with a hoarse throat, entirely beside himself (“...for my eyes must look upon her face at least but once more—and let the toll be whatever it must!”):

"S-s-slay him."

And Vuk, without making any sudden or frantic movements, brought his sights to bear upon the beast.

Yet even for his soldier's spirit, this stood as a monumental watch of the hour, by no means lesser than for Leo... yet he acted far more by the law of pure instinct, while within Leo’s breast, it rose grander, far grander than that...

And Vuk discharged the leaden shot into the beast! Yet he did but lightly wound her frame... and she launched herself fiercely toward his position. He stood there, his whole body frozen as if rooted to the earth. And she overthrew his frame... and scarce a heartbeat before she was fated to sink her powerful fangs deep into the youth’s neck, Leo commenced to fire shots from his own revolver—that weapon of a monumental caliber—discharging a full cylinder into the flesh of their bloodthirsty attacker [5]. Aye... he succeeded even to strike the very skull of the beast [5]. Yes... he was boundlessly precise, for he performed this knightly deed with the whole of his spirit. And all at once, as though time itself had ground to a halt, everything was suddenly... (once more) hushed and prostrated in absolute silence. The carcass of the dead beast pressed down upon Vuk with the entirety of her weight. And Leo, his lungs gasping and breathing heavily, nevertheless managed in some guise to summon the remaining companions of their league, who had on this watch beyond all doubt... already caught the thunder of the gunshots.

"Thou art d-d-delirious..." — Sophia uttered, her eyes completely wide and astonished, matching the countenances of the rest as Leo step-by-step and slowly became conscious of this thoroughly unlooked-for crucible.

And right swiftly, the entire company of four—though extraordinarily transfixed by the horror around them—did with heavy labor and monumental effort lift the body of the beast off the now unconscious and heavily concussed Vuk [5]. Thereupon, they bore his frame yonder, into that house which had now become a shared sanctuary for them all. Nay, even in that hour, their spirits possessed not the faith to believe that such a marvel could materialize or strike any mortal inside these borders. And yet, the remaining companions, save for Sophia and Leo, had already caught rumors from the mouths of their previous hosts regarding a tiger that yonder... from passing watch to passing watch, would slaughter their cattle beneath the shroud of night, a beast whom the regents and lawguards of this region had by no means possessed the power to capture ever since that fateful year of 1992.

Yet every single soul among them did, first and foremost, possess a perfect and thorough knowledge that they would find themselves locked inside an exceedingly grave crucible, should they be forced to explain and lay bare before the local regents and lawguards the entirety of all that had just befallen their frames. (Thus, following all trials, they resolved first of all to drop and surrender their sacred iron weapons into the depths of one of those long-abandoned wells yonder... for you see, there was a vast abundance of such ancient pits, alongside a multitude of sharp briars and thickets... as well as cottages that stood remote from their tracks, and rare, scattered villagers inside their immediate vicinity...).

Meanwhile, Sophia was striving with the whole of her knowledge and her unbending will to restore Vuk unto his consciousness.

"Oh, my Lord, what manner of doom hath broken over our heads... It is a marvel beyond all human faith," — she kept uttering amidst her labors.

"I shall ransom and redeem every fragment of the terror you have endured for my sake!" — Leo declared, his voice heavily vibrating with excitement and a profound unrest.

"My friend... his ghost shall right soon recover. In the final turning of things... we all set forth upon this pilgrimage by the law of our own free will to bring aid to thy soul," — Konstantin replied, his being far more tranquil in comparison to the rest (art thou indeed forever escorted by a divine intuition, master of music?...).

Aye, Vuk was but lightly concussed, and though upon a multitude of places the shield of his skin had been torn and rent in diverse keys and to a diverse degree... yet the entirety of those wounds was, by the grace of Heaven, free from mortal danger. And after Sophia had with perfect and expert skill enfolded and bound his wounds inside their linen shrouds, the entire company took their seats that they might fashion a new design as to what their frames should perform next...

(To take into his keeping and dispose of the carcass of the tiger was a labor which Fadil assumed upon his own shoulders. That is to say, his sire, Master Sreten, would stand as the caretaker to resolve that matter). Following those counsels, they determined that it would wend best for their safety if they should with all swiftness withdraw outside the gates of the hamlet...

And Master Sreten right soon awaited their coming with the jeep-wagon upon an entirely different, opposite edge of the village, remote from that path whereby their boots had first entered its borders.

And after a relatively brief flight of time, the entirety of Leo’s league found themselves gathered within the perimeter of the airport...

...the airport belonging to the metropolis of Leo’s early childhood, so that from that ground, oh! they might launch themselves back toward the sanctuaries of their own homes... Aye, on this watch, the whole company made use of that ever-celebrated vessel of transit, for you see, in that precise heartbeat, it stood as the solitary and swiftest path to evade all superfluous and unneeded tribulations which would beyond all doubt have besieged their lives following that final, shared watch of the night they spent tarrying inside those regions, high upon those brooding hills... They abandoned the ground, leaving Master Sreten to successfully untangle and master such dark affairs for the countless time, and to answer for such events... yet on this day, he performed that labor in the name of them all.

And once their aerial vessel had descended, alighting within that... that metropolis which had somehow since the dawning of time known how to bring a healing balm to soothe every mortal's wound... aye, one of the grandest cities ruling over the length of this entire, dense... peninsula,

Sophia gave her sacred word... ...she promised that she would perform everything, and far remoter than that, so that the entire ordeal which had befallen Vuk should reach a twilight in the finest guise for his sake, and for the sake of them all... And above all else, Leo’s spirit was first and foremost quieted by Konstantin’s oracle: that Sophia had since the dawning of time held fast and kept her word. Leaving Sophia to fulfill her syllables, Leo escorted Konstantin to the threshold of his home, inside that city woven of many secrets... aye, yonder, upon that bank of the ancient and holy river, which on that morning when the two young men arrived once more at its side... did on this watch but tamely glitter inside the light.

And after he had taken his leave from Konstantin yonder, inside his ever-blooming... that ever-splendid quarter of that monumental plain, binding his ghost unto an eternal debt of gratitude, Leo launched himself via the omnibus toward that solitary garden of his own upon the banks of the River of Rare Butterflies.

And once his boots had wended inside that ever-silent town upon the shore...

Aye, it was only in that precise heartbeat that he truly comprehended the measure to which everything his heart custom to name his world had today already been adopted by this river... and by her banks that were ever wide with hope, and by this small town, dreamy even when all components around its frame are locked in dispute, and by the heavens above them, which since the dawning of time have ever aligned their clock solely by the laws of History... Only then did he comprehend that the portals of everything which belonged to the past... were status-by-status narrowing closer together, though even in that watch it was as if he knew inside his ghost that they would not—that they could not, that they dared not!—close until SHE too should pass through their arch,..aye, She, his solitary bridge between two worlds.

Meanwhile, his aunt and uncle were at that very precise heartbeat just preparing to partake of their midday feast, when there arose that resonant, metallic echo whereby their gate—as if by an unbending tradition—was well-nigh forever custom to herald the coming of every newly arrived guest. Aye, on this watch, it was their most cherished nephew who arrived.

"Ah! ...behold, it is our Leo," — Aunt Anastasia directed those warm words toward her faithful companion, her cherished spouse, syllables woven entirely of that bursting, scattering joy.

"That youth knoweth with absolute precision when the hour is ripe for the feast. I am the master who taught him that craft." - Master Alimpie appended, his syllables bearing the selfsame hue as the speech of his beloved Anastasia (yet in a key uniquely custom to his own character, softly veiling thereby the entirety of that towering joy which possessed his soul).

And while he prepared to press a reverent kiss upon the hand of his cherished aunt, Leo did with perfect intent bring forth a query—one thoroughly superfluous to be posed unto souls into whose hearts he had already wended to the very dregs, and all this, within an exceedingly brief flight of time:

"Did your spirits pine after my presence?" — whereupon Uncle Alimpie did but deliver over his lips that singular, inarticulate, and resounding commentary so uniquely characteristic of his frame:

"Arrrrh." — a sound which, in the chronicle of his life, was custom to speak far remoter truths than a thousand warm syllables...

And during the course of that newborn, solemn family feast, Leo portrayed and brought close to their senses every single facet and detail that had besieged his path across the length of his grand journey—a true expedition for the sake of that monumental... And his uncle and aunt did by every point of his exposition bring comfort to his spirit. So that in the final turning of the hour, they furthermore surrendered their undivided, rock-firm support for any action of his which the approaching future might demand.

Yet he (...haunted and pursued by a multitude of anxieties), already during the afternoon intermezzo of rest so deeply ingrained within the customs of Alimpie’s estate, unlocked and opened his green notebook, entering certain necessary syllables that completed the whole of his newly won knowledge. He performed this labor so that on the very morrow, he might dispatch many newborn demands unto the hands of Detective Vasil regarding the continuation of the forensic hunt... this time, first and foremost, specifically bound unto all those monumentally powerful events whereof he had gathered lore with a sharper, deeper clarity across his entire journey.

And upon the very morrow,

He chanced to send his green notebook yonder... into the grand metropolis. (Aye, he had been filling its pages during every solitary, unburdened heartbeat of all those preceding, frantic and massive days, watches of time woven entirely from a powerful, soaring impulse), so that after a brief, passing flight of time, there arrived an answer before his eyes in the guise of yet another notebook bearing that selfsame green hue—an omen signifying solely that his counsel had been adopted. Leo stood conscious of this truth, or at the least, his ghost held fast to that faith: that besides the shadow of Detective Vasil, there remained to his side only faith and hope (...and within their sanctuary, the Lord above! — for love was a grace that required no words of explanation) as his grandest, most monumental allies (for if a miracle were fated to break upon the earth, from that quarter alone would it descend—aye, at the least, inside such a faith did he bide).

And the vernal season of spring was already enduring far into the year, and across those suns Leo did hunt after every fragment of his hope and inspiration for a clearer, more joyful morrow, doing so almost every day now... and in that bygone season, seeking it upon the banks of his own river. The entirety of his afternoons he was custom to spend at her side. Yet despite his vigils... he would never distance his steps from those very dawning-places of her currents, which (inside his own moving picture) did release their first roots right upon the outer edges of that somehow eternally quiet, charming town nestled upon the frontier of the fertile plains and those realms yonder across the waters, domains that wended forever beneath the gales and under the dry grasses of the barren valleys.

Yet...

Upon a certain watch, during one of those somehow, from some unknown quarter... deeply brooding and silent afternoons, when Uncle Alimpie and Aunt Anastasia had journeyed yonder... today far away... to seek the presence of Grandmother Petkana and the metropolis of their remote, faraway student days...’

Visits unto Grandmother Petkana by the hands of the Nikolajevski family had in this recent season become exceeding frequent—aye,..most uniquely across the span of this final, current year. Whether the cause dwelt solely within their breasts, or whether it rose from some far wider design... yet something had utterly shattered and brought to the ground that barrier which had been raised by all those years of blood, torment, and countless tribulations. Yet Leo—nay, he nevertheless... (even after all trials...) had never, not a single time, taken part in any of those faraway... visits of theirs. “Nay, I possess no further strength to wend yonder... my life hath for a long season since become naught but the highway”—syllables which Leo would peradventure unlock solely before the face of Grandmother Petkana... yet even then, only if her own spirit stood in dire need of them... words which, for all other mortals, would quite simply require no explanation. For it was to his mind boundlessly more precious, and for every depth of his ghost more filled with joy... whenever Grandmother Petkana unearthed the strength (and secured a fitting opportunity) to ride and journey hither... to seek their presence, near to these banks of this eternally quiet river. For you see, the ruins nestled beneath Mahir’s Estate—even as Mahir’s acquaintances and companions were custom to name his homestead, his life’s grandest achievement—following this recent (and beyond all doubt constraint-driven) and entirely adventure-woven (yet in a strictly incognito spirit, well-nigh like a foreign stranger...) journey into the domains of his childhood... were a spectacle which Leo’s eyes possessed no further power to bear (for far too monumental was the secret his soul harbored, and there dwelt far too much of a certain priestly dignity within his breast). Aye, that realization had struck with its highest force yonder,..mirroring itself within the deepest wells of his ghost, and felt with the sharpest intensity... on that morning when Leo had once more crossed paths with his birthplace (or at the least, with that city whereof his earliest memories kept vigil). (And for that very reason, he held his watch to await every soul, and even Vitomir himself, solely yonder, solely here... and most uniquely for that watch when his eyes should once more look upon the face of his beloved Her—aye, in such a guise did Leo turn his reflections, thus did he perceive the world, yes, inside such a faith did he bide his life).

`...Leo resolved, after all trials (at long last,..), to explore or at the least to visit the far, remote distances of her banks—those waters which, until this very hour, had well-nigh forever brought naught but a deep sanctuary of peace unto every passing heartbeat of his life. For you see, he had caught rumors from the lips of certain cherished acquaintances that somewhere yonder,..in the far distances of his silent river, the River of Rare Butterflies, there floated a raft-sanctuary celebrated for the frequent gathering of a multitude of those ever-living romantics who belong to this plain, a land so eternally rich with depth and hidden lore... Aye, a raft bearing the name "Moonlight."

And such a place,..following Leo's gathering of lore regarding its existence, commenced status-by-status to lead and possess his reflections, mirroring the guise in which the very distances of those quiet, forever fragrant shores had custom to rule his mind—shores which, across the entire span of his life spent beneath their shadow, he had in truth never once trodden until this hour.

And his heart possessed no strength to endure that vigil for long... He was bound by fate to unearth it! Thus he selected that day to break upon this very sun... Aye, at the crossing of a thoroughly mysterious (...for the very air did simply exhale such an aroma) day into the dawning of its first evening watch, he descended and traversed all those wide concrete steps which, through their profound peace, stand as the grandest support for the levee upon the banks of the silent river. Then, with small steps, his entire being completely spellbound,..carried away by his reflections, he wended into those far distances, domains hitherto never besieged by his strides.

The May of that year had already endured for a long season across its warm suns. And throughout all those days, the poplar tree had for the length of the entire day scattered her tender, soft down; yet somehow on this afternoon (what manner of omen was ruling here?), it appeared as though she performed this rite in a far grander measure than upon any previous sun, and above all else, well-nigh exclusively with the color of pure milk... and inside that, yet inside that,..nevertheless eternally, lightly tart (for inside that watch, everything was still lightly premature,..) vernal spring air. And a wind of that exact character, blowing from that eternally wide plain, did on this day (resembling on that sun a certain gigantic, benevolent spider) weave as it were a certain eastern,..a singular carpet across the entire waterfront of that eternally quiet, smiling river, a water which looked as though she had forever known far weightier secrets than all other mortals... (—aye, what manner of solemn dignity did she keep in her chambers?).

And Leo now wended his way across its texture, while a vast multitude of alternative soft down did to every quarter far and remote storm and drift around his frame. And exactly in the guise of snow,..inside those fragrant, cold winter days, this now vernal but thoroughly woolen drift did whiten every path visible to his eyes. Leo, inside those precise heartbeats, held the faith,..his entire being gathered the sensation that not a single alternative person upon the earth, had they chanced on this afternoon to find themselves yonder upon his tracks, would have viewed that tableau in any alternative guise, save as yet another of those picture-postcards that well-nigh forever remind every boy or young maiden of all those tableaus from a certain winter fairy tale... (Aye. Christmas is the hour that ever first and foremost exhales such a scent unto their spirits.) Save,..that yonder, falling upon Leo’s hands which were bathed (peradventure solely...) in a cold sweat, there drifted a truly, boundlessly warm snow.

Aye, nevertheless, this vernal greeting-card did possess a fragment of something truly surreal inside its fabric ("Whose fleece, peradventure, is this sheep’s wool? For what hidden reason doth it alight upon leaves already fully grown? Doth it desire, perchance, to shield and bury all those first tender buds nestled beneath their surface?..." — something inside Leo’s breast posed the query). He ceased even to note the mortals surrounding his path...

And to such a high measure was he already (entirely) spellbound by that singular and exact tableau, that his senses failed (even) to feel when his costly timepiece (that unique offering from his aunt and uncle for his grandest natal-day hitherto,..) did but slip down his palm, vanishing yonder somewhere,..behind his dreamy, drifting strides.

"And peradventure this entire spectacle of the hour is but another of those glass spheres wherein a certain white powder striveth to portray its nature as true snow,.." — thundered the pulse within his breast,.. "For if it be so,.." Aye, he continued to press onward. ("Doth his frame now, inside such a design, portray that vessel trapped within such a sphere, blanketed under the snow of memories, yet submerged inside the sea of time?" — perchance those were the very syllables his heart had been hunting after. Aye? And peradventure these further ones as well: "...and which from passing watch to passing watch would be shaken by the sovereign hand of the Almighty.")

And through his frame, there commenced to course and circulate now, not merely inside his veins but through his very capillaries, a certain supersensory, thoroughly intuitive sensation... that for some hidden reason,..this stood as precisely one of those unique moments. Thus, while the public lanterns did still with a hoarse, slumbering-orange glow wash the twilight of exactly such an uncustomary day, Leo harbored the presentiment that the entirety of this tableau must overflow into a singular night, bearing no resemblance to the grand majority among those that had wended before it.

And he continued to move along that long, lo-o-ong trail which looked as though it were merging and vanishing only far yonder, beneath the line of the horizon. And upon its stones, for a long season of time, there had been no living soul.

And all at once! Only, from the far distance, as if cutting through the shifting haze of memory...

...there materialized with an ever firmer and firmer presence a man bearing what manner of... wheeled cart. And he pushed it softly... carrying a singular gaze... lost inside the far distance... And it all appeared in a guise as though it had broken upon the earth only all at once. He and Leo crossed tracks. Yet despite... as if employing a certain unearthly voice, the man nevertheless clearly and loudly addressed a query unto Leo:

"Dost thou desire a fragment of something to drink,..perchance to refresh thy frame?"

"With a willing heart," — Leo answered, in a guise laconic, yet wide with the whole of his soul, and for some hidden reason... boundlessly intimate.

And while he was already receiving the refreshing draught (...and while they were still exchanging their mutual good-wills), Leo, moved by something mightier than his own strength, yet now resting solely upon his own choosing, did simply from his own lips beg and petition:

"Possessest thou the knowledge, perchance, as to why this trail is so boundlessly desolate on this day?" — whereupon that man with the cart, in a thoroughly weary guise (after he had previously measured Leo’s person with a single, long glance,..though it was but for a brief watch of time), made his answer:

"Yonder, lower in the distance,..down along the bank, there have gathered a vast company of vessels from the Near East... Some days celebrating the lovers of nautical craft appear to be the matter. Thus a multitude of folk, you see, have wended yonder to look upon their countenances." — and following those syllables, exactly in the selfsame guise as he had first arrived, before long, and in an equal manner, he vanished somewhere yonder in the far distance...

Yet all at once! Only all at once, thereafter. There spilled forth syllables as well, escaping from the adjacent beds of reeds (шевар):

"This trail leadeth into the far distance... and for that very reason is it so boundlessly desolate! The grand majority of mortals find themselves upon those paths which lead nowhere,..whilst the minority have already unearthed their destined course and vanished inside its distance." — And while Leo, filled with supreme wonder, kept a mute vigil, listening unto someone who spoke with what appeared at the first glance of the intellect, at the first hearing,..a passing strange answer,..yet one from whose depths there nevertheless well-ed up monumental truths (his heart simply perceived it,..), the voice pressed onward with its chronicle:

"And those thoroughly rare and solitary souls flee from the highways onto the banks of the river to fish."

In that precise heartbeat, Leo softly but with a complete lack of caution stepped inside this already in every guise uncustomary story, and employing that voice of a dreamer so uniquely custom to his character, he simply let fall these words:

"Peradventure they even strive to capture the golden fish." — even though he himself was perhaps no longer conscious of the reason why his lips fashioned that phrase.

Yet the voice from the reeds caught up those syllables of Leo’s, returning a response unto his ear that was entirely woven from the very abyss of philosophy:

"That is a barren and sterile labor, young man... And what indeed would they perform with her,..when she proffereth an excess of desires?" — whereupon Leo, completely unversed in such matters (a touch too hastily, and with a sudden sharpness), yet with a childhood sincerity, made his reply:

"They would wish for You."

Yet that voice from the reeds, above all those words, did with a deeply momentous tone deliver this warning:

"Mercy,..they would but stumble and trip over their own desires! That is the bitter misfortune of us all."

Whereupon Leo on this watch closer and closer explained his own mind:

"I stand not certain that I comprehend your person to the very dregs,.."

And the voice... thereafter brought comfort to his spirit:

"It shall be thoroughly sufficient,..that if thou shouldst ever capture the golden fish, thou merely desirest with each watch of the three wishes the selfsame, identical longing: that she remain beside thy frame for evermore. That secret a vast multitude of folk comprehend far too late."

And after Leo, by now completely bewildered, poised his query:

"Yet for what hidden reason have you unveiled all this precisely unto my soul?"

The voice answered his spirit for the final time:

"Thy step is the step of a mortal who hunteth after someone across the earth..."

And,..he preferred to bide beneath the conviction (or at the least, the mere faith) that his hearing had but a moment before caught another pleasant and valuable counsel from yonder, spoken by some plain-fisherman who was simply well-disposed to share a discourse (or who was quite simply talkative), rather than permit his ghost to believe even in miracles (even though the absolute atmosphere around his frame was by its own law miraculous, as was the entirety of that space on this sun).

Yet as he pressed onward, it appeared to his senses more and more as though the trail, by some hidden decree of its own, were lengthening and stretching further and further... and by no means did he now succeed,..to unearth even the faint outlines of the raft's lamps anywhere yonder in the far distance, much less anything remoter than that. Yet all at once, his eyes nevertheless discerned something,..or was it peradventure someone?, far yonder in the distance. Aye, he caught sight of a certain... silhouette, wending with a hurried pace toward his immediate presence.

She appeared,..aye, she wore such a guise, somehow (for what hidden reason, and by what cause?) lost. Yes, her stride carried such a cadence. Yet Leo, despite all omens,..was thoroughly overjoyed that his eyes had once more succeeded to unearth at least a single alternative living soul who, behold, now walked upon this trail... whereon his own boots had already begun to tread with a lightly lost grace.

And the personage who was wending to meet his steps, drawing status-by-status closer and closer (...as could now clearly be perceived by the sight), was entirely arrayed in a snow-white raiment... And upon her white, narrow jacket, one could just discern the spilling of dark, softly curling hair which tonight glittered whole beneath that first, early light of the moon... that eternal night-sun of lovers and that perpetual celestial wanderer. And beneath the jacket, a white skirt was now coming into view, crowned solely by a girdle of that singular hue... the color of cacao dissolved into the color of pure milk. And under its hem, legs of an ever-tender hue (wending with a certain moist, dewy stride,..) aye, resembling the grace of mountain roes,..did embroider those unique (what manner of magic was this?) eastern patterns upon the earth, engraved solely by her woven low boots... But soon, with a sharper and sharper clarity, the face itself was laid bare to his sight—aye,..the face of a spellbound, dreamy maiden wending from some unknown, faraway distances.

And all at once! Only all at once!

It appeared in truth to Leo's spirit as though the very heavens had descended upon the earth... and one of the burning stars had ignited itself inside his heart as well. The concrete beneath his boots simply commenced to melt away,..and his strides, made heavy by the monumental weight of every year he had lived, did but guide his frame toward the amber light,..toward those eyes! Aye, after a chasm of seven winters, he was once more gazing into her eyes! At the least, Leo stood thus,..at the least, Leo was enfolded in absolute certainty of that truth...

Yet... behold, the maiden who wended closer and closer toward his presence... for some hidden reason harbored not the slightest inkling of his spirit. It appeared, by every token of her bearing, that she possessed not the knowledge of his person... And when her steps brought her well-nigh entirely close, and her eyes looked upon his frame—beholding him frozen in pure exaltation, extending his arms with a warmth too mysterious for human syllables, that he might (could it at long last be?) enfold her in a close embrace—she was completely and utterly bewildered. Her mind grasped only, her spirit comprehended solely, that this stood as a truly monumental moment, a supreme turning... within time. For you see, his eyes, by now thoro-o-oughly wet with tears, were looking upon her face with an immeasurable, towering love. Whereupon, he at long last and th-u-underously enfolded her frame in a close embrace, as though she had of her own accord surrendered her body unto him (as if every single pore of her flesh had wended and merged with his own), and in pure ecstasy, he whispered into her hair:

"Lili."

Yet that maiden, in that precise heartbeat,..did but tremble fiercely, and with a sudden sharpness (as though enfolded in complete despair!), she tore herself asunder from that warm—nay, far too warm—embrace of his. For you see (by some hidden cause,..), she was boundlessly, terribly frightened! It was as though she held the faith that he was a soul who knew her history, who still kept a vigil of memory for her countenance,..—aye, her ghost perceived that he was someone who loved her frame with a monumental power. Yet her intellect knew not what to perform,..She was completely lost inside her own shadows,..And so, she fled into a newborn distance, releasing upon that now chilly evening air, as she departed, naught but these deeply sorrowful words:

"Nay, believe not!..."

But... but the Lord alone comprehendeth the entire depth and every single width of those syllables; Only the ancient sages say they stand certain that precisely such words could be unearthed inside well-nigh every solitary life upon the earth; And only the enlightened spirits hold the reflection that it must be that such... such syllables have their dwelling within each and every single book; Yet it looketh as though... only the youth bestow no faith upon those words,..but only the lovers upon this earth know the full, crushing weight of such a speech.

For peradventure, it was only the Almighty Himself, employing that ever-all-powerful hand of His, who had distanced Liliana from that very threshold where a soul crosseth into eternity (and thus delivered her frame from the jaws of death,..); And Liliana, across the span of her life, had possessed no sufficient wealth of time, nor had her steps arrived to encounter the sages—those men who look as though they wend their way solely along the golden middle of life. Nay, inside her path, she had looked upon and most frequently encountered only those reckless and deluded mortals, folk who wended boundlessly remote from life, or those alternative sorrow-stricken ones... who walked far too close to its sharp edges; And inside the enlightened ones, she had peradventure placed far too grand a faith,..and so, perchance (precisely) for that reason, she had held their presence far too lightly. Yet beneath all these components, she remained even on this night extraordinarily young,..and never, until this very precise heartbeat of time, had her heart been in love.

And while Leo had for a long season of time viewed his own paradise-sun (—aye, since a faraway era—) solely inside Liliana’s,..inside her eyes,..yes, peradventure ever since that fated sun when her hands had held his frame back, lest his spirit should prematurely meet each of his eternal days and step before the throne of God as yet another pauper in soul, preserving for his boots many earthly paths whereon his strides had hitherto in truth encountered many sages, who bestowed upon his keeping many excellent, many useful counsels which Leo took and took once more, though ever with that certain reservation so deeply characteristic of his youth, yet carrying something that rose grander even than that... And many enlightened spirits had unveiled to his gaze a vast portion of life,..and unto a multitude of them, he had in his own bearing become identical... He bestowed no great faith upon the youth,..yet he did not always place an absolute faith even within his own breast,..and yet, he was in love to the very point of terror.

— aye, in a guise after this fashion would his Uncle Alimpie right soon declare unto his hearing... (Yet who upon this earth shall unveil to his spirit whether they had utterly erased every fragment of memory from her mind?... and whether it be possible that her soul no longer remembereth anything at all).

V – Pain

 

...Nay, he had by no means comprehended her syllables. And how indeed could he? ...He looked upon them solely after his own unique guise. And the entirety of his world now collapsed and shattered like yet another of those houses of cards. He remained for a long season of time,..upon that selfsame spot, with parted lips and vacant eyes,..upon that exact ground where his arms had enfolded her frame. Aye, it appeared to his spirit for some hidden reason that he was still joyful (and joyful he was!) yet it was by no means that nothing terrifying had broken upon the earth... for now,..inside those precise heartbeats, these were still but the very first minutes: aye, step-by-step,..it commenced more and more to appear as though his world were currently sinking, resembling that titan-colossus of a vessel from the dawning of that century stained in blood. Aye, his boots looked as though they were utterly frozen to the earth... For some hidden reason (What manner of doom is breaking here?) he possessed no further strength even to track her steps yonder,..into the far distance... wherein she had once more vanished inside the shadows.

He did but reflect from passing watch to passing watch, from moment to fleeting moment, that she would nevertheless right soon retrace her paths to seek his presence,..even though such a turning stubbornly failed to arrive upon the earth.

And following a certain... chasm of time,..he nevertheless comprehended that she would by no means come. And, with a slow grace,..he nevertheless set about to retrace his path, wending with leaden, heavy strides back in the direction of the raft-sanctuary, and lo, a wonder... before many heartbeats had flown, his eyes once more discerned its form... and her lights... and that entire multitude of tiny lamps of every imaginable hue: which now, in the guise of fireflies, did but glitter and shine inside that singular, early watch of the newborn night.

And when his strides had at long last brought his frame yonder,..even before the very threshold of the raft-sanctuary, he chanced in that precise heartbeat to gather the sensation,..aye,..: resembling an officer of the line, for whose single monumental,..for whose noble purpose every solitary soldier had perished in combat,..yes, inside some faraway,..inside some pre-arranged and rigged battle,..So that even for the very first season in the fabric of his life—though, to be sure,..it was nevertheless but for a brief watch of time—he encountered even those darkest of reflections. Namely, for a fleeting heartbeat, his intellect did harbor the thought... (“Forgive my life, forgive my ghost, oh Lord!”) and only for that passing second, he even desired to wend a walk along the very floor and bed of the river (...for in such a guise do the lungs currently,..do they breathe in that hour... and every single thought of theirs is now light,..refusing to weigh the clauses of reason), and yonder perchance fall into a deep slumber... yet his spirit craved: aye, he fiercely desired nevertheless to witness the END, wherefore,..before long, he abandoned such... reflections. And into that (by now to his senses) murky midnight air, he did but thickly release, enfolded inside a lightly rogue-like key,..those ever deeply sorrowful syllables:

"My destiny,..whose destinies indeed are these, —unto what manner of master hast thou sold our names?" — whereupon,..

He entered, crossing the threshold... onto the raft, yonder immediately beside the very bank of that eternally quiet, self-contained, and deeply fragrant (ruling over the plain) river,..a water nevertheless filled to the very brim with life.

And,..yonder,..inside there held dominion a thoroughly misty, smoke-shrouded atmosphere. The dark incense of smoldering tobacco looked as though it had seized and besieged every hidden corner of the inner air. Nay, Leo, even upon the first glance of his intellect, unearth-ed not within those walls those eternally vibrant romantics, souls forever burning and hot like a ripe orange,..who are custom to scatter all around their tracks, and beneath their boots,..both sugar and life-blood without measure, that fragrance of mystery and pure salt instead of common dust. Nay, his eyes met only those who had been scorched and charred by life itself,..resembling the very tobacco caught between the grip of their lips. And the entirety of those... those quietly joyful poets, those perpetual fishermen, and a vast company of still wealthy visionaries, and what manner of craft text,..those many painters tasked with capturing every whisper rising above the sleepy plain—it appeared,..that they too had on this day materialized far yonder, toward the orient paths of the river, as though their frames on this sun were greeting yonder,..upon that ground, a certain endemic fleet... journeying from that distant, and from this realm of theirs, remoter still... Orient. Nay, within these walls, it looked as though there remained behind only those souls... those individuals who were far too weary of life.

Leo, despite all omens (and notwithstanding that triumphant joy, and that sugar within his breast—for “it is Her, —destiny can allow no alternative path—and she walketh among the living,”... and he was in love to the very point of terror), even though his entire being was, by the weight of something monumental, utterly crushed and broken inside,..did but take his seat at the bar-counter (for quite simply, a vast cargo of things was in this hour mightier than his own strength, and he was forced by fate to lower his head onto the support of his hand).

And through the air yonder, yet in a scattered—nay, spilled,..guise—there wended and moved a ballad: “If we are sundered by all those wardens of the dark foundations, or if they take thee from my side,..or if they plunder thee from me, all those eternally dark, rhyme-making ballad-mongers, if they tear thee away,..I shall utterly desolate the world, for without thy presence I no longer possess the craft to bring even a single song solitary to sleep.” And Leo, in that precise heartbeat, commanded and ordered from the bar-keeper:

"A solitary green fairy is needful to my hand."

"The Green Fairy," (Зелена вила) that eternally unique elixir belonging to those who named themselves the primordial romantics, once the first among the poets, had for a long season of time been cast out and forbidden..., across the grand majority of earthly latitudes, and indeed inside Leo’s own homeland. Yet yonder, inside those unique,..those hidden sanctuaries where none but the slumbering,..yet eternally perpetual romantics were custom to gather, to win her favor had never been a labor of difficulty..., and Leo possessed a perfect knowledge of this truth (he had hitherto been sufficiently instructed concerning those matters...). Thus, neither he nor a multitude of others walking upon that alternative... side of romance,..had forgotten that mythical relic from those,..those once glorious eras of theirs (at the least, it is reported thus in the legends,..).

"...and without water, I implore thee," — he appended, on this sun harboring not the slightest shadow of doubt toward the syllables of the song which, for some hidden reason, he had forever preserved within the sanctuary of his breast...

And in that precise heartbeat, there arrived from some unknown quarter a solitary voice from his flank:

"With the green fairies, a man must proceed with exceeding caution."

And without even turning his frame, Leo made his response unto him (speaking with an unblemished sincerity, entirely from the heart,..yet without a single key of color in his voice):

"I possessed no craft to act in any alternative guise,.." — “whose heart indeed was beating inside my breast now? ...and whither hath my soul wended?” — yet in some manner he succeeded at the least to force a strained smile upon his face,..whereupon but a brief watch of time later, he furthermore appended:

"...Yet this youth of mine, submerged and drowned inside alcohol, possesseth no power to wound my frame so deeply as can she... she of the dreamy, slumbering hair, carrying scattered secrets and a smile varnished with sugary foam." — Whereupon the man beside his flank, holding fast a solitary glass inside his grasp, did let fall a lightly quiet, and in a guise somehow minute, yet somehow rich but somehow sorrowful laugh... treading on this watch with that certain excellent measure—resembling a true connoisseur of the craft... as though he were a soul who perfectly comprehended that whereof Leo spoke. Thus, with a gentle yet clear resonance, he addressed a query (moving in the guise of one who merely watcheth from the side):

"Thou hast encountered one of such a character upon the earth?"

And Leo, after his intellect grasped that he had unearthed a companion for discourse, made his reply in a guise thoroughly... meek,..and gentle:

"Yet I chanced not to gather a sufficient wealth of time to petition her lips for syllables,..Destinies have buried her face far from my sight, at the least inside such a faith would my own tongue clothe it..."

Aye, inside an exceedingly brief flight of time, he had already given voice to a sufficient cargo of crushing words for a mortal who still bestoweth his faith upon life, and who wendeth in a fierce hunt after love; yet these precise heartbeats wherein he currently found himself trapped were the heaviest his ghost had ever endured.

...Yet his companion for discourse was by no means merely another disappointed professor of history, enfolded inside a currently weary raiment, nor simply by his own choosing a ripe, over-matured romantic,..nay, he stood as something far grander and mightier than that. Thus, he tracked Leo’s syllables, appending this query:

"And so, thou hast resolved to hunt after the truth inside an excess of life-blood?" — whereupon Leo pressed onward inside the selfsame spirit:

"Aye, for peradventure somewhere still within my breast there dwelleth a saving solace... Whither indeed could my boots wend with empty hands?" aye, the Professor had recognized the agony ( behold, yet another chronicle...):

"In what guise did all this break upon thy path,..whither hast thou lost thy fairy?"

...Whereupon Leo commenced, as if reading through that singular speed of light, to lay bare his own history:

"—At the twilight and execution of that wide homeland of ours,..yonder amidst those first ominous heartbeats I chanced to encounter her presence,..yet right swiftly she was snatched from my hands by all those hungry wolves, creatures forever wearing a human face. Aye, it was during that fateful year. And for a long season of time, I stood enfolded beneath the dread that they had plundered even her life-cherished body from the earth..., that they had yonder—may the Lord forbid it!—buried and hidden her frame behind the alternative shore. Yet it is but a brief watch since the knowledge reached my soul that matters wended otherwise. And the whole of my being transfigured into a fierce crusade. And for my spirit, far too long,..had all that agony endured since then,..It appeared well-nigh as though I were fated to wend the entirety of my life solely through such suns. Yet behold, a miracle broken upon the earth... For on this day, after six summers of the Almighty, I looked upon her face, as she wended toward my presence carrying the gaze of one... of a being forgotten somewhere in the far distance." — thereupon he made a brief yet momentous pause,..before unearthing his definitive period: "And she rejected my embrace."

Having bestowed a meticulous hearing upon his words, his companion for discourse merely observed:

"Aye, History possesseth perfect knowledge of such moments." — whereupon Leo, supported by syllables of that character, posed his monumental (yet expected) query:

"And inside what guise doth she view them?" — yet the response did but utterly take his spirit by surprise:

"She vieweth them not... She merely speaketh of their shadows, and at each newborn season, she writeth the entirety of the chronicle anew."

Whereupon Leo, deeply touched to his marrow by the answer:

"Aye, if I could but cross tracks with her face at least but once more..."

Thereupon his companion for discourse recommended unto his hand:

"The world in truth is by no means so monumental. Display her portrait and photograph unto my eyes,..peradventure I may recognize her countenance."

And after Leo had extracted a certain antique portrait and photograph of Liliana from the pocket of his tunic,..aye, one of those treasures rescued from Florina’s home, and the Professor had looked upon Liliana’s countenance,..the professor of history did on that watch merely observe:

"Aye, from such a chrysalis—and could destiny indeed have woven any alternative course?—there did beyond all doubt take flight a butterfly of an angelic visage."

And Leo confirmed:

"She did. Bestow the faith of thy word upon my lips, for she truly did..."

But all at once!

For beside their flanks, for some hidden cause,..there was found yet another man, a mortal far remoter and more lost inside the labyrinths of life than either of them. And he was enfolded inside a raiment even more time-worn than that of Leo’s companion for discourse... And all at once, by his own choosing,..so suddenly did he give voice to this decree:

"I possess knowledge of that maiden." — spoken with a hoarse throat, a tongue entirely wounded and scorched by alcohol... That man who, to the searching gaze of everyday routine, had quite accidentally chanced to unearth his presence beside their frames. Whereupon, in that precise heartbeat, Leo’s heart transfigured into naught but frantic thunders (“Hath a marvel of this character ever broken upon the earth? ...for everything within my spirit maketh me feel as though my heart liveth solely inside this passing heartbeat.” — thus did Leo breathe). And already he commenced to faint for the want of clean air, so that he was forced,..through a singular, monumentally deep breath, to wend this query:

"Thou hast an acquaintance with that maiden?" — whereupon that man, in a guise somehow reminiscent of one who had long ago lost his path in life, firmly pressing his lips together, made his self-assured response:

"Aye, I know her well."

"I shall perform whatever thy lips decree,..merely guide my steps, I implore thee, unto her presence..." — and it stood as a voice so heavy, yet woven entirely from that triumphant joy rising from the very floor and bottom of the soul.

"She wendeth her life far from these borders, my boy. She maketh her dwelling upon the very ebbing edge of that monumental city yonder." — he let fall those syllables in a moist,..and thoroughly hoarse guise, explaining with a hand that was currently directed yonder, with a weary grace toward the direction of the grand metropolis).

"Nothing upon this earth is far. I shall reward thy steps, with a joyful heart shall I crown thee with treasure if thou merely guidest my feet unto her presence," — Leo argued, pleading with the entire expansiveness of his soul.

"My vessel settheth sail on the morrow for the monumental city," — that hitherto unknown mortal reminded his hearing.

"Thou art the master and owner of a vessel?" — Leo desired closer to establish.

"I possess naught but a filthy deck," — ...such was the response delivered by the simple irony of his spirit.

Whereupon Leo, at long last, comprehended that he stood before naught but a heavy laborer upon some transport vessel... tasked with those affairs concerning the soiled iron,..and for everything that stood as a superfluous cargo. And in a alternative guise, such was the exact temper of Leo's own spirit (for the heart possesseth the power to carry a man away,..yet on this night, he had already become deeply frightened of a vast multitude of omens). Aye, from that quarter arrived these following syllables:

"The folk of the čerga [nomadic camp] love not when a stranger cometh to trample upon their soil."

Yet Leo,..chanced neither to comprehend nor to fully grasp the weight of that decree:

"She maketh her dwelling inside...?"

"Aye, she wendeth her life inside their commune. She is their sovereign queen yonder," — as though the oracle required no further explanation. It stood as a voice of that exact character.

"Oh, what manner of catastrophe hath broken over her head...?" — this was quite simply a subconscious—nay, well-nigh unconscious—exclamation,..as if spoken solely for his own ears. What manner of strange explosion was currently thundering beneath his lungs? Aye, he was bound by fate to persuade this man after the finest guise he could muster:

"I shall unearth a sufficient wealth of gold and coin for thy hand. Merely bring aid to my spirit that I might look upon her face."

"I stand in no dire need of a grand cargo of money,..it doth but usher misfortune unto the life of man."

“From what hidden well doth all this rock-firm, hard ill-will cascade?” — Leo questioned his own ghost:

"And what indeed is needful for my hands to perform so that thy soul might bring aid to my quest?" — a vast portion of these syllables did once more exhale the heavy scent of absolute despair.

"For what hidden reason is she needful to thy path, my boy?" — Leo’s companion for discourse inquired with an unyielding bluntness.

"I hold the faith that my heart hath fallen in love with her frame, and that for some mysterious cause, I love her grandest among all things upon this entire earth." — and all at once, as if from some unknown quarter, in the exact guise that the dawning of the morning breaketh, a warm and gentle peace scattered itself through the entirety of that heavy, tavern-bound air.

"If the truth abide inside thy words,..come to seek my presence inside the 'Merry Folks' tavern (—aye, that stood as a certain antique house of revelry inside the monumental metropolis, one of those legendary places known far and wide through rumor and fame...), yonder already by the evening watch of the day after tomorrow." — thus spoke unto Leo that man who had, within his own memory, recognized Liliana’s portrait and photograph... Whereupon, following those syllables, he summoned the tavern-keeper, as though his spirit had all at once become far too heavily intoxicated not merely by the elixirs, nor simply by the thick air, but suddenly by everything that dwelt upon that entire ground. Yet Leo straightway made his announcement (for every shard of his courtesy and attention was vital to his strategy):

"If you grant me your leave, I shall gladly discharge the toll for your drinks."

"My thanks to thee." — aye, to Leo’s soul on this night, that solitary word did carry a monumental significance.

And he, though with slow steps, yet before many heartbeats had flown thereafter, vanished and became lost through the length of that tobacco smoke, the clatter of iron and glass, and that low murmur rising from all those alternative, foreign discourses. Thus Leo once more remained solitary with his previous companion, the Professor. And yonder, following the entirety of his long-sustained and constant silence, the Professor addressed him:

"There exists no reason to harbor a doubt toward his syllables."

"Art thou of that faith?" — Leo inquired, inside a guise as though on this watch his soul were hunting after something far grander even than a mere confirmation... Yet despite his yearnings, everything still remained chipped and incomplete:

"It looketh to my senses as though it be precisely so."

"My thanks to thee. I stand constraint-driven in this hour to abandon thy presence,..for a multitude of unlooked-for deeds have broken upon my path," — and both his justification and his leave-taking did first and foremost touch the deep sanctuary of his ghost.

"Do as thy spirit decreeth, my boy. Never allow thy steps to be belated..." — and that man, once a professor of history, accepted his departure purely and without a single shadow of residue. And once they had taken leave of one another, Leo directed his strides with a hurried grace toward his own home.

That initial twilight had long since overflowed into a thoroughly spellbound, enchanting night. And yonder high above,..it appeared as though the heavens were woven of naught but star upon star. As though a completely alternative day had awakened unto the world. Nay, he had by no means forgotten the entirety of his grief which had likewise cascaded into his life from that so fiercely expected,..yet unexpected encounter with her whom his soul held as his own, yet he harbored a hope that rose mightier even than faith itself: that upon their next meeting, his lips would despite all trials and across all omens succeed to deliver the whole of his being unto her hearing... Aye, he bestowed his unyielding faith, even after all tribulations, upon those precise syllables. For you see, even after all trials, his heart was by no means weary...

Inside these newborn heartbeds, the trail wending along the silent river was now all at once completely teeming with a vast crowd of folk. It was as though life itself were flooding and rushing from every single quarter. It brought tidings and it bore them away. And a multitude of children who were found inside his vicinity did with their lips simply harvest and reap that sugary spider-web candy [cotton candy] which so frequently, as a sweetmeat, accompanies many monumental events. A murmur, a certain low murmur,..resembling a song from the South, akin to a flock of birds, looked as though it had on this eve alighted upon the North.

And it stood so difficult on this eve to remain inside the silence of his own ghost,..So vast a cargo of fate had broken over his life in the span of a single sun,..inside this day of today, a day grander and laden with a far remoter chronicle than the grand majority of his winters and summers.

“Am I indeed fated to shoulder the entirety of this cargo solitary?” and “Whither shall I wend with such a towering wealth of joy and such a crushing weight of sorrow?”

And at long last, his boots arrived inside that very avenue where his heart could ever lean upon the columns of silence. Everything inside its borders on this night appeared fashioned as if solely from the color of orange. The fragrance of the night, the trees bursting into blossom, certain of those low, quiet sounds (which bring offense to no mortal soul) rising yonder from those alternative courtyards, and high above, those antique lamps that keep watch over a vast treasure of hidden lore... And that vernal May-snow of the poplars did still drift, and drift, and drift... Leo’s hair on this night was entirely strewn and blanketed beneath its fleece.

And once his boots had wended inside the courtyard of his own homestead, his initial glance was softly yet with a monumental power (in the exact guise that the look of a cherished being demandeth a response) captured by that faithful lantern high above, hovering o'er the portal of his home...

A multitude of tiny winged creatures, and the brief watches of their lives, diverse insects,..and beetles endowed with wings, were encircling and besieging that single, hot lantern which hung before the gates of his dwelling. Aye, high above there held dominion a true swarm, a fluttering dance amidst that to his soul warm, evening light.

It stood by no means as the first season his eyes looked upon a portrait of that character, yet only on this eve did his intellect truly ponder upon that fierce passion, upon an attraction of such magnitude. Aye, they might well meet their definitive doom and perish yonder. Yet all those minuscule wings did still, with an unyielding persistence, encircle the lantern (...resembling a guise as though it were the sovereign star itself) ...casting not a single shadow of regard upon Leo’s reflections. Whose intermezzo indeed was ruling here? “Is it, peradventure, solely mine?” — aye, somewhere inside those boundaries, Leo himself became completely spellbound.

Yet his reflections were abruptly and violently banished from that tableau by the sudden, piercing ring of the telephone sending-machine. Aye, it broke upon his senses in the exact guise of a sudden bolt of thunder crashing in the very midst of some restless vernal heat, ripping asunder the stillness of the evening watch. Nay, on this day, his boots dared not be belated anywhere remoter upon the earth...

And at that very final heartbeat, scarce a breath before the definitive ring, the receiver found its place within his grasp. And yonder, excellent tidings were keeping vigil to welcome his ear. It was Sophia. He gathered the lore that Vuk on this sun was feeling right well... and that every single penal and law-bound consequence of all those,..those deeds of theirs yonder, would utterly bypass their league.

“My thanks to thee, Sophia.” And: “Those are excellent tidings.” — whereupon, following all trials, he furthermore extended an invitation as to a true comrade, that they might right soon strike a covenant regarding a joint feast and midday lunch for the entire company. Aye, a cargo of savory food for those turbulent, near-lying memories, and an excellent draught, so that those shades might sink into the depths in a rightful guise.

An easing grace, and a thoroughly pleasant sanctuary was that newborn knowledge. And of such a specific character was the evening meal he now required for his frame. Leo set about to brew a hot soup. Aye, on this eve he stood in dire need of a light supper, and desired naught but to sink into the kingdoms of slumber with all swiftness following its partaking. For you see, it was by no means the design of his aunt and uncle to retrace their steps until the dawning of the light (...such is ever the unbending law among all midnight wanderers). He was bound by fate to awaken at the very dawning of the morning-watch. For... he fiercely desired to welcome his aunt and uncle upon the very threshold of the homestead. He was constraint-driven to deliver the entirety of these chronicles unto their hearing without a heartbeat of delay...

And inside such a design, it was truly (...enacted and) brought to pass.

And while he was partaking of that first morning coffee, woven for the countless time with the dark fragrance of cinnamon... He kept his vigil yonder, resting immediately beside the fountains. In this wise, his eyes caught the beams of light rising from the lanterns of his uncle’s carriage-vessel.

And the moment her eyes fell upon Leo’s presence, (Aunt Anastasia, employing a sound of words wherein a certain query had enfolded itself,) moved in a guise as though she desired for some hidden reason to remind her own ghost:

"Ah, Leo,..behold, the dawning of the morning-watch is ever custom to fall heavily upon thy steps."

"Yet this dawn doth by no means sunder itself from the preceding eve," — “and yet there existeth something grander even than that, for certain suns belong rightfully to pure poetry” — such was the hidden architecture and meaning of his words.

"What manner of monument hath broken upon thy path, that its shadow still endureth?" — and she, too, straightway recognized the omen.

"I have looked upon her face, Aunt. After six full winters, my eyes have once more beheld her presence." — whereupon there at long last arrived all those tides of emotion that are by no means destined for ordinary days.

"Her-r-r, my angel?!" — aye, her whole being enfolded inside a certain sweet impatience—resembling a guise without syllables... and for that reason, he immediately made his confirmation:

"Aye, Aunt, Liliana!"

"She had wended her steps hither, into our own sanctuary-home?" — (for inside her ghost, look you, she remained ever a young maiden):

"Nay, she hath not,..she hath not. I crossed tracks with her form upon the banks of our silent river." — “my thanks to thee, Aunt, for the entirety of this love, my thanks to thee for the faith as well, yet even this crucible is far too monumental” — radiated the presence of his words.

"Didst thou deliver unto her hearing...?" — (for she placed her faith within Leo, for she believed in Leo, and her heart harbored no shadow of guile—and all other things did but rise from the law that she was quite simply transfigured by a noble spirit); yet:

"I gathered no wealth of time,..naught, to say unto her ears. For,..by some hidden cause,..she," — (and that stood as his unique watch of silence, that he might unearth the breath for words) "rejected my embrace." — “and yet I tarry here beside thee” — did her silence radiate, following all trials.

"Ah, Leo. A vast multitude of reasons utterly unknown to our minds could float behind the nature of her deed." — for indeed,..his aunt was nevertheless a matron wending through her most ripe winters and summers.

"My ghost likewise holdeth the faith that it is... so,..yet I am constraint-driven by honor to unearth the truth." — “the solitary law I know with certainty is that my eyes dare not fall into slumber” — was the declaration of his heart.

"Of a certainty," — whereupon in that precise heartbeat the uncle materialized before them (he who throughout the span of their prior, private conversation had been parking his carriage-vessel upon that fated ground in the courtyard reserved solely for their house). He looked upon something between their countenances,..and gathered its scent, simply comprehending the crucible, and desiring inside his soul to bring comfort,..after his unique guise to embolden and upraise their spirits, he did but let fall this reminder:

"Let our boots wend inside our own sanctuary-home. We shall by no means, like young roosters, scatter a loud clamor o'er the surface of the morning dew."

Aye, every soul accepted that counsel... And amidst the preparation of their morning feast, they pressed onward with the length of their discourse. Whereupon Leo, after the finest guise he could muster, and to the absolute measure of his knowledge, laid bare the entirety of his chronicle before them.

And the Uncle, upon the very first mention of the name "Merry Folks," straightway comprehended which specific house of revelry was the matter. They struck a firm covenant that on this watch, the entire trinity of their league would wend yonder, together. For peradventure they would be needful to his tracks,..aye, peradventure even to Her, wherever her frame made its dwelling upon the earth, they would stand as a needful shelter,..

And when the destined morrow broke upon the world,..

Aye, the trinity, arrayed each in the finest version of their vestments, directed their strides yonder... toward the ground of what manner of newborn encounter...

It was even on this eve... a beautifully grand May evening, when the Uncle—walking as one of those unique mortals who by no means found it a heavy labor to weave his person into the fabric of a tavern-portrait and align himself among the company of her folk (—nay, on the contrary, such a tableau was ever custom to grow with an easy grace upon his stature)—stepped across the threshold into the "Merry Folks" tavern...

And that ancient and deep river... did flow directly opposite the line of his gaze. On this sun, there arose from her currents a thoroughly pleasant, soothing moisture into the air. And the surface of her waters did glitter and from passing moment to moment beautifully sparkle... bringing no shadow of offense to the heart. And the entire twilight,..in what guise was it lightly enfolded...? Inside that singular, dreamy and quiet, seductive blue hue... custom to belong to those silent evenings. And a tender breeze did but from passing watch to passing watch bear across the wind that certain sweetish (and harmless) minute clamor from the far distance,..and its resonance on this eve was far remoter than merely pleasant... (whereas, look you, matters wended not after such a fashion frequently... inside this specific quarter of the metropolis). And everything on this eve could well-nigh appear to the senses as though the entire atmosphere of this... of this night had cascaded and overflowed from some unknown quarter... Was it peradventure from one of those cities cradled upon the shores of the warm southern seas?

...The Aunt and Leo resolved to remain outside... yonder would they keep their watch to await his coming. They sat enfolded inside that distant silence so uniquely custom to their ghosts,..yonder, immediately across the avenue, upon a bench that looked whole and unblemished into that singular, on this day so... in every guise, warm water. And upon its crest, hovering o'er those thoroughly slender and fragile waves of today, the river-gulls did rock and sway... Aye, Leo and his aunt left the line of their gazes floating somewhere far yonder... spellbound in the far distance. And in this wise, after a certain and specific measure of time had flown across the hour, Uncle Alimpie approached their steps unawares (bearing a dejected, downcast countenance, yet one beneath whose shadow there nevertheless looked to remain a vast cargo of hope),..Whereupon he straightway made his announcement: that his eyes had by no means unearthed the laborer whom Leo, through the entire span of those watches, his whole being nourished by life, had so fiercely bidden his soul to await. Yet he furthermore disclosed unto them right soon that this mortal... had nevertheless left behind a solitary scroll-message destined for Leo’s hand. Aye, inside its lines, he had even brought forth a deep apology unto his ghost. And therein he closer explained that, until the coming of the autumn season, he had chanced to unearth—by the law of certain private reasons,..—a labor upon a vessel that was monumentally vital to his frame, yet until yesterday thoroughly unlooked-for, a task wending down yonder o'er that certain southern, warm sea,..and that following the twilight of that voyage, he would retrace his paths... on this coming watch wending straight into the sanctuary of their own home... provided Leo should leave the tokens of his address in his keeping.

And in this wise, Uncle Alimpie performed that labor in Leo’s stead. Upon a solitary napkin, he carefully inscribed every single necessary piece of data,..and sealed the entirety of that covenant within his own spirit with one of those fragrant, fiery home-brewed brandies, wherefor, to be sure, that house of revelry was celebrated far and wide.

“Had he, peradventure, from the lips of the bar-maid during that watch of time gathered yet another fragment of knowledge,..some remoter lore concerning that mortal whom they had on this sun so fiercely awaited? For indeed,..aye, she was custom to hold a certain,..a private communion of her own with his ghost.”

...for on this day, once more, a vast cargo within Leo’s soul is as oil and water, and as water and oil, and between their domains abideth a wealth of silence that possesseth no name. (Aye, an excess of the bizarre and the strange holdeth the power to wither the unbending will, and cheat the sacred faith...?) Had the Uncle, in truth, delivered every single syllable of the reality unto their hearing? ...

...for he whom they had bidden their souls to await had now, by the law of some hidden design custom solely to his own head, all at once, for the sake of something that suffered no delay, departed to labor,..yonder... down upon the far-off open sea,..And had he, perchance?... inside a guise known solely to his own ghost (and to the Almighty), wended yonder to medicate his own aching soul as well? “For it looked to the senses as though for a long span of winters and summers, his entire frame had wended beneath a certain,..some burden known to his ghost alone,..what manner of weight was it,..of a thoroughly heavy, a thoroughly dark countenance?..”

— aye, such stood as a certain impression... and such a specific memory...

And regarding the sea, a vast multitude of folk were custom to report..., that it possesseth (precisely) that unique, specific virtue (or at the least, a sufficient expansiveness,..) whereby it can bring forth that certain,..as if ultimate (at the least, following a long succession of trials,..) peace unto many a weary soul,..if that ghost still possessed the craft to sufficiently poise and lift its being,..above all those eternally wide melodies of its rolling waves (aye, that element, in a alternative guise, looked as though it had since the dawning of time known how to comprehend every shattered and broken stride...). As though within the whole of its monumental grandeur, there would somehow be utterly drowned the entire,..—aye, whose-soever it be...—immensity of a personal tribulation; or peradventure,..all that towering water and its eternally tart, bitter salt would merely dissolve the entirety of that... that soot-stained cup of gall which the soul well-nigh forever bringeth (or doth it merely appropriate? ...) unto its own hearth? ...

And Leo kept his vigil of waiting,..And he waited. ...Exchanging once more the suns of a certain countenance, one which to his senses in that season was by no means grandly memorable.

He read, a vast cargo did he read,..concerning the folk-lineages, concerning History, concerning the entirety of everything which stood as a scarcity within his intellect. The secret of life he investigated,..He read the beautiful ballads woven by the grand masters of the craft, a multitude of foreign tongues did he master, and he read, he read,..regarding the river’s flora, regarding the river’s fauna, the butterflies,..and he locked his faith inside excellent romances. Inside every single word, his gaze did hunt after her tracks, and he sought the presence of the Almighty.

And as if cutting through the low whispers,..through the rustling of those first yellow and widely scattered leaves, which were already sliding across the earth dampened by the initial autumn rains, there stole and drew near the heavy strides of yet another man of a lost soul... wending yonder, for his part, high toward Leo’s homestead.

And once there had been caught (yet in a guise scarce felt,..as if wending through a multitude of silences,..and across what manner of distances?) the resonance of the house-bell as well, Lady Anastasia materialized at the portal. Whereupon, by that singular (exceedingly) dejected, courtly smile—which in that precise heartbeat, as if by some final strength, was somehow in so painful a key (so somehow artificially,..devoid of wholesome vigor, custom solely to the law of constraint...) engraved upon that face simply imprisoned,..by misfortune—she divined the genuine designs of their newborn guest. Aye, she straightway held the presentiment that he was precisely that man who was needful to their tracks,..who was needful to Leo’s soul.

No mortal until that hour,..of a countenance akin to his, had ever chanced to unearth his presence upon their threshold!

...so that she stood entirely confirmed in this truth the moment her ears caught even the very first of his syllables:

"Doth a youth by the name of Leo make his dwelling within these walls?"

"Of a certainty, my friend," — she answered, inside a guise as though his query required no words of explanation,..and as though her own response stood completely self-evident,..driven, peradventure, solely by that distinct impatience custom to belong to a child's heart. For you see, she furthermore addressed this welcome unto his ear: "Step inside,..step inside, I implore your presence, and be welcome within our sanctuary-home!"

And while he wended his way thus, tracking the strides of Lady Anastasia, she,..without turning her frame fully toward his face (resembling a guise as though she held discourse with some ancient friend) closer explained:

"For a long season of winters and summers have our souls harbored the hope of your visit."

And scarce any wealth of time had flown across the hour from that heartbeat...

When the entire trinity of the hosts, alongside their guest, already tarried inside that specific parlor prepared for the reception of visits; for indeed,..their estate did in truth possess even two distinct parlors, a solitary intimate chamber (even as Uncle Alimpie himself had custom to name it) reserved exclusively for the souls of the household, and that alternative guest-salon...

And inside that guest-parlor, right at the dawning of the hour, the family once more rendered their gratitude unto their guest for every fragment of his future aid. Thereupon, they laid bare before his eyes their genuine designs,..and subsequently, the architecture of their expectations. Yet their newly arrived guest did by no means lock his agreement with the purpose that the entire family should step before the eyes of the maiden whom they held in faith to be, in truth, Liliana.

He delivered a chronicle unto their ears: that yonder,..inside the domains of Zemfir’s land, there held dominion certain thoroughly alternative statutes and laws, and that it could by no means be recommended that three mortals arrayed in those high garments, belonging to an entirely different peace and an identical alternative History in comparison to the folk yonder... should wend their paths together unto their gates. For you see, their manner of life scarce ever (if at all) crossed the threshold of Zemfir’s courtyard (/ˈav.lɪ.jɑː/)... Aye, a stride of such a character could easily be recognized by the inhabitants yonder as a destructive assault aimed against the length of their entire world... and against their manner of existence, which they revere well-nigh to the height of pure religion... Aye,..no mortal entereth that sanctuary with any light ease...’

Namely, Zemfir’s folk did with a fierce jealousy guard and preserve their commune (the unyielding strictness concerning that matter was never brought into question),..ever since that fated sun when Master Zemfir had first established and enthroned its lineage,..aye, inside those bygone eras when scarce a single soul among them possessed the knowledge of his own family, or of his own home...

...Aye, the family adopted the weight of his posture, and in the final turning of the hour, they locked their agreement with the clause: that it was peradventure finest that Leo should first and foremost present his frame solitary before the face of their Queen.

For you see, their guest had recommended unto their hands that, for the dawning of the enterprise, it would wend finest if he should first merely display Zemfir’s courtyard unto Leo's eyes, and that, solely from some hidden nook yonder,..shrouded from the grand majority of the eyes of the folk who make their dwellings yonder... so that after they had first together scanned the current posture of the entire situation,..only then should they bide their time upon the railway tracks to await that celebrated "Zemfir’s Train" (: aye, a certain diminutive, antiquated composition of coaches which Master Zemfir had in a bygone season ransomed and purchased from the state railways for the sole fulfillment of his private affairs). That train wended along a brief, solitary section of the tracks, a certain blind siding and dead-end spur which did guide a vessel straight... yonder into the very heart of his courtyard. There they would stand alongside all those alternative, present middlemen and hucksters who wait upon that selfsame ground, surrounded by all manner of scrap metals, to meet the arrival of the carriage...

Namely, the newly arrived guest had closer explained unto Leo’s family that the maiden whom he had on that faraway watch yonder at the raft-sanctuary,..recognized upon the portrait and photograph inside Leo’s grasp, then still beneath the shroud of that vernal spring night,..stood as a most distinguished member of Zemfir’s commune, holding fast the sovereign title of Queen... whilst he himself, among the common folk of that region otherwise recognized solely as Master Zemfir, did yonder bear the towering title of Patriarch.

The commune had been established by his hand inside those bygone eras,..the seasons of that grand fallen nation, when both to his own ghost and to all other mortals surrounding his tracks it was boundlessly heavy. And the fabric of their micro-economy was firmly established upon the gathering of used materials, alongside diverse objects which might still unearth a fragment of utilitarian value, as well as the wholesale purchase and ransom of everything kindred to that trade from all those petty and minor suppliers,..and from those alternative collectors who were many measures smaller than they.

And yet, not even to their own steps was there granted leave to enter yonder, into the very core of Zemfir’s land. Nay, the entirety of the trade did but wend its course upon that singular, blind, and antiquated siding of the railway tracks... which had once, in an era now remote, belonged to the ironworks and foundry.

The selfsame ground Master Zemfir had chartered and leased for a span of ninety-nine years... alongside a locomotive engine that had long been worn by service, and a handful of freight-wagons custom to its line. Aye, there had existed since the days of old, pre-arranged and destined stations beside those tracks, whereon the ransom of scrap metals and everything else that stood of interest to Zemfir’s commune was meticulously executed.

And... The newly arrived guest did recommend solely a approach of that character unto the family,..as the finest design whereby there might be won a fitting opportunity to plead for an 'audience' before the face of Zemfir’s young Queen.

And unto the family, there remained not any great choice... Wherefore they locked their agreement with the entirety of his posture. And thereafter, even above and beyond the earnest insistence of the household that their guest should bide and tarry with them for the evening feast, he did nevertheless with a courtly grace petition that they release his frame from such an opportunity...

Whereupon there was left naught for Leo’s soul save to, across a handful of the approaching suns, with the whole of his ghost and spirit prepare his being for the encounter with the maiden (at the least, inside such a faith did they bide,..)... unto whom, by a multitude of statutes both visible and invisible to his eyes, he had succeeded across the span of all those preceding winters and summers, to surrender the entirety of his heart and the whole of his youthful reflections. After all those most noble and most useful treasures, on this day... and in that bygone season, did he hunt both within the chambers of his own breast and from his own choosing.

And upon the fated sun of his departure for the monumental metropolis...

Aye, he prepared his person outwardly as well, following that unique demand of his uncle, his uncle’s desire,..and according to his taste, for that fated sun (a watch of time whereafter he had so fiercely kept his vigil,..which had never passed away from his mind and which looked as though it were destined never to pass away from the earth). He selected a snow-white jacket adorned with two rows of black buttons... and beneath its hem, trousers of a snow-white countenance,..and under their cloth, shoes as dark as charcoal. Across the jacket, there was destined to be draped a wide white ribbon-sash bearing the inscription 'Per aspera ad astra' (—Through thorns to the stars). While his towering brow should be hidden from that somehow eternally hoarse, yet ever crimson autumn sun, beneath the black visor of a snow-white cap,..fashioned in the likeness of those worn by pilots of the air.

And unto that eternally grand metropolis hovering o'er that faraway, deep and ancient river, his steps arrived via a swift-rolling train.

Inside the carriage, he chanced to partake of coffee alongside a solitary glass of mineral water, wending solely within his own silence, finding pleasure in the journey,..and above all else, in those moving pictures his eyes chanced to unearth upon the glass window of the coach. Inside the train, a wanderer might unearth a vast multitude of vacant benches, yet there remained a sufficient abundance of human grace and everything custom... to belong to the soul of man. And amidst all these components, resembling a drop of life-blood inside what manner of,..inside a glass of water, there was found one of those silent elders... somehow quieter even than silence itself. By every token of his bearing, he stood as a foreign stranger amidst these territories.

The elder held fast inside his hands a wide map of that faraway,..that plain eternally parched under high grass, and of the hamlets that had besieged its soil. And holding that parchment, in some manner (at the least, inside such a guise upon the first glance of the intellect...) all at once, following some private valuation known solely to his own head, he drew near unto Leo’s side, letting fall these syllables:

"Good morning, my son."

"And to you," — Leo made answer, somehow deeply touched by that thoroughly pleasant approach of the elder bearing a foreign countenance. Whereupon, the old man straightway wended a query,..yet with a gentle grace of spirit, and in a key of supreme courtesy:

"May I sit near you, my son?"

"Of course, pleasant old gentleman," — ...aye, between their frames there commenced to rise and endure an energy of that exact character.

And in this wise, both souls pressed onward with their mutual chronicle, employing that world-wide tongue woven of those strange foreign hues, accents, and tones, wending all the while over the coffee whereunto Leo had in that precise heartbeat invited his newly arrived companion for discourse.

And the old gentleman, inside a key thoroughly quiet, dignified, and noble, his entire frame already deeply submerged within the winter of very advanced years, presented his name unto Leo as Hideo.

And he stood as a man sweet as sugar,..honest as salt, bearing white moustaches and a completely naked, bald crown which on this watch he had shrouded beneath a woolen beret of that character most frequently worn by painters—the old masters of the brush. Whilst his eyes—glistening with what manner of joy or perchance solely with an absolute peace—revealed the slanted surfaces of the Far East,..scattering a lovely and modest humanity,..yet inside the selfsame heartbeat exhaling some unsurpassed, unbending yearning for the fulfillment of what manner of long-forgotten dreams.

And after a certain drowsy intermezzo of time (in the exact guise that is most frequently chanced to be found inside rolling trains) when Master Hideo had already surrendered well-nigh the entirety of his chronicle into Leo’s keeping, Leo remained filled with a wonder such as rarely besieged his ghost:

"—Oh, how monumentally grand is thy chronicle, old gentleman."

"Aye, my chronicle is named Aiko. And from passing watch to passing watch we gather the sensation as though the entire world had plundered her form from my hands. Yet the Second World War beyond all doubt did perform that execution. But, my dear youth, inside what guise hast thou already succeeded to perceive her majesty as grand, when my lips have not yet placed a definitive period upon her lines?" — did Master Hideo peradventure return that query unto his own ghost?...

"Inside my native land there abideth a vast wealth of solemn silence,..yet there existeth none of such a character as rules this realm. A silence which a mortal might possess solely for his own ghost... wherein thou canst bury and hide thy entire frame solitary, a sanctuary that belongeth to thee alone. For you see,..the wind and the high grass alone possess the virtue to cover and shroud all that dwelleth within my breast."

"Nay, my spirit chanced not to err. Thy chronicle is in truth boundlessly grand, dear elder," — Leo uttered, treading now somehow.

...Аnd for some hidden reason deeply, profoundly touched stood Leo, upon the twilight and completion of that entire, fated-shadowed confession of the elder. Whereupon he, following all trials, and above all those syllables,..did but return a response employing yet another smile of his (low, to the very dregs unrevealed,..and rising from what manner of chasm indeed...), a guise that is most frequently present inside the bearing of sages right before the very curtain and end of their mortal life. Thus Leo, following all trials, possessed no further power save to frame that entire vision of his,..that personal painting of his heart, bringing every prior impression of his mind to a definitive twilight with syllables of this character:

"Thou hast fought for the love of a maiden whom... whose destiny indeed had plundered from thy hands beforehand, and already in a blind fold."

And once those words had struck his hearing, the entire countenance of Master Hideo aligned its harmony with Leo’s bearing,..quite simply finding a resting-place upon his stature. Thereupon, he made mention of yet another fragment above all else,..something his intellect deemed essential for Leo’s soul to hold in knowledge:

"Ah, certain mortals hold the reflection that love is but another cry of rebellion raised against the emptiness of life, yet since the dawning of time she hath nevertheless been something boundlessly, immeasurably grander than that..." — and inside the heartbeats that followed, Leo’s silence alone spoke for his frame. For far too deep within Leo’s breast was the sacred agreement with such syllables of the old man (...for that stood as his solitary maxim upon the earth!). Whilst that elder, sturdy and robust of intellect, did on this watch bring forth the sovereign crown (—for by no means is every word born of that imperial court—) unto each prior syllable of his, and onto the whole of his hitherto bearing:

"Aye, love is fated never to be born within a venomous, evil soul." — and only in that precise heartbeat did Leo at long last unearth a resting-place even for his own... spirit, unearthing at long last a sanctuary where he might lower both his brow and his aching breast:

"My soul is gladdened to hear that truth once more," — for you see, all the mortals whom his steps had hitherto encountered across the span of his life,..either had never given voice to the matter inside a guise of this character, and so that sacred law among them... was peradventure already quite simply taken for granted, or they had never possessed the will to catch a single syllable concerning such things, so that a marvel of that nature was fated never to manifest before their countenances. Yet the entirety of all this now,..was in some manner mightier even than a living testament.

Yet Master Hideo, even above and beyond all those components, did inside those precise heartbeats note far remoter truths:

"Thy syllables resonance with a quiet tone, my son,..and they are escorted by a fragile, narrow gaze."

"Peradventure the truth is upon thy lips, inside such a guise, thou wondrous gentleman." — yet could his tongue indeed have returned any alternative answer? ...And the elder, still robust and sturdy of spirit, did but press onward:

"My son,..inside thy eyes I look upon dread and fear."

"Right soon I am constraint-driven to execute a deed that standeth as one of the grandest... inside a multitude of lives." — Leo unlocked the portals of his mind,..bringing forth,..yet nevertheless merely hinting at the nature of his current journey and a vast company of alternative ones,..Yet could a mortal of such character as Hideo,..could his intellect indeed fail to comprehend him:

"It appeared to my senses as though thy spirit is enfolded in dread lest, if thou shouldst name love before the face of thy chosen maiden, thou catchest naught but the echo of thy own syllables..."

"Aye, the dread holdeth my frame that she standeth not prepared to catch such words." — and nay, Leo possessed after all trials no further reason to hide his response,..and yes, he shared the entirety of that cargo of significance touching upon his own pain,..aye, Leo:

"Whether it be the distance,..whether it be time as well... Something looketh as though it hath planted inside the sanctuary of her soul that singular, black flower of oblivion." — and these precise syllables of Leo, Master Hideo did comprehend in this wise:

"Somewhere I chanced to read,..aye, of a certainty my eyes looked upon it. The absence of the being unto whom they are dedicated holdeth the virtue to extinguish petty emotions,..yet grand ones, exactly in the guise that the gale ruleth the flame, it doth but fiercely fan into a raging fire..." — whereupon, inside that uniquely, deeply romantic key, he merely appended:

"If in no alternative guise,..at the least inside such a faith did my own heart perceive it."

"Aye, I bestow the faith of my word upon thy lips. Yet I tarried, Master Hideo, for an exceedingly brief watch of time inside the fabric of her life,.." — from what manner of monumental,..from what chasm of fear indeed did Leo frame his answer (on this watch failing to touch the very core, and refusing to assume the full heights of his spirit), moving in a guise as though before the next heartbeat... he fiercely desired to append these syllables as well:

“I know not for what hidden reason I shall deliver these syllables unto thy hearing, yet behold: even though it be not...” (—for inside any alternative guise, look you, it would by no means be his true ghost):

"And this lore have I furthermore chanced to gather, and this truth do I still hold in knowledge, my son,..A man who hath known the grand majority of mortals, falleth in love with the Saints,..whilst he who hath known but the minority, doth adore the multitude; yet only those unique souls who have well-nigh known everything upon the earth, possess the faculty to value the syllables of a rogue, inside the selfsame guise as they value the words of the grandest sages."

"She currently wendeth her life,..they report, as a Queen." — for you see, for some hidden reason he deemed it essential to upraise and underscore a virtue of such character belonging to her stature (yet his own intellect held the certainty that such a title could speak but little concerning the genuine nature of her soul):

"...kings are ever the most humble of servants, my son." — and that stood as one of the final responses delivered from the lips of Master Hideo, rising above those syllables and above all alternative omens upon the earth.

And precisely in that heartbeat, there arose the thunder of the vessel's brakes,..

“...one of those antiquated engines inside whose iron frames something had for winters and summers since wended through a low, warm decay. Or perchance every rolling train upon these tracks on this sun is of a alternative character.” (—such were the reflections,..such was the sensation Leo gathered inside his own breast). This pausing broke before the face of one of those small hamlets nestled yonder, inside that plain which was most uniquely parched under dry grass and forever ruled by the gale. Aye, yonder had Master Hideo purchased a house for his own hearth,..yes, an antique dwelling weathering more than a full century of winters.

"To my bitter sorrow, my dear youth, upon this ground do our paths part on this watch." — for quite simply, he was a mortal of that character (and to Leo’s spirit, he stood as something far grander still). He took his leave in that precise heartbeat as if parting from one of his own cherished kinsmen, and from a soul who possessed the virtue to comprehend his ghost whole.

"Ah, in truth it looketh somehow extraordinary" (“ah, it is so expansive, quiet, and sovereignly free, woven whole beneath a multitude of long-hidden secrets” — did Leo perceive inside the sanctuary of his own breast), "the place which you have on this sun selected for the evening of your life.” — nay, by no means could his tongue wend without an impression of that character (following all trials).

"For the final days..." — once more employing that smile uniquely custom to his very nature, a guise somehow forever low, romantic to the very dregs of its dawning, and peradventure only in its most minute facet ironic (for you see, he had in truth loved a certain being... he loved someone with a monumental power even until this sun), Master Hideo completed Leo’s syllables. And there remained now inside the eyes naught but a heavy curtain... And yonder, behind its shroud, he did but softly and step-by-step vanish from Leo’s sight.

And Leo, until the definitive anchoring and halt of the train inside that monumental peninsular metropolis yonder, remained completely beneath the impression of the syllables exchanged with—peradventure solely to an unversed, untutored eye—that uncustomary and noble old man (aye, for far too grand was the human grace that dwelt within his frame).

And inside that metropolis, one of those eternally vibrant, antique cities,..and one which had for a long season since grown close unto Leo’s somehow forever quiet and romantic heart, on this sun and across that fated day, there held dominion a thoroughly suspicious, heavy weather.

Certain of those ash-grey, sombre clouds, which had on this watch... and in that bygone season spread and deployed themselves across the heavens above its towers, looked on this day as though they were sifting that sunlight—an illumination otherwise eternally sweet to a multitude of folk—through what manner of,..through a sieve fashioned of the soiled glass belonging to some cast-away beer-flask. Thus they did but retain for their own keeping the entirety of that sweet nectar, releasing toward the earth below naught but its bitterest dreg,..a portion otherwise thoroughly characteristic of a multitude of autumn suns.

Aye, that stood as a singular light which looked as though it had since the dawning of time failed to bring comfort to the eye of man, and remoter still to his soul,..resembling the exact measure in which the taste of distilled water (—that substance from whose fabric everything belonging to quickening life hath been plundered...—) bringeth no solace to the lips of youth. Aye, the grand majority of those romantic ghosts looked as though they had forever despised a under-heavenly labor of such character,..in a hidden guise growling and murmuring against clouds of that nature, as though they alone were the thieves who on that watch plundered from their sight the entire joyful brilliance of a solitary, unblemished sunlit day,..a day eternally bathed in orange,..in a fragrant warmth and, quite simply,..in life itself.

Yet only a diminutive handful amidst their company possessed the knowledge of the Gardener's Secret which, by its own law, did furthermore bring that unique, specific sweetness unto the soul... aye, even beneath a smoldering glimmer of that monumental celestial lamp. The grand majority among them were nevertheless naught but artists and sentinels hailing from that yonder... that fortress looming o'er the peninsular metropolis.

Namely, they locked their faith within his decree,..that the clouds execute this deed solely by the law of a certain, a uniquely assigned duty, so that all those customs-taxed pearls plundered from the orange, the yellow,..and the crimson hues of the sun, are by their touch built into the small crowns of what manner of... according to his vision, angelic beings,..whether destined for those—as he cloth it—singularly tender children belonging to that great Worker of the Almighty: for all those whose spirits harbor a clouded memory of the far-famed Amor, or peradventure for those alternative ones (who chanced to gather a far greater wealth of wisdom:), the Holy Archangel Barachiel—even though, nay,..they were by no means one and the same fated being.

And all those unique, currently perchance even weary little angels would, according to his vision, unearth yonder high above their own sanctuary, following a strenuous day during the course of which they would write a vast multitude of newborn and newborn couples... into a fresh chronicle of love. And every single soul among them—he reporteth—locked their faith inside the law that the grandeur of their small crowns did relate first and foremost unto the grandeur of their holy deed.

And peradventure each and every single one of those silent artists and folk kindred to their grain, could have bound his word with an oath that he had chanced to hear this aforementioned chronicle precisely from the lips of Momčilo the Gardener, or Moma, who in bygone seasons, those first eras of theirs, used to wander yonder, through that forest of tame plane-trees, while he would rake and part the withered leaves, posing unto their ears all the while this query:

"Art thou certain that my hands are not parting the frozen wings of Amor’s tiny angels?"

And while that unique, specific remark of the gardener would be tracked by the ever-spellbound eyes of the autumn painters, wearing that specific key of romantic hesitancy and wonder (which bringeth no shadow of pain to any quarter of the soul...), Moma the Gardener would thereupon unlock that seemingly private chronicle of his, well-nigh forever commencing with that singular, identical, and ever-foremost celebrated phrase of his:

"Ah, then thy ears have not caught the chronicle?!" — behind which would follow precisely that uncustomary story but a moment before portrayed. Yet nay, Leo had possessed no opportunity to cross tracks with Momčilo the Gardener, wherefore the aforementioned story had remained utterly unknown to his spirit,..and it appeared to his senses in some manner as though this dawning of a day, by all assumptions uniquely destined for his soul, would outwardly pass enfolded inside a thoroughly unpleasant, sombre temper, constraint-driven by that today pale, plundered, and completely withered sunlight, an illumination otherwise characteristic of that season of the year, yet a guise of light which Leo had despised since yore, during his first childhood winters and summers, even though that selfsame light, yonder,..inside his native city was in that bygone era,..by some hidden cause,..somehow far more richly colored... Was it, peradventure, first and foremost due to that vast and diverse human firework yonder?..

Yet Leo’s gaze did, after all, but lightly... and solely across a diminutive fraction of its power, remain exposed to a daylight of that specific character, while across its grandest share it lay spilled upon the pavement, wending yonder to softly and quietly slumber upon the stones...’

Nay, Leo, amidst all those preceding hours, had by no means succeeded to read a grand measure...

“...where the withered leaves looked to the senses as though they were in a masochistic guise wrestling against the autumn gale, doing naught but awaiting the hour when the wind should hurl their frames beneath the boots of a multitude of then frantic passers-by, or under the feet of that rare, solitary wanderer who wended free from haste,..or perchance yonder, even to the rolling wheels of those automobiles unto whose nature velocity looketh to be well-nigh forever destined. Yet a few fragments of those leaves did on this sun fall beneath Leo’s own wending stride...”

And Leo was hurrying... He was rushing yonder,..toward the tavern custom to be recognized across the length of the metropolis chiefly by the name “Merry Folks.” And on this day, inside that bygone season,..he moved his frame inside such a design:

“Nay, my boots are bound by honor to arrive,..” — and he cast not a single shadow of regard upon any mortal on his path, until the moment he arrived before that aforementioned and, at least by the law of its name, eternally joyful place...

...and yonder his eyes were welcomed by that man, who carried a somehow forever tightly locked smile (—aye, of such a character was his expression almost always,..and that specific cramp inside his features had since the dawning of time never departed from his frame), letting fall syllables that were, inside a certain measure,..naught but lightly vacant:

"Hah, thou hast arrived." — as though, for some hidden reason,..his intellect possessed absolutely no awareness of the monumental significance of their encounter,..or of its catastrophic consequences over Leo’s approaching winters and over Leo’s past suns. Yet nay, such words possessed no power to bewilder Leo’s spirit. These syllables harbored no shadow of insecurity within their fabric (and between their own ghosts, look you, everything stood locked in an absolute calm):

"I possessed no leave to act inside any alternative guise." — and he, that heavy laborer of the deck, comprehended the weight of that clause:

Whereupon they abandoned the threshold of that tavern which looked to the senses as though it had been, for some hidden cause,..predestined solely for their steps, nestled within that eternally vibrant and monumental peninsular metropolis.

And behind their tracks, they had abandoned, yonder... yet alternative souls heavily hungover from life... Their departure was tracked by the heavy gazes of those who were, peradventure but for a passing heartbeat, awakened from the blooming lethargy of tavern-existence—...aye, something had deeply touched their spirits inside the entirety of Leo’s bearing (on this sun, first and foremost, his inner stature...).

And they summoned a taxi-carriage. The vessel drove them yonder, unto one of the outer exits of the metropolis... Yonder,..at one of those specific grounds where a vast multitude of untamed, wild paths commence their wending.

And Leo, following their arrival, did at first but in absolute silence retrace the steps of his guide. To both of their ghosts, such a design on this watch brought a deep solace. Yet,..Leo was the first to break the thread of their stillness:

"My thanks to you... Monumental thanks to your soul. For you see, neither you... nor your own winters and summers—by every token of the world—have been spared by fate." — and his guide thereupon, all at once, gave voice to syllables,..entirely of his own accord:

"The iron wheels,..they have crushed and run over my life."

And Leo caught up those words, taking them exactly as they were delivered:

"I hold the faith that I comprehend the weight of your syllables." — he uttered, speaking both out of a profound compassion and a solemn reverence, yet equally from his own heart,..notwithstanding a certain armor of caution forged for his breast,..and for his soul,..and from the selfsame key of his voice he pressed onward (delivering a cargo of queries otherwise thoroughly unexpected from his character)...:

"For a long season since,..hath everything wended after such a fashion for your soul??" —

...aye, in some manner they perfectly comprehended one another’s ghosts:

"Aye,..ever since one of those frozen, cold winter nights..." — he replied in a guise... custom to be spoken as if for History, a touch hidden and veiled, yet with a majestic grace,..carrying a certain painful defiance scattered into the far distance,..while he did but shield and hide his gaze from what manner of far too crushing, heavy emotions... Whereupon the entire air beside their frames looked as though,..in that precise heartbeat, it had suddenly grown dense and heavy. And was it peradventure now,..what manner of cold water rising from some unknown quarter,..and a dark mire,..And what indeed held dominion beneath the soles of their boots? Whilst high above it already suffocates,..And, all at once it becometh heavy to draw a single breath. And Leo himself chanced not to comprehend to the very dregs the reason why (quite simply, such frantic moments were currently ruling within his breast), yet all at once, he wended this query:

"Was it enfolded beneath the starlight?"

And the guide, inside a certain measure taken by surprise by Leo’s query, yet nevertheless placing an absolute faith inside the hidden meaning of his syllables (For you see,..aye, something inside Leo’s presence had thoroughly awakened his spirit, rising above the entirety of that accumulated hangover of life slumbering within his soul... Could he, peradventure, through the youth avenge a vast company of his own prostrated days...?):

"Starlight it was, and to a high degree... boundlessly starlight. Centennial swarms of stars did escort the railway composition." — aye, step-by-step and more and more did they now perfectly comprehend one another’s ghosts... And the living reality did completely overflow within their breasts, and the day spilled o'er them, and the night spilled o'er them. What manner of sacred trust held dominion now between their hearts? Aye, the train-driver had rarely shared a discourse inside a guise of this character:

"It stood as the solitary, unique black fur coat inside the fabric of that entire warehouse-magazine." — whereupon, beholding that Leo had already somehow completely collapsed into a monument of locked silence, he pressed onward with his confession... and he did but speak his own night:

"And the autumn rains had already commenced in a grand abundance. I had bound my promise unto her spirit that it should be hers... Nay, she herself had by no means petitioned my hand for such a treasure." — whereupon he let fall a passing, structural sigh, for you see, his reflections had on this watch become burning and hot... and in that precise heartbeat he firmly pressed his lips together, releasing a heavy, crushing gasp through his lungs. Then, with a routine and equally expert motion of his hand, he reached for his iron flask, which lay nested yonder... inside the pocket of that tunic already heavily plundered and ravaged by the teeth of time. And only following that burning draught did he press onward, yonder inside a chronicle woven entirely from a certain rain rising from his innermost chambers, delivering his story:

"...yet that stood as the era of comrades. I became—(the word 'been' remained unspoken beneath his throat)—the foremost train-driver upon the shift. Yet my wage notwithstanding was by no means sufficient for our hearth. I commenced to labor even through two entire shifts. Frequently did my ghost already chase away the kingdoms of sleep... And our vessel had already wended near to the fated station when the midnight watch plundered the eyes from my brow—(he spoke, his hands carelessly lifted all the while, casting a gaze upon his palms and fingers which were raised in an irregular, strange guise, resembling a company of extinguished tapers and candles)—replacing their vision with a heavy, deep slumber... (whereupon, exhaling and releasing his spirit:) I was startled awake solely by a fierce, sharp agony, yet inside that heartbeat everything upon the earth was already too late..., (his face enfolded beneath a mask of absolute disgust and quiet horror) Around my frame, everything was filled to the brim with screaming... and with pure horror. (And already with his spirit exiting the perimeter of the tale:) And I fell unto the very bottom and abyss." — aye, there held dominion a vast abundance of pauses between all those fractured sentences, so that upon the twilight of his tale he looked upon Leo’s presence in the exact guise of a 'drunkard,' presenting a assumption—perchance necessary solely for his own ghost, yet equally for Leo’s soul:

"Thou art questioning thy intellect, in what guise I possess the power to live?" — whilst Leo, now... and in that bygone season, chanced not to act in any alternative key, and was simply, purely honest:

"Nay, my spirit possesseth no leave to hold such a truth in knowledge." — and he did but gaze into the far distance, enfolded inside a singular sorrow that demandeth no human syllables,..yet moving in a guise as though he were not looking yonder,..but somewhere else entirely, looking straight into his countenance... aye, he observed his frame, his whole being profoundly moved,..and enfolded inside that uniquely rare, deep compassion,..wearing a gaze most frequently custom to belong to a young fawn, as if his soul desired before each newborn syllable to say “forgive my spirit, yet I am constraint-driven by honor to ask this query of you”:

"...what manner of doom broke over your own beloved?"

And as though his own ghost had already been keeping vigil awaiting that exact query, the train-driver fixed his lips in a guise as if he were preparing to taste what description of,..yonder some bitter, tart wine known solely to his own palate, before delivering with blunt sharpness (—aye, such stood as his rock-firm posture—) this declaration:

"She possessed no strength to endure the crushing weight of all that subsequently followed... " — and then, only after a brief watch of silence had once more broken between their frames,..yonder he brought that confession of his to a definitive twilight with those elongated and, for his throat, long syllables: "And she vanished into the far distance..." — whereupon following those words, he once more surrendered his spirit unto the gale which was at that watch whistling around their steps, defying the stillness that slumbered between the words...’

For you see,..aye, across all those winters and summers, the wind had been washing and rinsing his soul upon what manner of,..upon diverse cross-roads and exposed bluffs, so that in the final turning of time, he had already grown akin to its rhythm, and to that unique, eternally venomous and piercing hiss belonging to its currents...

...Aye, and Leo adopted that posture of his, surrendering whatever further expressions of understanding into the keeping of the silence alone, that it might bear them through the air.

And already their strides had traversed the far outer periphery of that eternally grand and vibrant metropolis,

when they wended past yonder, a certain colossal bend on the highway and directed their steps toward that unique,..one of those secondary municipal junkyards and dumps. And the path did guide their boots across a certain rising ridge interwoven with gardens, which had already been heavily desolated by the touch of those late-autumn suns. Only from passing watch to passing watch would some industrious husbandman still be found yonder,..tarrying inside his garden-plot. And he would track with a long gaze those two, to the eyes of any ordinary routine, highly fascinating human figures... One towering,..and the other alternative one likewise, yet one enfolded inside a thoroughly elegant raiment, whilst the other wended completely, by the measures of its cloth, inside a sorrowful and withered attire.

Aye, o'er the first figure, above the locks of hair varnished with burdock-oil, there was on this evening nestled a claret-purple, velvety beret. He advanced in perforated shoes crafted of a similar,..of a key identical to the prior shade. And above their leather rose trousers of velvet, bearing a color wherein it looked as though there had been mingled what manner of paste and pulp of blue dye, born of some mountain grapes, and black, reminiscent of all those nights unblemished by a single star. Such was the girdle-belt resting o'er them,..And above all else,..equally his mantle-coat... Woven of that selfsame, identical hue.

Whilst the alternative human figure did on this day most uniquely upraise and underscore the first, perchance to the selfsame measure that the first did point unto him. The ash-grey hair, whereon only upon a rare spot there lay hidden a certain black-and-white long arc of a rainbow, was covered by a blue, worn cap bearing the defaced, chopped emblem belonging to the once grand state railways. And he moved his frame inside a pair of those clumsy, massive black boots, fashioned entirely from a currently antique, artisan worker's design... And above their soles rose dark-blue trousers,..aye, inside a alternative key, one of those fabrics custom to belong to the laborers of heavy and mud-soaked crafts... And above all those components, a dove-blue jacket did blanket a certain smoldering, grey sweater resembling the thick city smog, pierced only upon a rare thread by the cinder and charcoal-embers of a cigarette.

And... a light and sensitive stride did inside an absolute closeness retrace the tracks of that alternative... that somehow entirely stale and heavy... pace. Carrying gazes, one completely enfolded beneath the shadows,..and wholly on this day acting as a sanctuary for a vast multitude of doubts, and that alternative one,..withdrawn and inside a multitude of depths lost inside these precise heartbeats, which were fated never to cross paths again.

And... step-by-step the gardens vanished from their sight, and behind their boundary, instead of those currently withered garden-plants, the earth was suddenly commenced to be blanketed and overrun by automobile batteries, bicycles plundered of their wheels, rusted fragments of household fences, and even a single chassis belonging to a once-celebrated automobile, among a multitude recognized chiefly by the name of the 'Beetle.' Aye, it stood as the domain and land of Alonso, precisely as it had been inscribed yonder upon one of those wooden pylons and posts which chanced to unearth their presence upon the path of the two solitary travelers-pilgrims wending into—could it peradventure be?—Liliana’s own fated kingdom.

Whilst yonder, right in the very center of the courtyard, amidst a wild abundance of what manner of untamed field-blossoms, there kept vigil a solitary cargo-truck dating from those currently remote 1950s years of the twentieth century, and through the cabin window of its frame there did spill a narrow, ash-grey column of coiling smoke... releasing its breath into that already sufficiently smoke-laden autumn air. And for some hidden cause,..Leo’s guide looked as though his spirit had already wended to become a master upon his own rightful soil:

"Alonso, let our hands trade and bargain!" — he let fall a shout inside that precise heartbeat, using a key thoroughly solemn and grave, a guise rarely present inside his character... aye, for there dwelt inside its resonance a certain fragment of absolute authority.

Whereupon, releasing a uniquely hoarse and groaning resonance, those antique, massive doors of the cargo-truck let forth a shriek and creaked open, and through their frame there did but lightly peer a man carrying eyes fashioned of what description of,..of a soiled brilliance, and a skin bearing the deep, dark-brown hue of the soil. He was arrayed whole in a guise resembling what manner of local rancher. Whilst his abundant head was enfolded beneath a rather long, curly mane of hair, a crown which on this watch was covered by a hat—one of those unique hats,..and a piece of that exact character which in bygone eras the far-famed horse-dealers and hucksters were custom to wear upon their brows.

And beneath his charcoal-black moustaches, there were in that precise heartbeat scattered syllables that wended inside a thoroughly sour, suspicious guise:

"What indeed couldst thou possess the power to purchase from my hands?"

"That monumental municipal iron dust-bin and trash-container which thou hast for a long season preserved," — answered Leo’s guide with absolute self-assurance, moving in the exact guise of a man who was now a sovereign master upon his own rightful soil.

"That treasure shall by no means cost thy hand cheaply," — Alonso made his reply, posing the clause while still entirely enfolded beneath that specific mistrust and suspicion which is most frequently custom to dwell inside the breast of every simple man.

"This elegant young gentleman whom thou lookest upon beside my flank shall discharge the toll, let the price be whatever magnitude it must," — once more with supreme self-assurance, aye, inside a guise as though it were peradventure the very final season in his life, did Leo’s guide closer unfold.

"If the matter wend after such a design, we hold a firm covenant," — Alonso answered, thoroughly satisfied with the bargain—and harboring not the slightest shadow of doubt toward the ultimate, hidden designs of his buyers.

And following a trade that stood, for both quarters, successful,

Leo and his guide once more launched themselves outward, wending now in a united body alongside that iron dust-bin (which was being pushed before his frame by the second aforementioned companion), cutting through the twilight of that eternally parched plain, along the fields and across the rising ridges... wending toward their jointly selected Holy Quest...

That suspicious day shrouded in gloom, did step-by-step dissolve and transfigure into a (likewise, by no means lesser) thoroughly suspicious and hoarse night. Aye, the stars on this eve failed to pierce and break through the celestial vault, and the moon on this night did by no means openly visit the heavens—at the least, inside such a guise did it appear before the sight of these two foot-travelers, on this eve... beneath the heavy shroud of that specific autumn celestial curtain. To each of their ghosts, after his own unique... and solitary fashion, a midnight light-torch of that exact character would have been an exceeding precious sanctuary... Yet it was utterly absent from the world on this night. Wherefore the train-driver strove to replace its virtue using naught but the dim rays of a solitary antique lantern, which on this watch he chanced to hang upon the frame of the iron container (...yonder high upon its leading side).

And now, following the twilight of that entire, deep and monumental confession of his, Leo’s guide did but from passing watch to passing watch launch with Leo none but those discourses of a light and passing nature (bearing such a weight as a solitary dove-feather possesseth against the vast and countless multitude of autumn leaves), wending thus until that precise heartbeat when Leo marked his own breast with the sign of the holy cross. It was a rite whereunto he had been mentored, peradventure,..only in the final hour and to the very dregs of his spirit, by the hands of Uncle Alimpie and Aunt Anastasia (for the Uncle was custom to execute that holy deed inside every monumental and inside whatever joyful heartbeat, whilst the Aunt performed it first and foremost whenever a passing minute struck deep and with a melting, piercing power touched the heart, yet on her watch she did so well-nigh forever inside the sanctuary of secrecy,..or at the least, inside a guise as little conspicuous as possible...) ...’

Aye, his departed and late Maho had prior to those suns, (peradventure solely upon the first glance of the intellect) raised and nurtured his boyhood mind inside the spirit of the values belonging to that,..to the era assigned unto his life,..for inside the living reality it had by no means been entirely and to the very dregs fashioned thus,..’

For you see, Mahir himself had never been completely spellbound by each and every single value of that era, notwithstanding all his philanthropic and human-cherishing social strivings; yet he nevertheless in some manner held the reflection that his frame stood as a loyal citizen of his country,..and remoter still,..after he had unearthed within her boundaries an environment sufficiently excellent for the upraising of the whole of his numerous children.

`...for beneath all those components, he had nevertheless left behind, inside the sanctuary of all those affairs, a vast wealth of unburdened and excellent space, so that Leo in the watches of his later winters and summers might execute the sovereign choice as to which specific path his heart should wend... (And peradventure somewhere yonder, inside those private, secret chambers of his ever-expansive, noble soul—a ghost which was custom to unlock its portals to well-nigh no mortal upon the earth, save solely unto the Almighty,..—he did harbor the sacred hope that Uncle Alimpie and Aunt Anastasia would perform a sufficient labor concerning the whole of those matters... for Mahir likewise possessed the perfect knowledge of a vast cargo of lore which was bound by honor to be preserved solely for his own breast, for he did in truth love the entirety of his children with a fierce devotion).

And Leo did now approach that (inside a guise somehow, as if all at once,..), that sacred moment,..desiring first and foremost to nourish each and every single fragment of his,..on this sun already weary hope. Yet for some hidden cause,..or by the law of a multitude of reasons, right after the train-driver and on this eve, Leo’s guide chanced to note:

"Diverse tales and falsehoods are being whispered regarding her presence yonder." — delivered,..with a voice or perchance merely a cadence, born of its own accord, carrying a deceptive weight (resembling a guise as though his own spirit had somewhere deep within, peradventure desired that his own syllables should be boldly shattered and disproved by the youth...).

"Unto my soul, the love toward that angelic heart, toward that maiden,.. (whereupon he looked upon his guide with a gaze pure, brilliant, and free from any shadow of suspicion lurking behind his brow,..straight into his eyes), unto whose presence you hold the faith that our steps have on this eve specifically wended,.. (whereupon he paused for a fleeting heartbeat into the stillness, that he might with a majestic grace prepare his words), interwoven with the entirety of everything my eyes looked upon inside her being, hath already spoken a sufficient testament," — Leo appended,..yet in his bearing he had least of all merely appended. (Aye, Leo’s guide did gather a vast cargo of strength,..from syllables of that character spoken by Leo).

And following those quiet and specific words of Leo, the space surrounding the two travelers-pilgrims on this night was once more besieged by a silence which but from passing watch to passing watch, yonder..., somewhere, from time to time was custom to alternate with those thoroughly gentle and brief sentences.

But lo,..all at once, right along that so frequently chronicled dry grass, the man who was pushing the iron dust-bin did recognize that ground, a territory already well known to his boots. Aye, that selfsame soil did border upon Zemfir’s land. And the hour had at long last arrived for Leo, following that previously aligned,.. (and across the entire span of time until that heartbeat, for its grandest share enfolded beneath a white linen cloth (which the train-driver had borne upon his person), dampened with the pleasing fragrances of what description of,..of a certain costly masculine perfume (which Leo had brought hither)) to enter inside that vessel,..aye, a carriage merely to the outward eye cleansed of all soiled matter,..lest the sentinels and wardens keeping vigil over Zemfir’s land should spy his presence prematurely.

And following that deed and a act of such character, a tableau to the outward eye passing strange commenced its wending through the periphery of the metropolis, and across one of her wild thickets. A man enfolded inside a certain heavy and time-worn raiment born of sheer tribulation, was pushing before his frame a iron municipal container for trash wherein there was nestled another man, arrayed in a solemn and thoroughly majestic tunic-suit, wending through a certain desolate and disordered briar-patch, which did guide their steps straight into that yonder, a certain ancient workshop-mill which had long since been abandoned by the official regents and lawguards,..a facility of bygone days... yet on this sun, (merely? ...) Zemfir’s land! ..., or peradventure even something far mightier than that.

And the bitter chill and the profound  [extinction's dread], alongside whatever manner of alternative, heavy presentiments belonging to that deep and expansive iron container, were first and foremost shielded and kept at bay solely by the fire burning inside Leo’s heart. Aye, he was warmed by that singular, rock-firm conviction: that most likely on that to his soul most joyful and equally most crushing spring sun, Liliana, walking as that certain, thoroughly uncustomary Queen, possessed no leave in that (to his life catastrophic) heartbeat to reveal her presence—even as his intellect deemed it—unto a mere “ordinary mortal,” or perchance inside her vision to but another man arriving from an alternative (and today to her framework foreign) world, a realm wherein she on this sun peradventure no longer bestowed her faith... Wherefore, amidst all these elements, he unearthed a fresh cargo of hope: that if his steps should, following all trials, plead for a formal audience before her face... he would nevertheless win a fitting opportunity to present all those syllables, inside the faith whereof he believed that without their resonance a man cannot endure... unearthing his fated path,..and unearth-ing even those grandest, most monumental words of his.

And inside that specific,..that thoroughly expected jolting and rattling of the iron container, Leo’s reflections were jolted and rattled as well, inside whose chambers yonder on this night there dwelt a vast portion of that unseen "Liliana’s" kingdom, and that to his spirit still, so-called "Zemfir’s Land..." Yet before long, a company of those unique, murky and uncustomary fragrances did in truth signify the immediate presence of its borders. Aye, that specific aroma of smoldering refuse and all manner of diverse garbage, well-nigh forever present inside all those despised, under-metropolitan courtyards, did on this watch,..and in that bygone season, rule and command the air inside yet another autumn night. And yet, an aroma of that exact character stood as something boundlessly precious and cherished unto that grand Zemfir’s family, for you see, it did promise secure suns,..and it bound its promise unto a future. Aye, the fire, devouring all those countless, despised things of the earth, did lay bare and reveal unto Zemfir’s folk a multitude of diverse, yet eternally precious scrap metals.

Indeed, as their strides wended closer and closer toward the frontiers of Zemfir’s Land, that unique—yet by no means outwardly visible—fragrance commenced to be felt in an ever greater measure both by Leo and his guide. While before long, that yonder,..that specific, thoroughly unique glare rising from the far distance did underscore that a definitive twilight had besieged the thicket o'er whose trails they had hitherto moved their steps.

And having arrived yonder, right before that specific hollow and cove wherein lay nested that already heavily chronicled Zemfir’s Land,

The guide, employing a handful of those unique, muffled and dull strikes against the sheet-metal of the container's lid, did notify and inform Leo of this arrival. And once the lid of the iron container had been flung open, Leo suddenly looked upon a landscape yonder, before and beneath his frame—aye, all at once a thoroughly unique, a multi-hued portrait was laid bare to his sight.

Thousands of light-bulbs, arranged in a vast and diverse array of colors upon thick black cables, did border and define what manner of enclosed, secret realms across the length of Zemfir’s monumental courtyard. And even though that portrait did portray a thoroughly carnival-like atmosphere, yet upon its surface there were by no means visible all those countless torrents of sweat that had poured upon this ground down a multitude of human frames and human bodies.

A vast multitude of those monumental cargo-containers, outfitted for the habitation of mortals inside their frames... and set upon rolling wheels, were notwithstanding all else scattered across the perimeter of Zemfir’s yard,..in this watch of the night but half-illuminated. Whilst there chanced to be found yonder, amidst their lines, many dozens of horse-drawn carts alongside those heavy transport-trucks, universally recognized by that generally familiar name of 'Fap 13.' Aye, via those vessels there was transported and delivered all that scrap metal, the copper alongside a vast cargo of alternative materials utilitarian to Zemfir’s cooperative.

And somewhere yonder, well-nigh toward the ebbing edge of Zemfir’s courtyard, where a solitary river—much remoter reminiscent of a mere brooklet,..—bearing the name 'Leda' wended its currents as if enfolded beneath what description of mystery... there lay that ancient regional junkyard and dump which Master Zemfir had chartered in a bygone season. And upon its soil, both by day and beneath the shroud of night, there burned a multitude of smoldering fires.

Whilst yonder, right in the very center of that entire Zemfir’s yard, there kept vigil the 'Queen’s Palace.' It stood as a monumental white house of a unique, grand expansiveness, ringed by her own private, separate fence. It possessed a vast count of what manner of... brightly colored, miniature towers. And upon the structure of her very fence there was chanced to be found likewise a true multitude of fierce lions, bearing frames fashioned of plaster or perchance of stone... whilst within the sanctuary of her garden there grew a thoroughly lush, high-rearing 'Moonlight' rose.

And yonder already, behind the perimeter of the Queen’s Palace, there lay nested that unique, out of diverse materials constructed mini-settlement belonging to a vast company of that monumental and today already multi-faceted Zemfir’s family. And its absolute territory was intersected by a true labyrinth of diverse passages and alleyways, behind whose turns there wended the thick cables bearing those selfsame multi-hued light-bulbs, beneath whose illumination Leo did look upon all these things... capturing this partial vision of the realm.

Behind the perimeter of all those countless, time-worn cottages and hovels, there lay nested a magnificent, unofficial open-air "museum" of multi-hued cloth. It stood as a shared, monumental drying-field for the raiments and vestments of the grand majority among Zemfir’s folk. Upon those hundreds of diverse sashes (marame) and what manner of... gowns and dresses, rocked solely by the breath of the wind, it appeared as if there were beautifully spilling a multitude of colors won both from the vault of the heavens and an equal count of shades plundered from the very floor of the sea, a company of a few monumental, exotic butterflies... alongside a vast array of what description of,..of those terraces belonging to the palaces of many ancient, Far Eastern princes. Whilst amidst that true sea of colors, well-nigh all of Zemfir’s children had custom to play and share their joy.

And nested closest unto that rising ridge whereon Leo and, for this fated sun, his guide currently held their vigil, there stood that singular small railway station which in bygone eras had served for the transport and delivery of all manner of refuse into the regional dump inside that, then,..inside that bygone time; yet on this sun, Zemfir’s folk custom to employ its structure solely for the execution of their own private affairs...’

Aye, inside the intellect of Leo’s guide there dwelt an intention of that exact character,..he harbored a strategy to guide Leo, via a formal and official path, precisely across those railway tracks that lead onto that diminutive station, reaching into the very heart of Zemfir’s monumental courtyard.

Namely, the matter wended after such a design: that Zemfir’s folk, upon every return of their train into its sovereign base, possessed specific stations and points upon the path where the composition would for a brief watch of time come to a halt,..whereupon they would straightway receive all those,..and all those petty cargoes of scrap metal alongside a vast abundance of alternative ores and diverse, to their framework utilitarian, goods... aye, gathered from the hands of all those mortals who possessed no power to offer a grand cargo all at once,..and all this was performed so that, to the utmost measure, order might be preserved inside Zemfir’s courtyard, lest by some venomous, harmful chance the style of their existence should be grievously disrupted... a life meticulously built through the bitter labor of all those long winters and summers.

Aye, that stood as the precise heartbeat which Leo’s guide held the intention to seize, that he might bring to fulfillment his own,..and for Leo’s spirit, Holy Quest.

...And having measured with his sight the entirety of this current portrait and one of a far grander stature still,..Leo resolved that, for this watch of the hour, the time had arrived for their frames to withdraw outside the ground where they kept vigil,..Whereupon the sheet-metal lid was once more lowered, and yonder there broke upon the earth once more the repetition of everything,..kindred to the prior deed, save only wending inside the opposite direction...

Yet notwithstanding their retreat back, yonder... once more into the embrace of the grand metropolis,..but a brief watch of time thereafter, while they had set forth and while they still found themselves yonder... inside the relative vicinity of Zemfir’s Land, there crossed tracks with their steps, wending with a slow pace, two mortals... carrying faces enfolded in the half-darkness. Thereupon, after their eyes looked upon that exhausted man, enfolded inside a raiment already heavily worn by time, pushing before his frame a monumental and heavy iron container, they wended a query unto his ear regarding his genuine designs upon their soil... inside a night so desolate,..yet they nevertheless recognized inside his bearing someone who across a multitude of factors stood close unto their own grain. Whereupon he, yonder, inside a guise fashioned as if solely for their hearing, closer explained... that upon this wide, parched field he did but gather scattered, ancient, and already used sheets of parchment and paper, harboring no single design to entangle his person inside whatever manner of their affairs and trade. Thus, after they chanced to note beside his frame naught but that solitary, antique, antique municipal dust-bin, their spirits harbored absolutely no suspicion toward the genuine designs of his walk, and they abandoned his presence inside the selfsame guise as they had first arrived,..yet notwithstanding they appended a stern warning: that he should right soon distance his steps outside that territory.

And there was born yet another industrious dawning of a day...

Whilst the two travelers-pilgrims from that prior, swiftly vanished night did now part paths yonder... beneath the monumental stone arches of that singular, one of those most celebrated bridges ruling over the metropolis, and eternally a grand city... locking a firm covenant that by the evening watch they would once more unearth each other’s presence upon that selfsame ground...’

And inside that precise heartbeat, Leo’s guide received from Leo’s lips certain further, specific instructions regarding the wholesale purchase and gathering of particular precious, costly scrap metals and the storage of those treasures within that, on this sun, already uniquely their own iron container... an offering which they would wend together, alongside the dust-bin itself, to deliver as a tribute and gift unto Master Zemfir, and as a token of honor toward the length of everything his hand had hitherto succeeded to build, yet equally as a rock-firm guarantor of his,..and of their honorable and monumental designs.

...Whereupon before long, Leo once more withdrew into the sanctuary of his hotel, that he might yonder, inside the deep silence of his soul and within the stillness of his private chamber—a haven remote from every fierce clamor of the metropolis—surrender his frame unto the kingdoms of slumber, a rest so boundlessly necessary to his spirit following the length of that entire prior, prior night that had thundered so turbulently within his breast.

And only yonder... near the hour of fourteen,..in the early afternoon, was his slumber broken by the hands of the hotel service,..for inside such a design had Leo commanded his instructions.

And upon that specific October afternoon, the sun had but newly stolen its path through yet another of those leaden curtains woven of autumn clouds, and through a solitary, quiet flame of a single ray it did illuminate the interior of his hotel chamber. Nay,..on this day, by no means did his spirit possess the leave to release a spark of that character outside the boundaries of his attention. Aye, inside its brightness he chanced to unearth those unique tokens and signs known solely to his own ghost.

And once his steps had descended even unto the reception desk, he unearthed yonder a solitary scroll-message left behind destined for his hand, sent from the quarters of his fellow crusader and his guide, disclosing that the fated ground of their encounter had been altered,..for you see, a vast company of circumstances had proven far more complicated than what had been bidden by their expectations.

Yet Leo bided beneath the unyielding conviction, that he was bound by honor to solemnize his outward appearance inside the most majestic, highest manner possible, so that his frame might be deemed worthy of a discourse before the face of a Queen,..even if the matter concerned a maiden unknown and unrecognized before all those currently officially established kingdoms of the earth.

Wherefore before long, he chartered a taxi-vessel for the duration of an entire afternoon, for these indeed were those precise heartbeats when a man had by no means any leave to hoard his treasure.

And now already,..having closed the portals of the boutique, one of those hidden sanctuaries holding a certain thoroughly rare (...and eternally exotic) offering,

..., an avenue of a simply wondrous showcase to well-nigh every eye, there arose and were chanced to be heard the resonances of those somehow forever popular Far Eastern small bells (at the least inside all those quiet sanctuaries,..at the least yonder,..there where mystery keepeth vigil,..there where the spice ever softly exhaleth its fragrance... ).

"A good day unto you, young gentleman," — such were the syllables of one of the two maidens of trade, whilst the alternative one did but quietly, inside a alternative key, somehow self-contained and softly, track his presence with her gaze.

"May it be good unto your souls as well," — Leo replied inside a leisure-woven, wide and rich temper, being perchance solely across those precise minutes entirely outside the boundaries of anxiety and that specific, before every monumental event, well-nigh forever present trepidation.

"To what measure may we proffer our service unto your hand?" — now did the alternative sales-matron bring forth her presence, in winters grander than the foremost one, one of those,..lady-merchants (aye, a certain older, grave dame adorned with a feminine cravat-tie, enfolded whole inside a restrained and solemn raiment, discreet, measured, and bearing a mastered, heavy experience gathered from,..a multitude of alternative folk, quite simply fitting for delicate affairs).

"I should stand in need of something,..look you,..something thoroughly unique, sovereignly apart and specific by its own law, as a tribute-gift destined for a,..let our tongues name her,..a Queen, toward whose frame I preserve a certain unique and solemn devotion. Something of that exact character, truly apart,..In the guise of one of those perfumes,..fashioned out of meticulously selected fragrances that are fated never to wane, and whensoever you chance to touch their essence,..they usher in a sigh, they usher in an absolute inspiration... or perchance some description of those sweetmeats the taste whereof leaveth a lingering trace beneath the tongue even unto that,..peradventure even unto the very final breath of life! Look you, something truly of that character, wherefor the soul unto whom you deliver the offering un-ambiguously recognizeth that within your world, she occupieth,..a thoroughly unique station." — and during the course of all those syllables, his reflections and his entire ghost being spellbound o'er that, and such a precise heartbeat,..remembering that season when, with a childhood joy, yet resembling one of those chilly mountain torrents,..aye, with a crystalline luster of such character, Liliana’s eyes were still strewn and glittering,..and inside this guise did he bring forth that unique and, for his own custom, uncustomary,..tale before their presence, releasing across the wind, as if through a towering sigh, the length of his grand and wide,..and deep expectations.

"Young Prince, a multitude of alternative tribute-gifts of that character are... hm, inside a guise as though to name it, look you... 'despised' and outlawed by the decrees of our current statutes." — and through syllables of that character, the lady yonder, wending inside those unique wise years, looked as though she had by these words merely hinted at the dawn of a certain, some thoroughly uncustomary design.

"Should I possess the leave to lean upon my hearing, my tongue might furthermore observe that your spirit holdeth in mind precisely a marvel of that nature, akin to that which my own words portrayed," — Leo concluded, employing a certain noble, lightly rogue-like and questioning resonance.

"...and should you grant me your leave, I shall right gladly lay the same before your sight," — she answered him with absolute self-assurance. Aye, that lady-merchant, executing a thoroughly noble gesture both of her hand and her frame, pointed out the path whereon she desired that Leo should retrace her tracks, so that Leo straightway performed the selfsame deed. She moved her frame inside a measured, dignified, and thoroughly vital stride... They wended their way toward a space which might well portray the likeness of a storehouse-magazine... And once their steps had drifted inside its perimeter, portraits of those thoroughly rare and a vast company of exceedingly beautiful treasures did (all at once) suddenly spill before Leo’s eyes. Yet not a single artifact did betray an impression of such magnitude, as that which Leo chanced to gather after his eyes, resting upon a certain, some rather unnaturally arranged litter woven of bamboo or some alternative green surfaces kindred to its grain, looked upon an exquisitely beautiful cub of a panda-bear.

And once that esteemed lady had perceived that thoroughly disarming wonder of Leo's, there followed yonder these syllables:

"—Officially, young sir, to the eyes of the wide world, this sweet creature of the Almighty shall right soon unearth its sanctuary inside one of the grandest zoological gardens of our continent; yet unofficially, it could beyond all doubt find a certain unique place... beside the face of thy Queen." — aye, such was the chronicle delivered from the lips of the lady-merchant, who would right soon present her name as Silvana.

And following those, and such specific words, Leo made his declaration:

"My soul comprehendeth. I stand prepared to handsomely reward thy labor... It is thoroughly sufficient that your lips closer explain the entirety of the conditions under which a marvel of that character might break upon the earth." — whereupon, following all trials, it was truly brought to pass...

And behind those syllables of Leo, there followed all those movements which well-nigh forever arrive upon the twilight of a covenant,..so that in the final turning of the hour he delivered a thoroughly uncustomary address of the recipient.

And following all these... components...

He did furthermore depart solely to visit one of those antique masters of the craft, whom even until this sun every at least loosely grander metropolis was custom to possess inside her gates...

Whilst the workshop which his boots visited did hold fast a countenance dating from the very era of his early childhood, and far remoter behind that watch,..peradventure even from the days of his uncle and aunt. Still, every solitary wall inside the interior was blanketed and lined with timber bearing a somewhat smoldering,..coffee-brown hue... And a vast multitude of the instruments,..on this day already belonged rightfully unto the sanctuaries of the muses. Yet within those walls, the absolute air did still exhale a fragrance of that unique excellent, warm, and family-bound atmosphere.

And old Kiril, deriving his lineage from somewhere far yonder,..from the paths of the southern sun, and a master weaver of hair bearing the grandest recommendations, perfectly comprehended Leo’s immediate needs... Aye, there was needful to his spirit during those suns something in his locks born of a truly knightly character.

And as the wealth of time was ebbing away,..

And Leo, having brought to a definitive twilight all his essential labors, previously destined for that sun,..save for that singular, monumental ...and unto his spirit grandest deed, set his steps toward one of those newborn quarters belonging to that,..aye, eternally charming ...and ancient metropolis.

Unto that faraway, wide clearing opening before those unique, monumental edifices yonder, buildings pierced through and through with what manner of melancholic lights... Leo arrived on this watch as well via the vehicles of municipal transit (: aye, unto every monumental turning-point of his life had his boots hitherto arrived inside such a guise). And yonder... inside its frames,..the lamps were by no means merely smoldering with a melancholic glimmer, but according to Leo’s personal impression, they did from some unknown quarter vibrantly and solemnly... blaze and flash.

And a vast multitude of mortals yonder, inside that after all but ordinary vessel of public transit (—which Leo, for some hidden cause, had since the dawning of time uniquely loved,..—was it peradventure for the sake of that certain sacred solitude of his which he was custom to unearth with the greatest ease upon those benches? ...and ...that solitary, completely living heartbeat of his existence which his memory can never surrender to oblivion...) did simply on this eve plunder with their gazes the entirety of Leo’s portrait... whilst a solitary soul among them, a man sorrow-stricken inside those winters that had already looked upon far too much catastrophe, having once more recalled inside his intellect that grand and ancient proverb, did for some hidden cause question his own breast: whether his own boots had until this watch wended across some venomous, evil thorns, or whether his strides had nevertheless failed to traverse a sufficient share upon his path, so that he currently led a life of such twilight sadness—for this watch,..and in that bygone season, still failing to comprehend that peradventure the finest, most noble thorns of all he was precisely now,..inside this precise heartbeat, treading underfoot.

Yet Leo, escorted by the length of all those vibrant, living gazes, stepped outside upon one of those request-stations which in that precise heartbeat stood completely desolate,..barren of human spirit and, by some mysterious turn,..utterly deserted by mortals as well. And only far yonder in the distance did his eyes discern the silhouette of a man... whose outer edges were from passing watch to passing watch being dissolved and washed away by the drifting smoke of a cigarette.

And immediately adjacent, yonder... within the absolute, immediate vicinity, there kept vigil that identical, cleansed and well-nigh highly polished iron container. Leo’s guide stood with his back turned toward his strides. It looked to the senses as though by a gesture of that character he peradventure uniquely desired to shield from every passing eye, and even from his own twain, that newborn, specific moment wherein a mortal, inside that singular, though merely earthly, yet starlight-brilliant... moving picture, should take up and occupy the station of every despised and utilized surplus, most frequently an unsightly... and not rarely a ghastly, ugly personage. And though his eyes had already once looked upon a heartbeat of such character, yet he himself on this watch held the faith,..quite simply gathered the sensation inside his breast that this current one... stood nevertheless uncountably many measures grander than any that had wended before its dawning.

Aye, Leo did all at once, inside a guise solemnly gentle, step and tread upon that dry autumn grass, adjacent to which and beneath whose texture the earth already heavily was strewn and laced with all manner of,..of refuse, and a multitude of alternative, on this day utilitarian-barren things (quite simply, such was the character of that era,..and gales of that exact nature had wended their tracks across a vast company of human souls as well).

And once he had drawn near unto that mortal inside whose form he did on this sun, now,..behold his guide, he did through his own (yet delivered solely for his private ears,..) low wonder, bring to his memory a reminder of whose secret indeed,..for what fated era and what description of magic was ruling here:

"My friend, art thou prepared once more to step inside this currently newborn armored limousine of thine,..on this sun, to be sure, transfigured in its purpose?" — weaving yet another ballad of the new era,..

"Thou wouldst bestow no faith upon the magnitude of satisfaction wherewith my hand shall perform that deed." — aye, Leo made his answer unto him inside a guise as though inside his own breast and from his own choosing he had looked upon far remoter truths than all these components, and had given a far grander hearing unto the entirety of such matters.

And once that deed had truly been brought to pass,

Leo for a certain chasm of time left behind his tracks,..and plundered from his sight that today,..that on this eve already vapor-choked, smoldering midnight sky, which now remained yonder high above the sheet-metal lid of the container.

And the man who was once more pushing the selfsame vessel, and Leo, did on this eve once more direct their steps through the desolate avenues belonging to one of those ancient artisan worker-settlements of that eternally grand metropolis looming o'er the deep and ancient river. And once more, that singular, hoarse orange illumination did track the edges of the wet streets and pavements... The midnight hour had already heavily tightened its grip o'er the grand metropolis, whilst that currently far too crisp, eternally biting air did gnaw upon those alternative, still adorned trees yonder. And it looked to the senses in some manner as though before long, not a single star would peer through that currently scowling and entirely vapor-choked sky.

While yonder far in the distance, high above, that dissolving glare rising from the traffic-beacons, which even until this sun, inside the guise of what description of a scarf, did still rest upon the wall of a currently already sufficiently time-worn building, did portray the measure of nine degrees Celsius.

And yonder beside their flanks,..the reed-grass and the bulrushes did in a somehow eternally bewildered guise rock and sway o'er the high, sharp and minute grass belonging to that lightly thinned, weed-grown soil, and inside a key somehow eternally akin, a rock-firm, hard earth... while yonder, inside the near distance, as if resting upon an exposed, storm-swept bluff, a solitary white iron—and far тoo heavily consumed—stove held sovereign dominion o'er a vast multitude of alternative dead things, and o'er an entire mountain of corroded, gnawed pages belonging to whose journal, peradventure,..whose past newspapers and antiquated pamphlets, what description of brochures,..and that eternally beforehand humiliated hygienic paper,..aye, all those specific leaves of a brief breath... which that furnace had in bygone eras swallowed in pure greed. Their own iron container did but return unto her presence a solitary, metallic-frozen greeting.

With heavy strides, a solitary shoe (: one of those pieces salvaged from those market-stalls and department stores that had for a long season since collapsed along with that once monumental fallen nation) did step past the alternative one, only so that they might once more exchange their stations. While the minuscule wheels, inside that unique, galley-slave and only from passing watch to passing watch alterable rhythm, did roll o'er that currently already lightly mud-soaked ground.

Aye, peradventure for the very first season inside that monumental metropolis, the entirety of everything resembling those ancient parchments, utilized flasks, and all alternative refuse lay on the outer side, whilst everything which for evermore belongeth unto the inner soul of man did keep its station within. And yonder, inside,..resembling a guise as if there truly held dominion a certain atmosphere thoroughly alternative in comparison to the world without,..and inside some manner completely magical,..a solitary key of twilight. Aye, there wrestled within Leo’s soul the fragrance and the warmth of all those hitherto swiftly vanished suns against that unique, somehow eternally strange, specific and seductive stench,..and that foremost,..somehow eternally pleasant chill. While all around their steps,..there held sovereign rule that specific air... belonging to an already heavily dissolved autumn.

Yet his heart, which had well-nigh until that watch been utterly drowned inside sorrow, did nevertheless still possess a cargo of strength to continuously look high toward the crests above, toward the starlight mantles and cloaks belonging even to these contemporary suns. And the moving pictures did now align and follow each other peradventure far too swiftly,..as if cutting through a shifting haze. Aye, a shifting haze which by no means was parted solely by his eyelids,..on this eve heavy and wholly fashioned from slumber. “Whose sacred rites and acts indeed were alternating and replacing one another before their countenances,..and from what manner of far-off quarter did they arrive? Whose ghost indeed ruled this current,..this specific wizard-like, enchanting rhythm? ..” Aye, currently everything surrounding his frame was transfigured into such a monumental, a towering world, and inside an identical guise, and precisely to that high measure, diminutive and small,..

Whilst that component which looked to the senses of both travelers, yet unto each after his own solitary fashion, was that certain rolling trains somehow well-nigh forever pass far remote from their tracks,..wending along yonder with that heavy, sluggish, and uniquely idle rhythm,..Aye, wending forever upon those iron rails which belong not to their own destinies, and which look as though since the dawning of time they never transfigure or alter that course of theirs...’

Aye, the world of that unique, warm domestic hearth-fire,..yet after a guise custom solely to his own head, stood to a certain degree foreign even unto Leo,..yet for a long, long season of winters and summers had it stood alternative to that man bearing an eye charred and burnt by fate. Aye, both souls did but shield and preserve a solitary fragment of that unique, long ago shattered and scattered charcoal-coal,..plundered from the hearth-fire,..while the gale did strike, and the gale did heavily beat against their breasts... save for the solitary clause that Leo still possessed those who held the watch to protect his frame.

...and currently, and on this eve, he and that mortal bearing on this night ragged, torn gloves did nevertheless still hold the faith,..or at the least merely believed that there must yet exist those alternative rolling trains which wend their course even outside the fated iron tracks. “Aye, peradventure even now my own spirit is tracking one of such a character.”

Aye, inside a key truly tart,..did the minuscule wheels before long screech and hiss, for their iron had run upon those, those rails belonging to a desolate,..and on this sun abandoned railway, hailing yonder from the bygone era of the Kingdom,..on this day already for a long season erased and cast out from the parchments of official transit. And the entire dry thicket o'er whose trails they had moved their steps was precisely yonder, right upon that exact ground, blanketed under a certain thoroughly high and diverse, untamed wild grass... And Leo’s companion on this eve, (resembling a guise as if what manner of force had carried his spirit away,) did now,..in that precise heartbeat all at once simply rush lower through the length of that bed of reeds. Continuous with that stride, his feet felt that unique, to his memory familiar coarse concrete (long since plundered by the hands of time) beneath his boots.

Aye, that stood as one of those destined stations upon the path which belonged to Zemfir’s railway composition and whereon the execution of the loading was custom to transpire,..And right swiftly did they recognize its ground by that company of folk born of a heavy life, a crowd which before long gathered yonder, but a little distance away from that concrete whereon their own feet kept watch.

And those folk did fix upon their presence (upon Leo still in a mediated guise,..Leo still enfolded within the inner chamber) certain wondering gazes, countenances which first and foremost spoke of their failure to recognize Leo’s guide as an authentic comrade of their trade. Yet he bestowed not even the most minute shadow of importance upon their looks. Thus, adjacent to the entirety of that thick mist rising from the air and all those alternative, countless vapors that cascaded from the breaths of all those folk so frequently and for days tormented by labor,..into that entire play of a rolling, moving grayness there mingled the smoke of tobacco in flame, scattered more and more by the by now highly impatient folk gathered yonder.

Yet the entirety of those indistinct tones drifting amidst their syllables and that heavy, unified murmuring of all those suppliers of Zemfir, was abruptly and violently shattered by the shout of a solitary man carrying a sun-scorched, dark face, who commenced all at once to run yonder, emerging from some unknown quarter in the far distance:

"Brethren, the train is coming!"

And inside that precise heartbeat, there commenced those unique, specific exclamations which did but from moment to passing moment alternate with the frantic clatter struck against what manner of,..against whatever scrap metal all those now overjoyed folk chanced to lay their hands upon.

Aye, and... within Leo’s breast, that resonance did upraise a monumental pressure, awakening a fierce flame inside his heart... A singular joy that completely vanquisheth and surpasseth all human strength. Their encounter was drawing status-by-status closer and nigher. And what description of drum-beats were ruling now,..what manner of rhythms. It was as if they were cascading from some faraway, remote savannas yonder,..where inside the very heart of the burning continent those unique maidens bearing the color of wild cacao dance in the absolute vicinity of some raging fire.

And before long,..there was caught the resonance of the train itself, whereof until that hour naught had borne witness save that merely passing, rhythmic shuddering of the iron rails. Whereupon, before the eyes of all those folk gathered yonder,..on this watch as well there was found that singular locomotive engine well known to their sight... inside the grand majority of everyday routine recognized simply as the "diesel engine."

Aye, unto Leo’s guide, Master Toza the Scavenger, his kinsman of old and today merely a pensioned laborer of the 'Municipal Cleanliness' , had in a bygone season closer and completely unfolded the entire procedure of the ransom-trade.

And that lore he had seized and utilized, so that he might after the most perfect and thorough guise succeed to present Leo before the face of their Queen, unto whom his ghost held the faith that she stood as that precise being... whom “this boy” had for a long season of time bidden his soul to await.

For the law of the trade decreed that those whose steps arrived foremost in the line, would furthermore surrender their iron under a far grander price in comparison to all alternative souls who should strive to perform the selfsame deed belatedly. Wherefore whole companies of folk, upon the destined loading-stations of Zemfir’s railway track, were custom to gather ever since the very dawning of the morning watch.

And inside a alternative guise, since their own frames stood as those who had arrived final upon the ground of reception, and upon the ground of the ransom-trade, so too did they wend final to present their countenances before Zemfir’s folk; for you see, an unyielding order was strictly revered among the length of all hitherto established collectors of that ancient scrap metal of diverse lineage and diverse purpose.

And while that yonder foremost,..that foremost distance had already swallowed well-nigh the entirety of all those alternative folk who had been found before their strides during the span of all those but recent heartbeats, Zemfir’s receivers,..directed their syllables toward Leo’s guide, as well as after a specific design unto the hitherto still unseen Leo himself:

"My friend, thou art bound by honor to have borne something boundlessly precious inside that sheet-metal vessel, for you see, for the container itself, we stand by no means prepared to surrender a grand cargo of money?"

"Unto my soul, money is a utilitarian-barren thing, my excellent folk..." — they were ambushed by those to their ears unlooked-for syllables, and the weight of that clause did in truth take their spirits by surprise, yet he pressed onward: "...nay, I do but deliver into your keeping thirty-three kilograms of copper, three kilograms of silver, and three hundred and thirty-three grams of gold as a diminutive token of regard and a tribute-offering, if you merely herald the presence of my Prince before the face of your Queen."

"On this eve, my friend, peradventure thou hast partaken far too heavily of the chalice, wherefore it would wend finest if thou shouldst nevertheless retrace thy tracks back unto thy hearth-home." — inside a key of absolute disbelief toward syllables of that character, did give voice a solitary soul among them arrayed in the finest garment, one who did for some hidden cause furthermore act... as Zemfir’s foreman. Only so that above all else, those words of his were tracked and escorted by the thunderous, roaring laughter of all those mortals subordinate unto his command yonder,..folk for some hidden reason far more simple-minded than their master.

Yet thereupon, employing that singular, but gentle smile (forever by some mysterious turn carrying a fragment of compassion) custom to a man who at least once more inside his life, even if it be fated as his very final season, doth once more deliver syllables woven whole from the weight of a monumental heartbeat, Leo’s guide gave voice to this decree:

"Be it so, if such be your faith,..Yet grant me your leave to present my Prince."

And continuous with that decree, he flung open and lifted the lid of the iron container, whereout there stepped and materialized Leo inside the absolute totality of his stature, carrying every single component yonder present from his sovereign personality... breaking upon their sight thoroughly unlooked-for and onto a certain wondrous astonishment of all mortals keeping watch yonder... ’

And for some hidden reason, inside that precise heartbeat, Leo’s guide once more gathered the sensation of being a true man upon the earth.

...Whilst Leo from his palms did pour and cascade a torrent of minuscule coins and all those diverse visages fashioned of copper, of silver, and of pure gold,..wending across the stones whole with that calm, majestic dignity custom to a Prince. Inside the breasts of those who kept their watch standing upon his flanks, there were on this watch unearth-ed not even the lowest, most hushed syllables, but only yonder... wide and widely opened eyes, even though a fleeting heartbeat of such character least of all belonged onto the laws of mere space, but foremost onto the magnitude of everything that slumbered behind its dawning. Thereupon, following a specific flight of time consumed across the hour, that solitary soul who had previously stood yonder arrayed inside the finest raiment, did break his locked lips:

"Ye monumental men, our spirits possess no knowledge as to which specific sovereign Queen your words signify, for you see, within our borders there do in truth exist a vast multitude of exquisitely beautiful maidens, yet not a single soul among their company have we hitherto crowned and proclaimed as our Queen."

"Art thou enfolded in absolute certainty regarding the entirety of those syllables of thine, my friend?" — as if executing that deed in Leo’s stead, his guide poised this query.

"I should recommend unto your hands that ye nevertheless first of all exchange syllables with Master Zemfir himself, who to the salvation of us all, hath on this day set forth alongside our company," — replied that specifically chosen speaker in the name of the entirety of Zemfir’s folk gathered yonder.

"We accept," — Leo stepped inside the perimeter of the discourse in that precise heartbeat. Whereupon follow-ing those words, all those folk made a diligent labor to arrange their bearing after a key at least a touch remoter solemn, firmly enfolded inside the conviction of the genuine presence of what description of a Prince... and so they ushered Leo into that solitary passenger-coach inside the length of their entire composition, destined for the habitation of mortals amidst their journeys... a vessel which did furthermore possess true compartments.

And they presented unto his sight that singular, amidst all others most splendid compartment, whose solitary purpose looked to be that Master Zemfir should partake of his midday feasts inside its cloth walls. Aye, upon that ground they presented,..and proffered unto his hand even Master Zemfir’s own tompy-cigars, which for some hidden reason... Leo on this watch with a glad heart accepted (...for what description of magic had peradventure beguiled his spirit?).

Whilst Julio, for such was the name of Zemfir’s foreman... he who had brought forth the entirety of the prior event, did through that specific solemnity belonging to these heartbeats, depart into that unique compartment wherein Master Zemfir held his watch on this sun, and yonder disclosed unto his hearing the whole of this event, along with all those uncustomary marvels accessible uniquely to its nature.

Yet Master Zemfir nevertheless welcomed the entirety of those tidings with a majestic dignity, and by no means inside that measure of pompous grandeur wherewith his folk had viewed the marvel.

"A Prince, thou sayest?!" — employing syllables that resonance with an echo rising from what description of a unique chasm,..Master Zemfir awaited from the lips of his folk the absolute confirmation of everything priorly uttered, only so that he straightway unearth-ed it inside these following words of Julio:

"Aye, Patriarch. Thy eyes must look upon his face to grasp how his frame appeareth," — delivered by that man of his (—aye,..) of his highest and grandest trust...’

And across the entire span of that watch when Master Zemfir and Julio, his subordinate, shared their discourse, the length of all alternative folk of a lesser rank inside the commune did but explore and scan the iron container,..wending between pure admiration and a deep wonder toward everything they chanced to unearth within its depths... whilst Leo’s guide on this watch stood as the solitary soul who remained wrapped inside the wisdom of locked silence, enfolded beneath the solemn dignity of total restraint.

...And following a specific chasm of time, which to Leo’s senses from passing watch to passing watch looked to portray a true miniature eternity, into that compartment wherein Leo had been nested, there was at long last escorted by the hands of his folk Master Zemfir himself. Whereupon, mingling his palm with Leo’s inside a thoroughly rock-firm salutation, even as the noble customs of his own hearth decree, Master Zemfir did, across the entire duration of that fleeting heartbeat, simply mirror (—nay, by no means merely scan!) Leo’s stature... And thereafter, he surrendered syllables into Leo’s keeping. They were varnished whole with deep liters of satisfaction, and with entire liters of reverence, laced with a rare chalice, peradventure measuring a touch remoter than a deciliter,..of a thoroughly over-brewed astonishment,..as well as, in the final turning, a handful of drops of pure wizard-like mystery...:

"And so,..Thou art a Prince?"

"Inside such a key doth my lineage-name decree," — Leo answered inside a guise thoroughly sincere (inside the solitary key he indeed could,..or at least possessed the craft to deliver),..yet there dwelt inside its resonance, to any mortal eye,..a passing strange refraction.

"What manner of Kingdom hath presumed thy steps unto our gates?" — Master Zemfir... advanced his query, which by the law of all those syllables that had run beforehand, did simply impose its weight. Whereupon Leo, capturing well-nigh every expansiveness belonging to that query directed unto his ear, delivered his response:

"The Kingdom of Love." —which all at once, as if by a sudden turn (—and inside the living reality so it was—), simply breathed quickening life into every further current of their discourse (bringing a soul unto its frame, bringing pure poetry, bringing a game, a melody,..offering up the spirit), so that Master Zemfir welcomed its weight inside these syllables:

"Ah, inside such a design, it wendeth,..young Prince." —wherewith he transfigured the absolute note both for the length of all his prior words and for the length of all his approaching syllables...

"Wherefore, my intellect gathereth the assumption that thou hast wended hither, young Prince, into this modest realm of my choosing, that thy lips might petition my hand for the hand of my young Princess?" —...yet for Leo’s spirit, those stood in truth as heartbeats far too monumental,..and for their coming a mortal possesseth no power ever to sufficiently prepare his ghost, wherefore he granted his own being, even free from intent, an excess of locked silence,..a silence which inside that precise second Master Zemfir solitary possessed no leave to purchase for his own hearth:

"—I look upon no alternative cause for a visitation of such majestic solemnity unto her presence." —

Whereupon Leo after those moments,..did furthermore even unearth the courage to lay before that unique, even though merely ruling over their own world, yet still a true Patriarch, at least a fragment of the length of all those syllables which he stood poised to offer even before the very face of Liliana herself:

"First and foremost,..bestow your forgiveness, my genuine design is to lay before her sight a certain ancient chronicle,..and a handful of,..monumental words, which," — (and in that precise heartbeat Leo fixated his gaze straight into his eyes with absolute self-assurance, yet by no means with any shadow of insolence, but quite simply, with a heart thoroughly solemn and grave), — "are escorted by a far remoter promise still." — whereupon Master Zemfir, despite the length of all his far-famed, rock-firm steadfastness, even though on this watch lightly stained by a certain nervousness thoroughly uncharacteristic of his stature for a long season (—born of haste,..and that impatience custom to belong onto all unsure ghosts,..), did pose a query of this exact character, enfolded whole within its deep meanings and the entirety of its fated consequences:

"And what description of name... is the absolute full name of this young Princess of mine?" — asked he, enfolded beneath the shadow of that now universally visible and universally noticeable bewilderment of his. Aye, the entirety of those high, haughty tones had already fallen to the ground. Whereupon a monumental honor was rendered unto Leo’s frame (at the least inside the eyes of Zemfir’s folk,..even though the truth wended far wider still) for you see, on this watch they shared a discourse in the guise of two rulers, equal to one another. And Leo thereupon,..resembling a guise as if he were parting and opening the portals of a certain world,..one even unto his own ghost to the very dregs unknown, softly and with an exquisite care (exactly in the likeness of a mortal when he wendeth his way lower into what description of,..into some mystical, and who can measure how richly enwoven, long-forgotten subterranean cellar, illuminated merely far yonder by a solitary, dust-covered lamp blanketed under spider-webs, shedding naught but a fragile, well-nigh orange light...),..delivered over his lips the solitary, remaining true and possible response:

"—for my own eyes chanced to encounter her presence beneath an entirely alternative name,..In that bygone era, she bore the name Liliana von Schönberg." — yet a response of that character and carrying such a weight did inside that precise heartbeat truly and heavily rebel against the order of Master Zemfir’s reflections,..(and peradventure mightier still than mere reflections) because not a single maiden inside the perimeter of his commune had ever borne a name of that exact and specific character. And to the absolute measure that he had yonder,..at the very dawnings of their encounter held the reflection that before his very eyes there wended naught but a certain thoroughly uncustomary courtship, now he stood heavily, and across a wide expansiveness,..suddenly and truly completely bewildered by the whole of this, their thoroughly unique situation. And a handful of fleeting moments following those name-bearing syllables of Leo, once more a certain burning, hot silence did separate Leo’s words from the Patriarch’s words, only so that following all trials, the Patriarch nevertheless resolved that his frame should by no means lose a grand portion of this to his spirit, beyond all doubt, monumental and solemn heartbeat:

"—... (for he had well-nigh already parted his lips to speak, yet had not yet given voice to the syllables:) young Prince, I hold the reflection that thy frame standeth worthy of the countenance and the monumental deeds of my young Princess, wherefore my intellect harboreth the intention to guide thy steps precisely before my very threshold,..yet thou shalt be constraint-driven by honor to point her form out unto my sight before the face of all my countless Princesses, for a vast multitude of such maidens keep their vigil inside my realm. Wherefore, if thy eyes should recognize her presence amidst the length of all that,..bestow thy forgiveness upon my tongue,..yet rich and abundant beauty, I shall recommend unto her spirit that she surrender and gift unto thy keeping as grand a portion of her entire time as thy own heart shall petition from her soul."

"I accept, Master Patriarch. And by the law of that exact clause, I shall implore your grace to shield and keep in your own custody this portrait and photograph of mine, dating from some bygone six winters of her life, lest peradventure my own hand should reach and seek its aid when my boots stand before the length of all your beauty." — aye, inside a key thoroughly wise and, to a certain pardonable measure peradventure even crafty, did Leo deliver his answer inside that precise heartbeat . Aye, only so that following those syllables, he brought forth and presented that already heavily aged portrait and photograph of Liliana before those selfsame eyes of Master Zemfir, whereupon he nevertheless unearth-ed inside its lines the recognition of someone uniquely his own,..aye, his own adopted daughter bearing the name Romana.  And inside that precise heartbeat, his memory recalled certain of those, on this sun already long-past events when, in a bygone season, a certain television chronicle-crew had been preparing a documentary report (destined for all those mortals who live yonder after their own measures, leading a life thoroughly ordinary inside its everyday routine) concerning that uniquely and completely uninteresting commune of his (...and inside their sight, a uncustomary social phenomenon...)  wherein he had in that bygone era declared before the searching eyes of those (at that watch...) chronicler-journalists that his daughter Romana stood as his young Princess and a reigning Queen unto all the folk belonging to his commune .

Yet now, following all trials, there still remained but a solitary cloud unclear unto his intellect: concerning what description of an alternative name Leo had given voice on this watch... and in that bygone season, and where indeed under the heavens he had ever chanced and succeeded to encounter her presence (or at the least to cross tracks with her form,..) for you see, their own and her unique style of life had since the dawning of time failed to grant such an opportunity with any light ease. Wherefore he resolved,..that following all trials it wended finest, to leave the entirety of an explanation of that character onto the testament of their own personal encounter. Aye, currently, following all trials,..he had nevertheless already transfigured that prior decree of his regarding Leo’s personal recognition and identification of her frame; yet keeping that token hidden and refusing to disclose it unto his hearing,..he commanded and ordered that the entirety of those present should straightway embark upon the rolling train,..an oracle which did by its own law require no words of explanation, of a certainty, furthermore hold valid for the person of Leo’s guide and the length of that entire, alternative heavy container of theirs,... only so that the rolling train at long last set its  in motion, advancing straight in the direction of that yonder,..his monumental courtyard-avleeya.

And... It stood on this watch as a thoroughly resonant midnight watch...

When that for winters and summers utilized composition, woven of a single locomotive engine and three freight-wagons escorted by a solitary passenger-coach, once more unearthed its presence inside the courtyard- of Master Zemfir. And after Leo had with his elegant shoes at long last stepped and trodden upon that celebrated... Zemfir’s Land, there did unto Leo’s hearing all at once pierce those unique resonances of diverse, lightly exotic ballads, born of those... those uniquely melodic Southern rhythms . Along with the entirety of that high clamor of children who had once more,..and across a count of watches known solely to the Almighty, welcomed even a whole rolling train into the sanctuary of their own front yard; only so that in the final turning, inside that entire symphony of sounds belonging to that monumental Zemfir’s commune, there was found likewise that eternally present shouting of the laborers, who had in that precise heartbeat organized their lines for what manner of frantic execution of all those, their tasks stained with pure sweat .

Yet Leo notwithstanding was highly and across a monumental measure first and foremost taken by surprise when his eyes chanced to look upon the scene,..and when his intellect at long last grasped the reality: that Zemfir’s folk had in truth welcomed his frame in the guise of a true, an authentic Prince... ’

Aye, regarding that arrival of his, the tidings had scattered and spread with a velocity far surpassing the speed of the rolling train itself. Quite simply, such was the nature of those folk...

...Before his feet there was placed,..there was unrolled a certain multi-hued carpet, bearing some of those eternally deep and mysteriously warm patterns hailing from the faraway South-East . And before long—escorted by the length of all those eternally joyful children and those dark and brilliant eyes (inside a guise known solely to their own ghosts...) belonging to a multitude of admiring maidens of that uniquely, slumbering-dark complexion... who chanced to unearth their presence upon the path leading unto the monumental white house, which but yesterday he had merely observed from the far distance, yonder through the midnight watch... from that alternative, surrounding hill yonder (fashioned and born of every single surplus rising from the ancient brickyard),..he chanced to find his frame standing before that singular, wide and somehow eternally warm house, which did in some manner resemble a monumental and expansive pavilion-tent, notwithstanding all that soil inside its structure, and notwithstanding all that brick inside its walls. Aye, on this sun he in truth found his presence standing before her threshold,..

And according to those specific ancient customs belonging to Master Zemfir, monumental discourses were well-nigh forever traditionally held adjacent to an ignited "great fire," even as Zemfir’s folk were custom to name the bonfire which inside those unique, for their realm specific occasions, they would kindle yonder behind the monumental white house, a structure which was furthermore the sovereign residence of Master Zemfir himself.

And inside such a design,..after he had been inside a key thoroughly warm and across a grand measure feasted and entertained within Zemfir’s residence—whilst throughout the entire span of that watch 'The Queen of Zemfir’s Monumental Family' was preparing her being for the encounter with his frame—Leo before long at long last chanced to find his presence standing adjacent to the great fire .

Around its blazing hearth there commenced to gather well-nigh the entirety of Zemfir’s world . Aye, every soul who inside those precise minutes possessed the liberty to unburden his frame from labor . And positioned closest unto that newly arrived Prince of theirs, the young youth and progeny of Zemfir’s world did once more plant their statures,..for you see, a vigil was still being kept,..there held dominion a heavy waiting for some monumental turning .

And those who stood yonder were in truth the absolute youngest amidst their company, across the length of that entire Zemfir’s Kingdom . And they encircled Leo’s frame in that precise guise custom uniquely to free and joyful children,..scattering their gazes to every single quarter, yet notwithstanding first and foremost upon Leo’s person . Whilst throughout the entire span of that watch, inside that specific child-like delight so uniquely custom to their grain, they did but playfully nudge and jostle one another,..and as if emerging from what manner of... quite simply from some light, drifting slumber,..they did cascade those eternally innocent, child-like smiles  (: for such was their true nature: aye, they chanced to unearth a vast abundance of things which stood at the selfsame watch as a marvel for admiration and a token for play) . Whilst those eternally restless eyes of childhood—wherein, inside a identical key as ruled the hearts of their elders, there looked to burn and smolder the reflection of pure metal—did by their own sovereign will measure the Prince arriving from what description of an unknown, unique land . Escorted by a truly romantic significance, they did but softly bathe and wash Leo’s countenance .

And for a certain brief watch of time remoter, while yonder somewhere behind the line of his eyes there still mingled the sparks that leaped and glittered from that monumental bonfire, against all those alternative sparks that did flash and strike from the eyes of Zemfir’s folk  (...for quite simply, such was the law of their nature...), Leo in some manner surrendered to oblivion the length of the entire alternative world surrounding his steps . Because you see, inside his own breast in that precise heartbeat there burned a fire, which notwithstanding was boundlessly grander than even that monumental bonfire of Zemfir’s choosing . Yet notwithstanding that flame which had fanned into a raging fire inside his innermost chambers, Leo despite its heat felt inside his frame the chill presentiment of a dread bearing the power of iron-frozen frost, a stillness custom to belong solely unto those forests yonder high upon the faraway East, rising from the remote North . And a frost of that exact character did from passing watch to passing watch possess the virtue to heavily tighten its grip o'er his heart, well-nigh unto the absolute frontiers where the life-blood itself is fated to freeze and halt its circulation...,  yet precisely yonder, inside that heartbeat when he stood poised peradventure to tremble from the sheer terror which on this watch collided against each and every single hope of his ghost, somewhere yonder... something inside Zemfir’s fire chanced to crack and burst. And that resonance simply shattered and broke asunder Leo’s reflections,..and the entirety of his gaze once more retraced its path back into that crisp midnight air and amidst that whole dancing, vibrant company beside his flank. And while the sparks continued,..still from passing watch to passing watch, minutely or in a grand torrent, to flash and strike from that single wood-ignited and evening bonfire, wherein by every token of the world there was burning a monumental oak-tree (: aye, resembling a guise as if that certain, inside that era still monumental ancient god—yet according to the legends... of this contemporary sun, a fallen angel of the abyss—were scattering those fires from the hearth,..if perchance he might strike dread into Leo’s heart, a breast which currently, on this sun, yonder... was burning with a flame mightier even than that oak-tree itself,..) inside a guise well-nigh inaudible and with a mysterious stride there drew near Romana, the young Queen of Zemfir’s choosing and his solitary officially acknowledged daughter .

Whons the gazes of all those present did waver and hesitate as to which sovereign countenance they should first surrender their vision: onto Romana or onto Leo . Oh, those selfsame eyes did furthermore portray unto Leo’s sight that her footsteps were drawing closer, and remoter closer unto his frame, only so that he nevertheless in some manner and for some hidden cause,..refusing to turn his frame toward them, and notwithstanding all the chill presentiment of his dread,..with a majestic dignity bided his time to look before his countenance upon that,..that unto his spirit since the dawning of time commanding gaze, which according to his faith,..Liliana,..aye, had forever borne within her soul .

And,..Aye, there did at long last arrive a look kindred unto his own,..

...yet this current one was launched and released from eyes of such a character, which did in some manner shine,..resembling those yonder specific pearls harvested from those unique, faraway seashells cradled beneath the depth of eternally tropical seas.

Woven whole of fire, reminiscent of rum,..yet ripe like someone's,..all those burdensome winters and summers. And it chanced to dwell beneath a mane of hair, which for some hidden reason was as pitch-black as is a night devoid of any manner of moon . Aye, and that charcoal-hair stood as the sovereign solitary crown belonging to this Queen, and onto that of hers, and to Leo's and a multitude of alternative eyes, exquisitely beautiful countenance... a face in truth to his senses somehow already once looked upon, even though on this watch it appeared unto Leo’s sight somehow far darker than he had (on this sun,..for his ghost: ) but a brief watch before looked upon its frame (aye, the entirety of all this stood for his spirit now as utterly, heavily shattering,..it stood,..somehow, quite simply terrifying!),..’

And it peradventure in truth stood darker than Liliana’s countenance, because upon this maiden whom Leo was in that precise heartbeat observing, that certain, yonder,..upon that ground well-nigh forever steppe-like sun hovering o'er that,..that eternally wind-swept territory, did with its,..with that ever sharp and secretly burning brush, clothe her skin inside that specific hue of cacao, or peradventure inside the color of pure coffee,.. (and whether there chanced to be found yonder any violence executed by the hands of all those currently completely newborn technologies, whereon peradventure, could it be solely.., Romana had insisted so that even in that alternative outward, and fleshly guise, she might furthermore become a full-blooded member of Zemfir’s commune,..—yet such a clause nevertheless belongeth unto those discourteous, vulgar tavern-chronicles... and inside the fabric of this romance,..it possesseth no fated place) .

...And, Zemfir’s Queen did in this precise heartbeat extend that specific coffee-hued hand of hers toward his presence, so that, after his lips had rendered a kiss upon her fragrant upper-hand, she furthermore made her salutation, delivering those measured yet by a majestic dignity supported syllables:

"I am Romana, the daughter of Zemfir Jovanović,..and inside the vision of certain folk recognized likewise as the Queen of this single, small and unacknowledged, yet honorable and proud Kingdom." — syllables which did quite simply inside that precise heartbeat turn Leo’s eyes into pure copper.

"I am Leon, a Prince, and I possess not yet my own sovereign Kingdom, yet behold, my boots have wended hither now,..into thy own, so that my spirit might unearth that maiden unto whose presence I chanced not to arrive in time to declare what description of monumental emotions I unearthed toward her frame." — Leo made his response, employing that singular, as if never hitherto trembling key of his voice,..entirely flooded and overwhelmed by an excess of towering emotions... (...and what manner of force was currently yonder marshalling his bewildered reflections?)

"Art thou looking upon my presence and beholding that maiden, young Prince?" — Romana wended her query, using a key truly majestic, yet open, and gentle—the solitary guise inside which it indeed could be, inside which it could exist upon the earth. (Aye, inside no alternative design could it have broken. His own intellect was bound by fate to hold that knowledge as well.)

"To the deepest sorrow of my ghost, for some hidden cause,..I harbor not that rock-firm conviction within my breast to the selfsame measure that I hold this alternative truth..., that thy frame carryeth her countenance. It wendeth so strange,..in some manner thoroughly bewildering." — aye, the heart forever comprehendeth the Truth (and within its chambers there abideth forever a mightier memory)... far beforehand than human syllables and far beforehand than the analytical intellect, and no manner of wild wormwood possesseth the virtue to halt its circulation. For you see, precisely a juice and potion of that exact character Romana had since a faraway era partaken of:

— (she gave no voice to the word 'but', yet inside the air it looked to be caught and heard as if she in truth had) "I have borne this fated countenance already for a span of nineteen winters and summers." —

...yet Leo inside a brief watch of time did completely imprison the entirety of his own truth behind these following words of his(...for by the law of something boundlessly grander than their own presence, everything upon the earth was still far too premature)..:

"Aye,..precisely a identical count of winters and summers doth Liliana possess across the fabric of her life." — oh, what manner of wild, untamed hopes were ruling here, and whose indeed were they (for you see, they belong-ed neither unto his spirit,..and they belonged neither unto her own breast). Yet peradventure her soul possessed the knowledge as to whence the entirety of it cascaded:

— (And she gave no voice to the phrase 'for some hidden cause,' yet inside the air everything wended as if she in truth had:) "I hold the faith that, had my frame not been gifted and surrendered inside my very first winter of life, unto my monumental father Zemfir by the hands of an unknown lady arrayed in white, I too might peradventure look upon thy Liliana with those selfsame eyes wherewith thy own gaze beholdeth her countenance." — ...a solitary agony crossed tracks with another,..Aye, she had by now registered and recognized a vast cargo of truths, and inside a remoter measure understood everything, yet he for some hidden cause had not, or possessed no power,..or harbored no will to grasp it. Aye, he for some hidden cause,..:

"Bestow thy forgiveness upon my spirit, yet I am constraint-driven by honor to pose this query unto thy ears once more. Art thou in truth, to the very dregs of thy soul certain that never until this watch hast thou borne the name Liliana across the length of thy life, across the fabric of thy life, thou reigning Queen of this truly majestic, proud Kingdom?" - as if his spirit desired to hack asunder and sever inside his own breast everything which might, inside what description of future,..once more return to life, a currently already beyond all doubt superfluous hope...

And she did but once more deliver into his keeping that response which had nevertheless beforehand been by his spirit in the depths already divined:

"I stand enfolded in absolute certainty to that selfsame measure wherewith my ghost is currently certain that I share this discourse with thee, thou enamored Prince. Destiny hath across a grand measure wended its will so that I and thy cherished maiden merely carry an identical countenance."

Yet Leo inside that precise heartbeat chanced to comprehend her meaning but little. Wherefore from his throat arrived furthermore this thoroughly heavy,..and for every alternative minute highly fragile query (...for so vast a cargo within his breast was fashioned of the delicate):

"Wouldst thou notwithstanding grant me at least the charity of thy companionship, if my spirit should harbor a yearning after such a design...?" — yet there remained inside her soul even in that watch a rock-firm, unyielding honesty (for you see, aye, she had been mentored well-nigh forever later to wend through her grief,..solely, yonder somewhere in the hidden secrecy of her heart):

"Had I even granted such leave unto thy path, thou wouldst right swiftly grasp the reality, that my companionship bringeth naught but a heavy sorrow unto thy life," — so that she might surrender into his keeping the genuine good intent and counsel of a maiden who possesseth the craft to forever measure the time which rightfully belongeth to her soul. (...and was her ghost indeed fated to fail to comprehend a heart enfolded beneath the tides of emotion...). Aye, the countenance had since the dawning of time been that slowest component upon his frame. (Whither indeed had it currently wended to find its scoured sanctuary?) And by the law of that clause, his heart was custom well-nigh forever,..at every dawning, to remain trapped inside locked silence. Yet she, employing that certain exquisitely beautiful, gentle smile:

"I shall wend my path whole with sincerity... Unto my spirit it is in truth a sorrowful thing that thou hast inside my frame failed to unearth thy sovereign Queen, yet, young Prince, thy heart rightfully belongeth unto an alternative maiden," — once more directed his soul to seek the weight of her prior syllables. Because,..aye, quite simply of such a character stood the unyielding facts (: nay, that was by no means she! It stood as a mortal merely boundlessly reminiscent unto her countenance). He, Leo, did continuously surrender into the keeping of locked silence every fated role of his syllables, while through the chambers of his ghost: it looked as though there were splattering what manner of living mire,..and peradventure its texture still held fast a golden reflection. And inside that crucible, naught more could be executed by the length of all those inner tears,..While his gaze (—a token his heart had since the dawning of time rarely hidden—) was tracked and escorted whole by the sorrowful looks of Zemfir’s folk, mortals across a vast portion of their expansiveness highly displeased by the clause that they had failed to receive and win their own Prince.

And for a certain watch of time, the silence was but in a minute key torn asunder by that certain, eternally warm crackling of the oak-tree which, lo,..yonder was smoldering away, while the eclipse inside Leo’s eyes was but in a minute fashion broken,..quite simply gnawed by the sparks which in that precise heartbeat... did leap and fly from that,..from that fire which was rending and undoing the oak-tree yonder,..

And all at once, after her intellect grasped the reality that the stillness had already delivered a sufficient testament, Romana extended her palm unto Leo, breaking the length of that entire silence with these syllables:

"The solitary token which my hand possesseth leave still to proffer unto thy path is this evening feast prepared whole in thy honor..." — Romana held fast within her frame those graceful movements and that unique, commanding vocabulary belonging onto a true Queen, because you see, the old gentleman, the Patriarch, had granted her spirit a high education even inside a certain monumental, faraway world metropolis. For yonder, look you, he held fast his close kinsmen,..

... "My thanks to thee." — Leo uttered inside that precise heartbeat, accepting the warmth of her hand.

And after they had positioned their statures each upon their fated place yonder, inside that monumental parlor belonging to that grand white house,

There commenced a uncustomary and magnificent, and a lightly mysterious dance executed by all those maidens of Zemfir’s commune uniquely skilled in that craft...’

And,..Multi-hued,..a vast cargo of the multi-hued was on this watch deployed before Leo’s eyes. Yet there remained likewise a vast portion of the pale and withered inside the entirety of his,..and step-by-step furthermore inside their own surroundings,..While inside his innermost chambers, everything currently was (transfigured into) once more the murky smog.

`...It did possess within its strings those unique, specific Far Eastern rhythms. Barefoot and to the eye boundlessly delightful maidens, did tread and step o'er the carpets woven whole of those Far Eastern and those alternative, eternally deep and warm patterns,..Aye, quite simply by their steps writing their tracks across the length of all those, and inside such specific measures, inside such unique rhythms.

And upon the twilight and completion of that entire dance,..Master Zemfir, clinking against certain yonder chalices fashioned of deep and robust colors, did herald his—by every token of the world—brief syllables:

"Since this encounter of two young, yet across a grand measure condemned and fated souls—for whom my spirit sincerely hopeth,..for whom our collective league sincerely hopeth, that a monumental fortune and happiness awaiteth their steps in the seasons to come—hath brought gladness unto neither of their hearts, I propose unto your hands, my kinsmen, that we partake of the feast and drain the chalices, so that even by the law of that strength which the meat and the draught shall grant onto our frames, we might bring aid to their spirits that they may vanquish and rise above this crucible."

And as the evening meal commenced,

Leo more and more,..and across an ever grander measure, began to gather the sensation that some manner of,..what description of a strange creation, a substance of the soul was commencing in this hour to besiege and occupy his fleshly body as well. Aye, it was releasing for the current watch its still fragile roots—which his hand even in that heartbeat possessed not the craft to cut asunder—deeply into his warm life-blood, a current already wending beneath the weight of what description of poisons... For you see, (for some hidden cause?) that presence did possess a,..a tender, even though nevertheless a certain venomous touch. And while it already commenced to heavily press upon his every pore,..yet did it touch the pores of his soul as well? Or peradventure solely those belonging to the flesh,..it did nevertheless first and foremost merely caress and soothe that towering sorrow of his,..remoter than any alternative thing upon the earth,..even if wending merely inside a guise of that character (peradventure somehow even in a subtle, rogue-like key) bestowing a monumental weight upon its significance.

And the solitary shield which still from passing watch to passing watch cut through and severed the strands of that specific,..of that growing root, were none alternative than Romana’s own gazes. Yet those roots notwithstanding would right swiftly, once more regain their unyielding resilience,.. even against those unique, fairytale-warm and beautiful gazes of her choosing.

And while Leo did still for a certain watch of time exchange with Romana those selfsame gazes enfolded whole within a twilight sadness... Whose mercy indeed was his ghost seeking? And a vast cargo of voiceless syllables held dominion now,.. (in that bygone season). If peradventure they might reconcile his spirit unto this newborn sorrow... Yet their hearts, look you, were robust and unyielding (: inside what alternative design indeed could their boots have ever chanced to unearth each other’s presence inside such uncustomary chronicles?..). Yet step-by-step the very gazes grew stale and insipid, the resonances grew insipid, the meat grew insipid,..and vacant became every single chalice. And everything before his countenance, as if by a sudden turn,..and all at once turned pale and withered inside the sight of his eyes. Everything was once more borne away by a newborn, far-off distance,..unto whose horizon there looked to be caught no ending.

And Romana did gather the sensation of an identical, uniquely deep sorrow,..because her spirit had failed to bring gladness onto a wondrous youth (—for inside such a light did her eyes look upon Leo) and that once more by the law of that solitary reason boundlessly grander than her own frame. Yet notwithstanding those, custom to measure and scan life, minor winters and summers of hers, she nevertheless possessed the craft... (or at the least succeeded) to note (if not indeed to clearly perceive) that his soul would never unearth a definitive fortune across any manner of design,..inside the embrace of her arms; wherefore she, exactly in the guise of Leo himself, did but bide her time awaiting that precise heartbeat when this evening feast, whereat both souls still kept their presence, should right soon unearth its definitive twilight and end.

And once that watch had truly (...broken upon the earth and) come to pass,

Leo, even though he stood invited unto the same, (nevertheless) harbored no single desire to await the dawning of the morning watch inside Zemfir’s homestead; wherefore his steps were escorted outside inside that selfsame design wherewith his presence had first been welcomed... because you see, the folk yonder had in truth looked upon his stature and beheld something uniquely princely within his frame...

Aye, Master Zemfir for the necessity of their journey back on this watch chanced to gift and proffer even his own locomotive engine and the entirety of his private passenger-coach, so that by their metal, along with the service of his own folk, they might once more reach that selfsame periphery of that eternally newborn peninsular metropolis,..Aye, yonder and solely so far, unto which boundary Master Zemfir himself possessed the official leave of movement via that unique, throughout his realm specific transport-vessel.

And already, right before Leo’s definitive departure outside the gates of Zemfir’s commune, even upon that very threshold of entrance into Zemfir’s coach,..beneath that late-awakened moon which was just emerging under that still far too vapor-choked sky, Romana gifted and bestowed unto Leo a certain tender yet powerful kiss upon the very corner, immediately adjacent unto his currently already faded and heavily frozen lips, while whispering unto his ear (—yet this solitary watch remoter—) with a kingly elegance:

"This token standeth as my private gift which thy frame must with exceeding care expend and consume until the watch thy eyes unearth that genuine sovereign Queen of thine." —underpinning the length of all those syllables of hers using a certain exquisitely beautiful yet muffled smile of her choosing, a guise which looked thereafter to be signed solely by that unique,..that single flutter of her eternally evening-brilliant and currently already so heavily moistened eyes (: a frailty which she rarely permitted her ghost to reveal—for you see, she possessed a far too perfect knowledge as to what description of omens can be utilitarian, and what cargo can turn venomous and harmful onto the folk surrounding her tracks...) whereupon above all else,..she furthermore gave voice aloud to this decree:

"Abide in strength, sweet Prince, no matter what manner of doom breaketh upon thy path." —harboring not the most minute presentiment that peradventure inside the seasons to come the chronicles might lay bare the truth: that these specific, that words of such a character had been spilled into a barren void... (...or quite simply scattered into a far too towering expansiveness,..and a far too crushing depth).

Yet before long, that eternally brief railway composition set its once more in motion...

and Zemfir’s, onto Leo’s spirit now already sorrowfully enchanted courtyard- commenced status-by-status to vanish outside his midnight sight. For a certain watch of time, there remained inside the wells of his eyes solely that yonder monumental bonfire, which continuously blazed yonder,..behind Zemfir’s residence, only so that it,..in the final turning of the hour did sink into stillness and fade away.

And those minuscule morning watches of the light were flitting past,

When Leo was already taking his leave yonder, upon the outer periphery of the Metropolis, parting from that certain eternally monumental depth alongside his guide, wending onto yet another,..brief yet beyond all doubt sweet delusion,..and a boundlessly grander sorrow,.. Whereupon he, that heavy laborer of the deck, addressed unto Leo’s hearing those specific,..syllables custom to a mortal whose life had since the dawning of old been truly lost:

"Bestow thy forgiveness, my friend. It looketh to my senses as though my hands possess no further craft to bring anything onto a good end upon this earth..." —yet Leo gathered and scraped together even that fragile shard of strength which, peradventure precisely for a fleeting second of that character, still remained inside his breast, so that he might address his hitherto guide—notwithstanding that he chanced to bide inside a delusion... —through syllables heavily enfolded beneath a downcast, dejected key,..yet nevertheless declaring:

"Nay, my spirit nevertheless holdeth no faith that matters wend after such a design,..but for some hidden cause I hold the faith that I, precisely in the likeness of thy own frame, was born beneath that singular, specific night devoid of any manner of moon,..for you see, inside a passing strange key it appeared onto my senses as though our strides nevertheless succeeded to arrive,..unto a solitary droplet of her angelic blood," (—his entire being deeply spellbound, deeply submerged inside a palace of reflection, carrying a heart which gave no voice to the cry: “Oh, inside what a crushing guise art thou heavy, this soil of ours, to bear the blood of that angel...”) —for indeed, peradventure that stood as a barren, futile solace,.. (yet such was the clause solely upon the foremost hearing,..and upon the first glance of the intellect).

Whilst Leo’s guide unto that monumental, yet woven whole of what description of mystery, delusion, welcomed his syllables using naught but a quiet nodding of his head as the token of a sacred agreement, even though he chanced to comprehend but a scarce portion of the length of all these words of Leo,..or peradventure had merely, after all trials, accepted their warmth into his ghost. Because, inside the living reality,..he had not been, and neither possessed he the craft to be acquainted with a vast abundance of all those prior unto these, previous events,..and with a multitude of foreign winters and summers. Wherefore above all those components, he merely let fall this decree (—even though there chanced to be far too much of the parched inside those syllables...):

"Hold fast, my young friend. Notwithstanding all trials, right soon shall thy own train arrive as well."

Yet Leo inside that precise heartbeat, borrowing but a scarce portion of strength from words of such character, did nevertheless permit a whisper both for his own ghost and for himself,..and unto that currently once more slumbering hope of his :

"Peradventure,.." — yet that mortal,..did he peradventure but for a solitary final watch desire to look straight into his eyes,..or peradventure merely wished both for Leo's sake and for his own to give voice aloud through the falling rain :

"It shall arrive, bestow the faith of thy word upon my lips. Peradventure it shall be but a touch belated,..yet bide thy time to await its coming. Because thou art still boundlessly young and still possessest the opportunity to transfigure into a man across every expansiveness,.." — yet Leo inside that precise heartbeat, moving inside a guise as though (—following all trials, after all—) he were constraint-driven by honor at least for a brief watch to slumber,..for so powerfully, with such a monumental strength did sleep make its assault upon his frame now,..on this sun, and he did but append this solitary clause :

"Yet notwithstanding my thanks wend unto your soul for the entirety of everything."  — aye, Leo made his answer both for the sake of his short-lived companion and for his own ghost, and for all alternative souls upon the earth, whereupon before many heartbeats had flown he nestled his frame inside a taxi-carriage, and before long vanishedoutside every single horizon and sight of that now for a long season sorrow-stricken man... ’

And that stood as the very final watch his eyes looked upon his stature. Nevermore upon this earth did their paths cross again.

“...Through the glass windows of the automobile, and inside the fading pupils of Leo’s gaze, there were boiling and churning the length of all those night-lights which this metropolis held fast the virtue to proffer inside that hour. And while the moving pictures illuminated by their glare did before his currently already heavily hungover, dazed reflections flit past, in some manner resembling that specific velocity of rewinding the cinematic film of a mortal's existence,..for you see, unto Leo’s currently well-nigh exhausted soul, for some hidden cause, a velocity of that character belonging to the carriage-vessel brought a perfect solace. (Aye, his ghost gathered the sensation—nay, the presentiment—that his lips would peradventure have let fall a desperate scream of pure agony if the taxi-carriage should but for a fleeting second have come to a halt inside that watch).”

Oh, the length of that entire monumental metropolis, over against his presence, stood in that watch nevertheless,..even uncustomarily quiet and after some manner uncustomarily tranquil. Whereupon inside a passing heartbeat, while his carriage-vessel wended yonder past one of those most sacred, holy edifices towering inside this city, his eyes chanced even to discern a young, enamored couple, treading by the inertia of everyday routine with frantic steps o'er the pedestrian crossing, yonder immediately high above, inside the near-lying distance before their tracks... only so that inside that specific heartbeat, right soon, he let fall a command all at once resolute, yet delivered with blunt sharpness unto the driver of the taxi-carriage: that he should in this precise second halt the vessel,..immediately yonder, but upon the margin,..so that their presence might bestow the charity of leave onto those solitary, gentle paces, even if wending beneath the very brow of their automobile.

VI — The Potion

Nay, by no means had that deed been executed and brought to pass solely for his private sake, but first and foremost for the Heights above,..for the eternally monumental God. Aye, his spirit possessed that knowledge somewhere yonder, moving inside that narrow pass between the quickening intellect and the subterranean chambers of the subconscious... Because, look you, even those minuscule offerings and sacrifices, by the law of their private events, did from passing watch to passing watch exert a mightier influence upon the world than a vast company of those which even the parchments of histories preserve inside their leather binds... Aye, and... from season to season the Almighty did receive and take them into His keeping inside an identical measure as He welcomed those alternative, for the sake of history monumental, grand sacrifices.

Aye, inside the fabric of his love toward her presence he had to the very dregs of his soul held fast his faith... (Aye, the entirety of everything alternative is but the passing of youth...) Aye, Leo did furthermore proffer even this specific covenant and petition unto the presence of God,..aye, by the law of that act he had purchased at least a fragile share of faith remoter still, destined even for the approaching suns, using this specific... poetic, this symbolic covenant...

Inside the minuscule morning watches of the light,

He chanced once more to unearth his presence within the fortress of the hotel, following a certain lo-ооng carriage-drive through that metropolis eternally so wide and by no means merely monumental... (: a journey which he had to a certain measure and by his own sovereign will, personally lengthened and prolonged,..).

And as he found his frame once more nested inside that private chamber of his, destined solely for the watches of these contemporary suns, right soon did he (to a certain degree,..) by sheer force summon his body to slumber. Because a state of slumber was in this watch an absolute, fierce necessity unto his frame. Yet that slumber was heavily besieged and occupied by those specific moving pictures of a thoroughly ghastly, ugly personage, so that in the morning watch, following all trials, he awoke dazed with a heavy hangover and across every single design fractured and broken, holding fast inside his palms what description of a ...crumpled, mangled blueprint destined for his approaching future,..while his spirit continuously even remoter was besieged by those venomous-ugly nightmares, whose countenances he had tracked with a trembling dread across the length of the long midnight watches... ’

He chanced inside their depths to behold certain strange,..folk, who did with a savage appetite feed upon alternative mortals, devouring their flesh with a mocking arrogance, and after a guise mournfully gluttonous, whereupon they did submerge and steep the corroded, gnawed bodies of their victims lower into the waters,.. into whose currents there was falling what description of, a solitary salt descending from the heavens. And while inside the perimeter of that dream, the full moon did cascade a certain crimson, blushing beam of light, Leo remoter and remoter began to stifle and drown inside that specific, what description of,..saline water, remoter and remoter losing from the wells of his eyes the illumination,..and the starlight-glare of the moon. And for a passing heartbeat, his frame would completely sink beneath the waves and once more emerge, and inside such a design, thereupon once more plunge to the depths,..only so that after all trials he somehow at long last emerged,..continuously clinging and holding fast onto a solitary such corroded, gnawed body of a victim belonging onto that specific (terrifying) human arrogance, continuously in some manner and for some hidden cause failing to discern her countenance,..yet nevertheless gathering the sensation of a certain thoroughly pleasant, well-nigh alternative and quiet fragrance inside her absolute vicinity, a scent which did inside such a guise chase away each and every single insolent stench that had fanned and scattered far in the distance all around.

`...Aye, he did commit to script each and every single most minute,..every solitary detail belonging onto those events throughout the entire span of that watch, whilst his frame was moving via the vehicle of the municipal bus toward that eternally slumbering, dream-like river, and inside that key, by the decree of his own soul,..and his heart long ago adopted metropolis, a city which had leaned its heavy walls upon that deeply-fragrant pearl of the eternally wind-swept plain. Upon yonder parchment pages belonging onto his diary, he simply did engrave and etch those selfsame moving pictures from the nightmare, along with certain of his private notations for their lines, ...harboring the solemn design to present the entirety of everything, ...before the face of Grandma Petkana, so that alongside her kinsmanship he might once more strive to unearth their authentic, true countenance.

Yet before long, that until then nocturnal road-ship of his did bring its drive-shafts to a definitive halt, upon platform number four. Whereupon Leo did pour and cascade those newborn, leaden-heavy strides of his currently already heavily exhausted body through the streets of the Metropolis, a city which looked as if for the very first season it no longer recognized his presence...  Aye, on this sun he had hidden its expansiveness somewhere deep inside his own breast, and hidden his own ghost somewhere deep inside its framework, so that the entirety of all that width between them had all at once somehow simply transfigured into a foreign, alien realm . Because, while he wended his path then, ...on this watch treading the trails (: quite simply inside those heartbeats he stood in need of that specific midnight air remote than any alternative cargo upon the earth), he kept a vigil to shield and hide his presence even from his own sovereign soul, ...and those specific steps of his had once more guided his frame back unto yonder, for his spirit otherwise eternally sunny courtyard-avlija, cradled upon the bank of that forever quiet river, that river of eternally rare butterflies.

And after Leo had stepped and crossed the threshold into its perimeter, his ears chanced to catch the resonance of water sizzling as it was previously poured by the hands of his uncle Alimpije o'er the foremost fire of the barbecue. And inside that extinguished barbecue fire, every fated reason for celebration was utterly put out and extinguished likewise .

Namely, his uncle among alternative designs harbored the intention to prepare even a grilled feast and thereby celebrate that monumental reunion which they all inside the chambers of the house had with a joyful heart hoped for; yet his aunt already, ...merely having peeked and advanced her gaze o'er the entrance gate into their courtyard, by a fated turn of circumstances had registered Leo’s stature, along with the entire cadence of his stride, ...and yonder, still at the very dawning and beginning of their street, looked upon his frame as he was cascading those specific paces “not surrendering them a step”...

Aye, a cadence of such a character, where each individual stride did but mean a value solitary unto itself... whilst unto Leo’s spirit not a single soul among their company did signify remoter than a passing fraction.

...And beneath the weight of those specific steps, Aunt Anastasia did fully divine and cognize each and every single syllable of Leo’s concerning everything that had broke upon his path inside Zemfir’s Kingdom. Aye, right before the very threshold of entrance into the house, she welcomed his frame into her presence, taking both his palms, his twain hands inside her own palms, inside her own hands, and bestowing upon his sight yonder a look woven whole from a muffled helplessness yet enfolded beneath a deep compassion, a deep understanding. Whereupon following those watch-beats, Leo did but softly let fall through his lips:

"My syllables destined for the approaching days are stillborn."  —yet his aunt accepted the length of those words of his in their absolute entirety, ...escorted whole by that singular gaze fashioned of discrete understanding (: even after the law of Leo’s private syllables: after a guise inside which she solitary possessed the craft to move,..). ...’

Aye, she was custom well-nigh forever to observe the length of everything surrounding her tracks using the fullness of her gazes. Quite simply, such was her true nature...

`...which along with the eyes did softly rock and sway, upon a certain cloud fashioned whole of twilight sorrow, ...yet adjacent onto all those components, majestic and for some hidden cause, ...still enfolded beneath the proud.

In that precise heartbeat Leo—having received from her eyes, through his own gaze, the official leave for the execution of that deed—retired lower into the perimeter of the garden wending through the portal, which for his steps—resembling a guise as if unto what manner of King ruling over what description of... a lost Kingdom—had in absolute silence been unbolted across his passage by the hands of his uncle Alimpije. Aye, continuous with that stride they did but exchange those specific looks, custom onto mortals majestic, yet folk proud as well, ...inside the perimeter of their private defeat. - ...for inside some manner they had since the dawning of time, after whatever guise, ...beyond all doubt known the sacred cause wherefore they wage their combat.

And...’

“Shall I once more release and let flow a torrent of my own life-blood—, ...is that deed not an easy thing to bring to pass? Each and every single liberty of my youth, I shall simply renounce and surrender outside my tracks...” (—A solitary, heavy prayer belonging onto his ghost...)

“...for a handful of hours Leo had inside such a design sat yonder thoroughly devoid of any manner of significant emotions, upon that solitary, since the dawning of time quiet bank of the lowland river. And inside a passing heartbeat it looked unto his senses as though his brow no longer even held fast any reflections, even though millions of their company were flitting through the chambers of his quickening consciousness, yet devoid of any specific order and void of purpose.”

And adjacent onto that foremost evening meal of his, partaken inside the perimeter of his bed,

A vessel wherein until that watch, until this sun, he had in a bygone season merely scanned those moving pictures of dreams wending across the night, ...there commenced to flow certain suns fashioned whole of smoke.

Aye, by the law of a heavy travail had that dinner been implored from her hand, and beneath an even grander travail had its weight been accepted into his keeping. (: For you see, inside such a design no mortal should ever have leave to live, neither under the roof of any uncle, nor under the watch of any aunt... “Was it fated that even onto this ground, following all trials, there arrived all those suns conquered and won by bitterness, and by pure ashes?”)

Because beneath their heavy shadows, even from the very arrival of the eve, he straightway retired lower into the perimeter of his bed; whilst before the very dawning of the aurora, then early, thoroughly early inside that foremost morning watch, exactly in the likeness of what description of a stag (јелен), he did extract and guide his frame yonder, ...unto the bank of that river belonging onto those certain, eternally rare butterflies, ...whereupon his evening meal was placed before his sight by the hands of Aunt Anastasia (Анастазија) devoid of any manner of superfluously scattered syllables. For in that watch, well-nigh every vocal sound stood merely after such a grain, ...

“A syllable, and everything once more is but some passing word, ...and a word, can it be indeed yet another word while amidst their alignment there abideth not even a solitary day, a day born uniquely for the sake of memory? Winters and summers, then suns, then yet another sun, and a sun, and behold, once more here wendeth even a year, ...because by no means was every childhood sufficient unto its own hearth. Far too towering inside the far distance wendeth everything, ...and onto each and every single quarter of locked silence.” (...The void existeth not! — there abideth solely locked silence... ) And a solitary, single smile possesseth the virtue to justify the entirety of everything."

And inside such a design there wended and passed even a whole month of time, and the banks of the river belonging onto those eternally rare butterflies

commenced on this watch already to be blanketed and bound under ice . Yet unto Leo’s frame that frost brought not any grand disturbance (...nay, inside a specific design it looked even to soothe and comfort his spirit) . Wherefore he continuously remoter, merely reinforcing the garments upon his flesh against the countenance of winter’s cold, wended outside unto its frozen banks , moving inside a guise as if he once more were solely biding his time to await, ...that upon those specific banks there should once more materialize those unique, ...those rolling ships hailing from the East .

(Yet) but a handful of suns prior unto that oncoming New Year,

Because your see, Uncle Alimpije possessed no single craft inside his intellect to comprehend suns of such a character. Wherefore Uncle Alimpije simply locked his resolution to in some manner shatter the length of Leo’s dark vilayet, ...sharply and with supreme urgency addressing his presence upon a morning watch of that character:

"Give a hearing unto my words, my son..." — wending across the duration of their shared breakfast. For Leo, inside that specific chamber-like atmosphere, ...(by what manner of fated election of the heart, ...) did nevertheless keep his presence each morning watch across the duration of their shared breakfast... Yet, nay, ...nevermore across the span of the shared evening meal. Whereupon, since Leo inside that precise second had directed unto his presence but a solitary, thoroughly weary and to the very dregs unrevealed gaze... ’

Resembling a guise as if that unique, that unrevealed part of his being were stationed somewhere yonder far remote, ...peradventure even far remoter still thanquickening life itself upon the earth.

...and peradventure merely still thirsting after the quiet rain, still thirsting after the morning watch, and still enfolded beneath that certain ancient hope, ...his uncle pressed remoter onward inside that selfsame prior key of his voice (: Who indeed had inside this heartbeat ignited the candle amidst his lips? ..):

"Thou possessest no power to bide in absolute certainty that everything may not right soon turn remoter fortunate still."

"My path hath hitherto unearth-ed not a single mortal who should dare to confirm such a clause unto my ghost." — through that specific faint and discolored voice (: wherein solely a twilight sorrow continuously did hunt and banish every barren vanity), Leo’s heart made its response. Yet inside that precise heartbeat there wended a covenant between midnight and the morning watch, and breakfast, and the midday meal, and the evening feast... —for Uncle Alimpije made his answer woven whole well-nigh from a majestic solemnity, ...and carrying eyes in flame:

"And my soul swear-eth unto thy presence, by the length of everything wherewith my hand hath leave to vow, that I shall nevertheless find and unearth a person of such a stature." — and all fashioned of a towering voice. For you see, by yet another fiery resonance of that character (: wherein looked to be forged and melted all those wars belonging to the length of all his prior winters and summers, ...) his steps set forth to burn and ash those high bulwarks of dark eclipse, ...revolving before Leo’s uncertain doom-uѕud, ...only so that Leo, using naught but that singular, meek silence and what manner of extinguished gaze, ... had furthermore offered up even the absolute leave and permit that his uncle should in his stead wrestle against the oncoming suns, currents which he inside his frame, ...could after no manner or guise accept.

And once Uncle Alimpije had fully gathered and comprehended the gravity of that clause, ...there followed by no means a vast company of passing suns...

Nay, but rather:

The deed stood promised.

Aye, it wended on this eve, ...it stood precisely as the midnight watch prior unto the dawning of that oncoming New Year,

When Uncle Alimpije chanced to unearth his presence inside the chambers of the agency belonging onto his kinsman of old, that monumental companion, old Master Vasil Zlatnik.

Whilst his companion Vasil welcomed his steps inside his perimeter employing syllables enfolded whole beneath that specific, pleasant surprise:

"Ah, ah-h," (—a warm, wide and opulent joy... of that exact lineage which forever standeth in need of winters and summers to ripen), "my companion of old, whence cascade thy strides into these, into such fated hours..? On this eve a vast multitude of mortals are celebrating what manner of triumph...?" — yet notwithstanding:

"Unto my soul, Vasil, there abideth naught to celebrate." — delivered both from the depths and with a heavy gravity. (: A certain radiation wended onto every single quarter, ...carrying an atmosphere that smelled both of the heavy and the menacing.) Yet Vasil possessed after no design the power to remain for a long watch blind to the causes behind those syllables, ...(something inside his own breast in that precise heartbeat wended unsure. For winters and summers his ghost had failed to gather a sensation of that character. Aye, for a long season of time had he led his life through that unique, wide and deep old age, ...opulent whole and grounded whole, exactly in the likeness of all ancient master-craftsmen).  Yet he was constraint-driven by honor to make his response after that singular, after his private guise:

"Bestow the faith of thy word upon my spirit, my companion... for my hands have executed a vast cargo of deeds, and I continuous-ly perform many more. I shall unearth the truth! I shall find her!" — and resembling a guise as if he were a solitary aunt wending by a forced heart, Vasil plunged his eyes straight into his gaze: "Matters shall turn remoter well onto thy cherished Leo."

"Thy hands perform not a sufficient share of labor, Vasil." — Uncle Alimpije made his response. Aye, delivered far too powerfully notwithstanding for the frame of his old companion Vasil. Because for some hidden cause, his entire being was inside his innermost chambers taken by a sudden astonishment... Aye, that stood as a fierce, a towering rebuke. Far too crushing was the depth ruling inside his breast... A vast cargo of wrath, which is enfolded beneath total restraint...

(“Nay, inside the living reality, this stood by no means as a watch for patience.” —enfolding such a disposition inside his breast, Alimpije had wended his way inside his chamber ).

"At any passing watch, my hand could seize whatever description of utilitarian-beneficial intelligence from the terrain. There yet exist certain of our kinsmen yonder..." — it stood as a sentence woven whole from a vast multitude of pauses dividing the syllables...  Nay, he notwithstanding possessed no power to thoroughly comprehend the entirety of that fleeting heartbeat...:

"With every passing watch, more and more doth decay and rot the very ghost of my angel..."

Yet aye, Vasil caught the resonance of this clause, inside a key far louder above all that alternative souls surrounding his tracks could ever presume. Wherefore he made his response:

"My companion, even if it be fated as the very final watch of my earthly pilgrimage, yet I shall unearth the truth for Leo’s sake, ...Aye, his spirit shall cognize everything which is fated as a necessity unto his path."

"—I possess no knowledge whether this shall be fated as the very final deed thy hand shall execute... yet a solitary clause my spirit knoweth with rock-firm certainty: if thy power performeth not that labor, this watch shall stand as the definitive, final season that my boots cross thy threshold in the capacity of a true friend." — ...because, look you, certain subterranean rivers (понорнице) possess the virtue to upraise even the towering peaks of mountains.

And Vasil stood simply vanquished and shattered beneath the weight of syllables of that character from the lips of his companion. (: The blade had slashed and pierced him straight o'er the perimeter of his heart.) Wherefore he fell lower into locked silence...  Borrowing no longer even a solitary newborn word which might remoter act to shield his frame. Inside no alternative design could it break, without touching and wounding Alimpije’s own breast. Yet he possessed a perfect knowledge as to whose presence and for what fated cause his boots had wended hither:

"For the sake of the Almighty, Vasil, thy hand did furthermore solve even the case of... Aye, thy memory knoweth well which specific labyrinth. (...for you see, concerning that mystery all the grand newspapers of the world had inside a singular watch-beat written their chronicles)."

"Winters and summers have heavily weighed upon our frames, Alimpije... these current seasons stand no longer as our fated times." — and whether that clause belonged solely onto the cargo of travel-weariness, ...born of the exhaustion of this contemporary sun (: a day monumental for how countless, ...years, ...) yet nay, Alimpije permitted not his spirit to surrender onto that shadow:

"Had matters inside the living reality wended after such a design, my frame would by no means keep its watch on this eve upon this ground." — aye, those stood as specific syllables which do for all alternative queries make answer, monumental and wide in their measure as the length of an entire, ...romance-book.

"Give a hearing unto my words, my companion..." — Vasil set forth to extinguish... the raging fire. (“Superfluously and in a barren void had been burning a vast multitude of ancient scrolls and books”). Yet each and every single quickening life possessed a solitary eve of this exact design. A vast multitude had looked upon remoter horizons still. Aye, far too powerfully robust were all those twilight, dark emotions... And inside such a guise doth ache each and every single wound upon the beating heart beneath the shadow of a deep, advanced old age... (“A vast cargo of justice still abideth yonder, a vast cargo of truth, and there yet quicken-eth and liveth at the least the innocence of someone fated...”)  Nay, Uncle Alimpije dared not, and permitted not his spirit to grant him leave for that retreat:

"Nay, give thou a hearing unto my words, my companion! I do but implore thy soul solely to show the charity of mercy toward my young son."

And inside the midnight watch,

A watch wherein did meet and cross tracks, ...aye, twain ancient, time-worn companions: the detective Master Vasil Zlatnik  and the monumental tailor, Signor Alimpije Nikolajevski, Leo and his aunt did but inside a locked silence sit yonder, ...solitary inside the perimeter of their domestic hearth... only so that precisely in that fleeting heartbeat when his aunt had at long last gathered her courage... :

"My Leo, thy uncle shall bring the labor to pass... His hand possesseth the power... " — yet beneath shadows woven whole of tenderness, and born of that certain ancient faith, ...their ears caught the resonance of the domestic door-bell.

"Whose strides peradventure can wend hither in this watch?" — questioned his aunt, a query which both souls posed inside their intellects...

And after her hand had unbolted and flung open the portal, the foremost token her eyes chanced to look upon, ...were those somehow eternally pleasant eyes belonging onto Petkana. Petkana took their spirits by an absolute and thorough surprise, ...Aye, both for the bygone era, and for this contemporary sun, ...and destined even for the oncoming morrow...

"Ah-h, ah-h-h," (—solely matrons possess the craft to inside such a guise rejoice, ...), "Petka!" — let fall his aunt. Those stood as kisses exchanged, ...exactly inside the likeness of the days of old.

And inside such a design there commenced to dawn a thoroughly pleasant, warm night... ’

A company of three mortals did drain the chalices of wine inside those brief yet resolute draughts even until the dawning of the aurora...

’...Once more amidst their alignment there returned to life and quickened a vast multitude of dreams. There drew near those ancient interpretations of old...

Yet, ...For what hidden cause had his grandmother left his spirit trapped inside the shifting haze? ...Aye, because following all trials, ...she merely delivered over her lips this solitary decree:

"Inside a unique clause my ghost abideth in absolute certainty. That specific ancient chronicle of thine carryeth a fortunate, happy ending." - whereupon o'er Leo’s countenance there remained but a solitary, quiet and minute smile, a guise which looked as though his heart desired to shield and hide its trace from every passing eye.

Whilst Leo, Anastasia, and Petka had wended through the entire span of the midnight watch, keeping a vigil to await his strides, adjacent onto the length of all those but private, unique discourses of their choosing.

...And once he had stepped inside that eternally quiet and somehow humble, yet unto his spirit forever warm domestic hearth, ...aye, well-nigh in the selfsame second when his boots had been cast aside. The Uncle straightway commenced, inside a guise by no means elegant and thoroughly uncustomary for the traits of his character, weaving his tale whole through supreme haste, and through bile. Inside such a key did he unfold before their hearing the chronicle of all those hours rising from the twilight and end of the prior eve. Leo did take its weight into his keeping... (: Yet in an identical guise solitary doth a stricken, sick mortal... partake of robust, heavy meat).

And he gathered the knowledge. His ghost was bound by fate to bide his time and await yet another, a alternative May, ...Aye, that watch shall wend across the course of this contemporary year. (: Precisely a cargo of time of that measure had Vasil purchased from Alimpije’s hand).

Namely, upon that specific sun it was fated—in the event of a fortunate, good issue—that the detective Master Vasil should materialize his stature inside that singular, solitary buffet-tavern towering o'er the railway station of that eternally wide lowland metropolis... ’

And by the law of that exact clause, Grandma Petkana had furthermore even until that watch tarried under their roof. Aye, her spirit harbored the resolution to await that destined sun yonder, inside the sanctuary-home of the Nikolajevski family, abandoning for the length of an entire half of a year her private metropolis . Far too monumental for her soul stood the weight of all these components, that matters should break alternative... Because you see, inside some manner since the dawning of old she looked to have held a remoter knowledge above all alternative mortals...

’...Whilst Leo wended through those selfsame seasons amidst certain unto his senses thoroughly strange weeks and remoter strange months.

He was custom to retire lower into his bed immediately following the morning breakfast, ...and inside such a guise would slumber through the length of the entire noon, and thereafter through the whole afternoon; only so that following all trials, he awoke as if summoned by a fated command right before the very dawning of the night, ...when he once more wended outside yonder, ...unto the bank of his river, all fashioned somehow inside a quiet key, ...so that enfolded whole within his innermost chambers he did with a frantic, frantic pace march beside the currents, frequently during the sun and throughout the entire midnight watch, ...  Aye, the banks of that quiet river, by the law of their (that somehow eternally poetic) locked silence, looked onto his senses as if they since the dawning of old had whispered and prophesied a remoter truth than many thousands and thousands of those grand, monumental words...

And that morning watch, inside that bygone season, ...upon the second of May belonging onto the foremost year of the newborn millennium,

Did possess a certain uniquely suspicious and doubtful countenance, which looked to the senses as if Grandma Petkana solitary had held the power to divine and see in the distance...  In that precise watch when she harbored no single desire to gift and bestow even a solitary kiss upon his face right before his departure unto the road... Even though that courtly rite had in truth been executed both by the hand of Uncle Alimpije, and by Aunt Anastasia, and peradventure furthermore even by old Uncle Blaž (чика Блаж), whose presence chanced for some hidden cause to be unearthed upon the ground on that specific morning watch...

And the aurora, ...

The entire courtyard-avlija on that morning watch was fragrant whole with the scent of dampness, with the dawning of spring, with the impending summer heat, and with a vast abundance of potent, wild herbs...  And it looked to the senses in some manner as though everything surrounding their tracks wended inside such a guise beneath a locked, conspiratorial silence. Yet nay, on this sun that clause no longer signified a grand cargo onto Leo’s spirit, and neither did it mean a towering importance if the day itself should sink into stillness, for the evening hour would nevertheless be constraint-driven by honor... ’

Aye, inside the perimeter of that morning watch, mortals shared no grand cargo of discourse. It looked as if there held sovereign rule a certain frantic, feverish silence born of its own law. Those were but a company of certain quiet... And devoid of any high, haughty tones, syllables.

Yet after Leo had already bolted and closed the door of the entrance gate behind his tracks, there nevertheless commenced to flow certain individual voices inside the courtyard. They had been awakened and brought to life by the query of Grandma Petkana:

"Stasija, ...whither inside these walls keep thy vigil all those unique, specific spices which thy hand had been gathering across the length of all these summers and winters?" — ...a disposition of that exact character from her presence did across a grand measure take by surprise the length of all alternative mortals present yonder, yet first and foremost Aunt Anastasia.

"Mercy, what company on this sun is fated to feast, my Petka?!" — answered she with a counter-query, an Aunt Anastasia beyond all doubt bewildered, ...yet furthermore visibly revolted and disturbed inside her breast.

"First and foremost Leo, and thereupon the entirety of all we alternative souls as well." — yet that clause had by no means altered her resolve, ...it had by no means disrupted her composure, ...and Grandma Petkana accepted the weight of the question, ...she gathered and understood Anastasia’s heart, yet following all trials she did but retrace her path back into her own beating heart:

"On this watch I shall with a specific devotion exert the whole of my labor." — whereupon following those syllables, the length of all alternative mortals present yonder turned their countenances toward her presence, ...Aye, every single soul inside that precise heartbeat stood enfolded beneath a certain quiet miracle, each after his private fashion... Yet Signor Alimpije solitary held fast the title of the Master of the Hearth:

"Hum, ...Exquisite. Yet dost thy ghost peradventure hold the knowledge of a certain clause whereof our own intellects remain blind?" — ...yet behind her stride there remained naught but that singular, custom solely onto her head, enigmatic countenance of her face, while furthermore portraying inside the air, using hands but lightly spread asunder, that unique, humble 'peradventure,' leaving its weight unto the locked silence and the approaching events to give voice in her stead .

...Whilst Leo bided his time to await his monumental evening feast

inside that specific, his yonder ancient restaurant, ...aye, immediately o'er the way from that selfsame gambling-house (коцкарнице) wherein in a bygone season, long ago, on this sun already in the far chasm of the past, ...that destitute and humble crone had directed unto his hearing the length of all those inside that hour monumental words . Aye, inside the absolute vicinity there still kept its vigil even that selfsame request-station belonging onto the municipal transit...

And after the length of all those burdensome, saline, thoroughly filthy and those eternally foggy minutes of anticipation had at long last wended their tracks, ...

Aye, inside that precise heartbeat there arrived that already long-awaited sky-blue bus of the municipal transit, belonging onto that eternally wide and with locked silence opulent metropolis, a city in some manner completely sunken onto the bottom of yonder, what description of, eternally fragrant maritime plain.

A crowd of mortals and all that sheet-metal of diverse utilities did inside a shifting haze roll and cascade toward the railway station of that metropolis inside some guise on this sun thoroughly numb. The blue bus, filled with a vast multitude of mortals yet by no means over-crowded, did with supreme success force its path straight through its frame.

Aye, it looked to the senses inside a certain design as if inside that eternally, after some manner wide lowland metropolis, there held sovereign rule a specific atmosphere resembling the law of that yonder far-famed, accursed and eternally drifting phantom-ship... Or peradventure Leo’s reflections did but merely flow far too sluggishly (—or peradventure far too swiftly, ...).

Whilst adjacent to the cold, from passing watch to passing watch there did furthermore enfold his frame even that burning, hot sweat. And status-by-status a certain torrent, ...and a drifting gale of pure unrest did pass across his ghost. ...and a drifting gale of pure unrest did pass beneath the raiment concealed solely under a cloak, ...bearing the color of the earth, ...aye, all the way lower unto his fated strides, and whole beneath those shoes, possessing the color of baked brick.

Yet all at once, there nevertheless drew nigh the twilight and end of this journey... And the brakes did inside a muffled key give voice to their resonance. Whereupon the municipal bus brought its frame to a halt.

And Leo for some hidden cause, and whether solely by the law of custom wending after a twilight, sad key... stepped outside, and inside such a guise pressed remoter onward, ...yonder toward the station, while throughout the span of that watch his lungs inhaled that air peradventure but a touch remoter crisp than the atmosphere, ...inside the bus.

And inside the perimeter of this month, upon the ground of that specific lawn yonder, opening before the intercity bus and railway station, there was stationed even a certain miniature amusement park... whose presence — even as mortals used to share across their discourses — was fated inside this metropolis to long endure.

Aye, from that expansive clearing still merely laced and thinned with those robust, green pigments belonging onto a spring in its full quickening surge, there did pierce even the length of all that vast, somehow smudged under what description of a soulful atmosphere belonging onto that entire surrounding space, a singular, that eternally somehow hoarse music, cascading yonder from those massive loudspeakers belonging onto the amusement park, ...aye, from those specific ones, steeped and drenched in the hands of time. And its resonance was after some manner akin onto a unique cocktail born both of the South, and of the East, whether emerging from what manner of, ...yonder from those certain ancient recipes hailing from the faraway East and on this sun merely perfected by all those newborn formulas belonging onto the atomic age. (: By no means did Leo commit his reflections onto all these components, yet his ghost in truth did gather their sensation).

Yet all at once, ...

...resembling a guise as if the entirety of that alcohol inside the cocktail had vanquished and overmastered all alternative ingredients... all at once there were heard even the whole syllables inside Leo’s brow and inside Leo’s heart:

—“Inside the avenue of oblivion, a solitary ghost fractured o'er her dreaming. Weary of barren calling, she lay lower to find her slumber...”—whereupon following those words, the melody was severed and cut asunder by that certain, eternally leaden resonance of the whistle, rising from a newborn, but recently arrived train into the station; only so that immediately thereafter there should continuously press onward the length of all those notes, ...and those specific onto Leo's heart highly intoxicating syllables: “...While a solitary star shamefacedly doth smolder, ...upon the leaden-dark heavens, hidden o'er by slumber-choked eyes, hovering past a heart woven whole of hoar-frost.” 

And once he had enfolded the entirety of everything from that current, inside his private keeping, placing its weight within his innermost chambers, ...naught but code onto his own being, and solely for his private sake, ...a certain specific, somehow after such a key strange, ...and outside the frontiers of clear logic, densely massive sensation... yet an atmosphere of tranquility and that certain alternative, whose fortune indeed was it, ...resembling what description of a turtledove, did fly beneath his breast. Yet he continuously still held fast a cargo of time both for that sun and over against that approaching eve, in absolute abundance... Did his steps for that fated cause turn toward those already heavily time-worn engines belonging onto the amusement park... ? ’

Did his ghost peradventure merely harbor a yearning remoter still to nourish, with what manner of child-like cargo, ...his currently already heavily exhausted heart, ...Or did he quite simply desire, adjacent to all that rare, so multi-hued iron... to hide at least across a brief watch a grand portion of that his on this sun somehow specifically scattered gaze, even from his own sovereign soul...

...Aye, an entire multitude of decorative, multi-hued light-bulbs did after some manner softly paint and lace that yet another scowling, vapor-choked lowland twilight-eve. And upon that brief alignment and line dividing the pavement from the ticket-booth of the amusement park, three mortals arrayed inside what description of a swift and far too heavily over-adorned raiment, bearing currently already ragged, torn yet still green souls, held fast what manner of street-booth... And how grand a delusion inside its fabric is ruling here?

Namely, certain of those folk born of a minute and by no means forever untainted profit upon the cobblestones, inside that eternally and o'er a wide expansiveness fragrant metropolis, precisely across the course of this contemporary year, had for some hidden cause forged and invented a newborn game of cards, throughout whose duration a mortal is constraint-driven by honor to unearth and divine the single envelope wherein the King is nested inside a pair alongside the Queen; because you see, inside that private game of theirs, there did furthermore exist three alternative envelopes, wherein that selfsame King did but choose to wend in absolute loneliness and solitude.

And the grand majority amidst the inhabitants belonging onto that metropolis—since the dawning of old far-famed and renowned for their powerfully robust intellect, (—aye, yonder, ...still hailing from ancient rumors)—had right swiftly gathered the lore concerning the highly suspicious, doubtful rules of its nature. Yet Leo furthermore possessed a perfect and thorough knowledge as to what description of a trap can wend inside a game of such character, ...yet it looked onto his senses as if for some hidden cause he nevertheless (—for what fated cause?!) harbored the resolution to unearth and select precisely one among those alternative three Kings who wended without their destined consort-companion...

"A solitary soul among those three lone, single Kings, might peradventure belong onto my own destiny as well," — Leo pondered with a low, locked resonance inside his own chambers, following that watch when that specific dark-complexioned youth (—having gathered a heavy suspicion concerning the true designs of his possible client—) had with an unyielding persistence sought to persuade his intellect into the authentic existence of that somehow eternally magical Queen of Hearts.  Even though he chanced to harbor no single desire to present and lay its face before Leo’s eyes (—on this sun already, ...on this eve beyond all doubt resembling what description of a solitary volcanic lake, adjacent onto whose shores those, woven whole of towering vibrations, weary capillaries did but portray the pathways of burning magma—) lest he should bring into question his private honor, ...an honor on this sun already sufficiently compromised by the verdict of the grand majority of his fellow citizens.

And inside a guise as if breaking all at once, ...a certain paper bank-note carrying the engraved number 'One Hundred' upon its texture, did inside a specific (purely human) velocity of a lightning-flash find its presence inside the palm of that unique, ...of that dark-eyed young street-vendor of amusement... (Because in some manner it looked onto his senses as if inside the symbolism of that very heartbeat, Leo had unearthed even something... uniquely his own). And Leo in the final turning of the hour did commit his presence lower into that, destined solely for the minute corners, boulevard wizardry... ’

And already at the very dawning and beginning of its lines, he had predicted inside his quickening intellect even the definitive issue of his strides, yet lo, ...notwithstanding all trials, he had once more inside the perimeter of that event unearth-ed that certain rogue-like and at the selfsame watch romantic spark amidst its components, ...an element sufficiently challenging unto the heart that it possesseth no power to resist.

’...and following a handful of those frantic circles which had wended their tracks now, yet solely across a brief watch o'er those specific envelopes of Leo, ...inside the frame of those private, eternally swift, and heavily catch-barren hands of theirs, Leo did select that unique, a solitary envelope out from their alignment. And right swiftly did he turn toward the face of the heavens his own countenance along with the King of Spades fashioned of paper, ...a personage who looked as if he were after some manner shamefacedly (—or peradventure inside Leo’s sight it merely looked to portray such a guise...) emerged from the depths of that unique one amidst the yellow envelopes, wending in absolute solitude, devoid of his destined Queen .

Yet Leo’s confidence, remoter still, across a certain flight of time looked as though it wended no longer solely as his private cargo... Wherefore Leo did implore a solitary soul among their company, by every token of the world the most agile among them, ...to execute a deed for his sake... Aye, his spirit notwithstanding harbored the yearning to be made certain, quite simply, to behold with his own eyes, ...whether there truly notwithstanding abideth amidst their alignment even such a King, who kept his vigil yonder enfolded whole beneath the companionship of his sovereign Lady . Yet he, ...did that young and somehow eternally free mortal, ...had he peradventure by what manner of, by some specific intuition of his choosing predicted, ...Aye, somewhere yonder inside his private chambers, the entire history of this earth, or peradventure... Yet howsoever matters wended, ...inside the living reality he permitted no hand to meddle with his private honor and the thickness of their collective honor. Wherefore he exerted the whole of his strength to divert Leo from a intent of that character, a labor which to his senses wended as a thoroughly superfluous, utilitarian-barren task... And he continuous-ly pressed, and continuous-ly remoter sought to persuade his intellect that for a deed of such lineage there abideth no necessity under the heavens, ...because she beyond all doubt was yonder, even as their tongues had already whispered onto his hearing, “that she is present.” Yet Leo notwithstanding remained unyielding inside that specific design of his purpose. He harbored the resolution by all devices and at all costs to win the certainty that this vaunted, famous Lady notwithstanding existeth. Yet that young and by his own grain courageous mortal likewise, continuous-ly still remained rock-firm upon his ground:

"Kinsman,  this wendeth not as our fated trade." — aye, those stood as specific ones amidst those thoroughly simple syllables, notwithstanding all the intricate complexity of their inner meaning.

(Aye, for some hidden cause, ...as the chasm of time inside Leo’s existence remoter and remoter advanced, the very earth looked unto Leo’s senses step-by-step boundlessly remoter crowded, ...and status-by-status smaller). Wherefore, after he had unearth-ed his presence inside a situation of that exact character, ...he locked his resolution that yet another, but a far mightier paper bank-note, (—bearing the engraved countenance belonging onto one among those statesmen whom the world was custom to name as wise, ...) should cascade directly into the palms of one amidst those three somehow ever commercially-reasonable young men (...wherefore let the die burn once more, and let yet another watch dance that specific, ...that somehow since the dawning of old scorched, charred lewdness).

And inside that heartbeat, ...straight from the 'foremost hand'  there was parted and opened even the definitive, final envelope stationed upon that left margin of one among those folding-and-unfolding holiday trestle-tables, ... Aye, and inside the living reality following that deed, it was laid bare and proven that the Queen of Hearts did nevertheless lie enfolded beneath the narrow embrace of her own fated King (—bearing that selfsame specific token and sign).

And after he had yonder, furthermore unearth-ed that his (—a solitary, already expected—) symbolism, Leo left behind his tracks that company of three in truth eternally vibrant eyes, those young mortals, ...And surrendered their frames into what manner of delusion, peradventure his own or their private craft, ... leaving its weight unto destiny to give voice whose cargo of delusion stood the grander.

Whereupon he pressed remoter onward with his steps, ...

Yonder toward the edifice, ...of the railway station, ...and already step-by-step wended past even that singular carousel-merry-go-round bearing a vast company of figures fashioned of multi-hued, and of rock-firm, of that eternally brilliant plastic, structures which did even inside this watch upraise and lower their statures all in a guise one over against the alternative, and the entirety of their league adjacent onto a handful of scowling boys and merely a solitary joyful little maiden, inside a heartbeat when but a minute grain was lacking, ...lest that machine, by the law of his renewed captivity inside that entire single microcosm enfolded within his ledger-notebook, should strike against his frame.

Because, for some hidden cause, he had all at once harbored the reflection (—even though his own quickening intellect possessed no craft to comprehend for what fated cause, ...) how it wended well and good that his hand should once more turn and look o'er the length of all those parchment pages laden with diverse numbers: whose specific telephone lines indeed, which of all those unique streets, whose, ...and what description of houses, which, ...municipal bus lines (: whither wending, and for what destination...), fated dates (—nay, for concerning the event itself his heart had since the dawning of old never posed a query), for the values belonging onto a vast multitude of currencies, and of what manner of cargo... the prices and which and what description of remoter countless alternative measures and values; and with a vast abundance of wide and a vast abundance of those maps enwoven whole from mystery, adjacent onto a passing photograph bearing images powerfully robust unto his spirit—yet first and foremost onto her countenances—and twain floppy-disks holding fast the entirety of everything which the quickening stream of electric power possesseth the virtue to carry—whilst the entirety of all that enfolded league, did create, did cascade and melt inside that, inside that entire, ...a single romance-river right inside Leo’s beating heart. Aye, there possessed the virtue to be hidden yonder, ...somewhere yonder inside that single fleeting watch-shimmer of parchment and the width of that entire cloud of numbers, even a handful of life’s crossroads, yet solitary a single, unique true path. And if Leo inside his intellect peradventure held no perfect knowledge of that clause, ...his ghost beyond all doubt did gather its sensation... ’

Yet precisely inside that fleeting heartbeat, ...

...Inside that precise heartbeat, his eyes chanced to register someone..., ...nay, even twain mortals inside that watch he did discern, ...quite simply all at once he looked upon their presence! Twain drivers of the taxi-carriages, the foremost arrayed inside a unblemished white raiment whilst the alternative wended inside a black suit, and who under the heavens could have ever presumed such a turn, ...?! Aye, both souls had since a faraway chasm of old been well! ...well-nigh (so thoroughly...) familiar unto Leo’s memory, the foremost after a specific design and the alternative after another key. Aye, they were executing a combat of chess upon the bonnet-hood of the automobile belonging onto that driver... wending inside the white suit.

And the game inside that precise heartbeat was already fanning into a raging surge, and it looked onto the senses well-nigh as if “the knight-steed held fast inside the hand of the mortal arrayed inside that white suit, did cascade pure foam even unto the very hems and skirts of the chess royal family” belonging onto his fellow opponent; whilst upon the sheet-metal of the bonnet-lid o'er the engine of the alternative, long black automobile—on this sun already an oldtimer, yet in a bygone era a symbol of prestige custom inside those seasons to be driven by tavern-keepers—hailing from the seventy-some fated year of the past, there kept its vigil a genuine clay procession of stiff, frozen white figures, and, after an identical key... adjacent onto its alignment a kindred procession of black figures. And the entirety of their league had already fallen outside that game worthy solitary of sovereign kings, even though it merely upon the foremost glance of the intellect appeared as though they were still but paused somewhere yonder, ...midst the line of a stride.

Yet that white procession notwithstanding stood boundlessly longer above those alternative, merely a handful of black pawns, aligned inside a solitary short row carrying a thoroughly light, fragile value. And since upon that entire expansiveness stretching from the bus station even all the way yonder unto the railway station—ground custom otherwise to wend as a genuine human anthill  across the span of certain specific suns—to a certain passing wonder, ...yonder, on this sun, there was present a remarkably scarce cargo of mortals, their frames were cheered and escorted solely by certain of those inside that watch unengaged taxi-drivers from their immediate vicinity. And it looked to the senses peradventure as if inside that entire play they peradventure even were tracking a solitary soul among those epic sagas belonging onto the surface of a once wide cinematic screen, ...concerning pure faith, concerning heroes, and concerning the blood, ...wherefore before long there shall peradventure break upon the air even the entire thundering hooves of furious stallions, ...and the rustling of velvet belonging onto those eternally wending bishops-hunters, ...or peradventure even the thunderous roar of cannons cascading from those eternally heavy towers.

“...And inside that precise heartbeat, ...

While his steps continuous-ly advanced toward the edifice of the railway station, ...he merely still possessed no craft to comprehend... For what fated cause did it appear onto his senses after such a key as if through that entire zone, and across the whole remoter width of its frame... (could it indeed be...?) there were breaking what description of... a solitary marsh-swamp rising from the earth... ”

...and that foremost precisely now, when beneath the shadow of a certain thoroughly notwithstanding uncustomary lowland twilight-eve, there wended outside to find its rest that fated sun—a day fashioned whole of a thoroughly heavy air, ...Because the brilliant glare of the twilight-dusk remoter and remoter did transfigure into that specific hue belonging onto an ancient, dust-covered, ...yet in a bygone season continuously white neon light-bulb. And everything in some manner after such a key looked to the senses as if all those and these somehow suspicious clouds, which on this sun across the span of well-nigh the entire day had blanketed the heavens hovering o'er that on this day entirely hungover and heavily slumber-choked metropolis, as if enfolded beneath what manner of heavy drowsiness, had hidden the length of all meaning belonging onto the eve which currently was drawing nigh.

(The length of all) Fragrances inside that watch, ...now, on this eve, (looked as if they) had gasped and withered outside the world...

And only those certain ones scattered wide across the expansiveness, ...and merely yonder and upon a passing ground, would strike a chord o'er the length of all those souls (across a wide territory drifting and blanketed under all those representations of a multitude of destinations and fated purposes of diverse magnitudes) belonging onto the travelers, whether merely wanderers on a quest, ...and inside that watch tickle those certain eternally slumber-choked, and gentle emotions, yet notwithstanding sufficient to soothe each and every single lost stride.

Whilst those specific, unique chords. Chords of heated sheet-metal, of parched dust, and across a count of watches known solely to the Almighty over-brewed tar and well-nigh forever warm rubber... did by no means merely herald yet another arrival, or yet another departure, ...nay, but rather there held fast inside their resonance even a fragment of that specific clause:

“The entirety of everything is not yet brought to its definitive end.”

Yet notwithstanding, in the final turning of the hour, that singular eternally high, fragrant note, ...yonder of meat hovering past the fire or of a flatbread-lepinja while it melteth, would overtake each alternative touch rising from the air and once more sing of the evening hour, ...concerning the domestic hearth-fire and yet another instance of that deep and warm slumber...

“...While the very air looked inside that heartbeat, ...now, on this eve to have (after some manner) turned stale and insipid. Who indeed hath plundered and stolen the salt from our keeping? ..”

Because that selfsame current, currently even narrower than the morning one, did cascade that specific leaden vapor-sultriness and so did chase away that eternally present municipal bustle even unto a muffled, distant thundering. And only then would that quiet, ...gentle breeze merely yonder somewhere, from passing watch to passing watch play with the branches belonging onto those certain, peradventure still solely upon that ground aligned poplars (: which had yonder even spread their lines all the way unto that somehow eternally warm row of station kiosks which on this watch merely shamefacedly gave forth the omens of human presence—a certain quiet activity nesting within their frames—, aye, what manner of gauge soever, even the most minute measure of life... and what description of a minimum of faith inside a solitary day). Aye, yonder upon that dark-orange sheet-metal of theirs, there were precisely withering those final rays of the sun which had succeeded to force their path straight through that yonder high, whole pack of a company of thoroughly disoriented clouds.

It could even have looked onto the senses, ...and inside some key it appeared as though even the length of all those eternally vivid colors upon that ground, ...for some hidden cause... on this sun been wizard-like numbed, as if enfolded beneath what manner of local anesthesia.

Aye, far too much of unrest... and far too much of what description of a minute fear, had fanned and scattered o'er his frame, ...

“...yet nay, by no means had every spice and seasoning vanished from the earth, because throughout the entire, ...peradventure even inside a time of such a character, there did from every quarter continuous-ly pierce a resonance now mightier, and now inside a key less loud, ...the length of all that melody born of diverse tastes, and howsoever it wended, ...yet a solitary music chanced to be heard, ...”

The echoes of that specific heavy folk-music (: woven whole of a certain eternally damp soil) quite simply poured from the length of all those yonder countless market-stalls belonging onto the local petty vendors, did mingle (—aye, quite simply they were mingling) against those specific gentle melodies, custom since the dawning of old to carry the soul of a ballad—resonances which did pierce yonder from some unknown quarter, ...from that far-off distance yonder.

“...while that yonder highest and master clock, perched upon the crest of the wall belonging onto the main edifice of the railway station, (: aye, that solitary station of the intellect looming o'er the very brow of the administrative building) had already commenced to scatter the reflections of that, yonder high, illumination rising from those neon lamps hovering past its frame, lamps bearing the color of jade, ...destined first and foremost onto the advertisement-sign (: onto its panel) rising from its immediate vicinity, heralding a currently already since a faraway chasm of winters and summers extinguished banking-house.

Aye, it looked onto the senses after some manner as if both its twin hands were continuous-ly searching after the sun which had already heavily set and vanished yonder somewhere upon the West, yet... adjacent onto a certain celestial moving picture custom uniquely to its own grain... ”

Oh, what manner of colors belonging onto the centuries indeed were those, and what wide canvases of ancient master-craftsmen hovering yonder high,—withdraw your shapes at long last from the vault, ...ye, on this sun merely slimy, mucus-clouds, because the entirety of everything already commenceth to smell of those specific, what description of rotten plums...,

“...Aye, the minor hand did continuously trot behind the master hand, while the master hand would thereupon, by the law of a certain ancient excellent custom, forever step past...”

And the hour in that watch wended neither yet seven nor eight across the face of the dial, but solely that specific unwritten element wending between their boundaries, ...and there still remained a vast cargo of open space amidst the mortals.

“...aye, while Leo continuous-ly still did tread and step o'er that specific, ...that in truth certain unique marsh-swamp, whereinto there possessed the leave to plunge even the ghost of each and every single wanderer on a quest who should on this eve, ...and during these watches set forth his path along the length of that entire roadway, ...”

Yet but a brief watch following the scanning of the timetable belonging onto those countless municipal buses to him unknown (: whether his spirit were searching after what description of a newborn secret inside its lines, or whether this metropolis had merely failed hitherto to disclose the entirety of its nature onto his ghost...). Yet thereupon, precisely inside that heartbeat when he took his watch once more for a passing second to gaze furthermore into that unto his spirit for some hidden cause, ...forever akin onto a fragrant noon-meal, akin onto a festive, solemn noon-meal metropolis, ... and while he wended his path using those current of his, now for some hidden cause copper-hued eyes (: even though of that clause, ...nay, he stood by no means conscious) o'er the entire yonder expansiveness belonging onto the monumental municipal canvas, he chanced to look upon all at once, as it custom-arily and ever wendeth, ...

Aye, his eyes looked upon, towering o'er the crest of that entire canvas, what description of a yonder specific, solitary, after some manner in her own grace tranquil and carrying a majestic stride young maiden, ...A pitch-black bun of hair resembling what manner of mountain cascades, save for the clause that its texture had failed to pour and overflow o'er those unique, slumber-choked and wholly fashioned from tranquility shoulders of her back. And it looked to the senses as if her eyes solitary had remained yonder, stationed upon that alternative quarter, across from Leo’s gaze.

And... She had already drawn nigh unto the length of all those monumental staircases which upraise their lines toward the crest, ...and which guide the strides onto the platforms, and usher the frames before the presence of the rolling trains.

The pupils of his eyes inside that precise heartbeat did as if by their own law expand, ...And what description of a currently all at once newborn yet since the dawning of old born, that specific wending all the way unto a joyful smile, from quickening life awakened rhythm. Aye, something heateth, ...something inside a guise as if harboring a yearning to fall into slumber amidst his breasts.

Aye, ...he had inside that watch already furthermore drawn close, adjacent onto a solitary that gentle yet burning, hot sigh, and toward the length of all that multitude yonder, ...immediately high above anchored municipal buses, which inside that watch, ...and on this sun continuously still kept their station motionless upon the parking-ground...

Because, he had inside that precise heartbeat and through that private, forever born of a vast multitude of shudders attention, zoomed and fixated upon the solitary vessel which did move inside that watch; for you see, upon its flank, inside the very perimeter of that handful of diverse advertisement-glares there kept its vigil a singular moving picture of what manner of soоо exquisitely beautiful a pearl, o'er whose structure, after the likeness of a ribbon-band, using letters fashioned of gold and—could it indeed be solely by the law of a deep sigh—fractured syllables, there stood inscribed the name of the artisan workshop hailing still from his native birth-city, bearing the title „The Pearl”. Aye, upon that ground for the foremost instance, ...remoter than any watch inside his existence, his eyes had looked upon a certain uniquely beautiful, golden ring, ...And Maho had decreed unto his hearing, aye, Maho had whispered onto his ear that it should on a newborn sun become his private cargo.

And those selfsame syllables continuous-ly still kept their station yonder, ...Aye, across this watch they wended solitary upon the entirety of that blue-gray sheet-metal (: after the likeness of a single specific ring resting o'er what manner of municipal turtledove).  They did flash and glitter inside that watch in a guise as though inside their texture there abideth naught save what is fashioned of pure gold .

"And can it be that remoter still... fairytale-ballads do exist under the heavens, and whose indeed are these current heartbeats? Doth this stand as the definitive end or peradventure the dawning and beginning of a solitary...?" — inquired Leo inside a low, locked key yonder toward the deepest distances of his own soul . Aye, that presence stood as a single specific spark... destined for his already for a long season darkened chamber.

And that cargo of pigment stood by no means as a minute fraction over against the length of all that grayness hovering past the perimeter of his ghost. Yet throughout the entire span of that sudden wonder, he continuous-ly still remained enfolded within his innermost chambers... :

"Mercy, gaze thou upon that token!" — yet after a guise lightly alternative, after a rogue-like and reflective key his tongue in that precise heartbeat appended this clause:

"Covenants and lines are inside the living reality forevermore a passing strange phenomenon, ...exactly in the likeness of geometric trails... Aye, inside some manner they forever materialize yonder where our spirits had already ceased to await their coming..."

Aye, he had since a faraway chasm of old possessed a perfect and thorough knowledge that a vast, monumental portion of the world rising from Maho’s, Grandma Petkana’s and Uncle Blaž’s birth-city, following the length of all that heavy travail and that towering cargo of agony wherewith that territory had wended through its fate, ...had long ago been poured, and long ago been scattered by the law of all that immense force of detonations, across after an identical key countless, ...expansivenesses, ...

And, this current element wended as a certain pleasant dampness, ...a solitary breath of crispness hovering past the tubes of his lungs... (: And how grand a measure peradventure, ...remoter still and remoter beyond all that cargo? ..)

Whilst opening directly before his strides in this precise heartbeat, there kept its vigil a locomotive engine bearing the color of antiquated tar, long ago extinguished exactly inside the selfsame guise as wended its private structure, ...On this sun, a solitary exhibit-object recognizable even onto the papers of travel-postcards . (Yet for some hidden cause, ...by its iron, it looked onto the senses with perfect ease even on this sun as if its frame were wholly swollen and engorged with steam, continuous-ly releasing a leaden vapor-sultriness all around its flanks, ...and guiding behind its tracks a certain long ago extinguished railway composition).

Before its brow yonder, ...on this watch there kept their station a company of pupils-students, ...a crowd which looked to the senses as if they had unearth-ed their presence yonder right before their definitive return outside the gates of a school-excursion, and inside that specific, lightly moldy atmosphere they shared the discourse concerning the events of their contemporary sun.

And Leo currently, ...in that precise heartbeat wending inside a solitary that shadow of a minute joy, inside the dampness, did with a merely gentle stride simply pass past their flanks. Yet only a passing moment later, Leo despite the length of all that scattered, wandering haze of his reflections did nevertheless all at once startle and awaken, ... Resembling a guise as if something once more looked to his senses to have broken upon his path, yet neither stood he himself conscious what description of an omen it truly portended; for you see, opening straight before his strides, ...yonder before his countenance there did but keep their station those already well-nigh unto the half ripped, torn placards and posters, ...resting upon those yonder high, those wide and expansive glass panes, and upon their textures there were heralded those currently already across a wide chasm of time expired concerts and kindred alternative events... While a solitary, single poster amidst their alignment did but speak concerning that unique, but recently arrived amusement park inside that nevertheless somehow monumental and eternally slumber-choked metropolis... Whilst o'er the glass adjacent unto their frames there had been spilled and cascaded those countless tracks of encrusted, hardened dust, of multi-hued vapors, and a vast cargo remoter still of smoke, ...

Aye, he did notwithstanding press remoter onward with those his continuously leaden-heavy strides, wending beneath those selfsame shadows, ...precisely having bypass-ed and skirted that singular, heavy concrete flower-planter, an structure in an identical key wholly transfigured into a uniform grayness by that yonder eternally present brush wielded by the hands of time... ’

Aye, that specific, sufficiently present and visible sum belonging to their lineage, destined for a vast multitude of entire winters and summers, did with an nonchalant grace track that, ...that wide and monumental, semi-circular approach-way, ...aye, that unique amphitheater which since the dawning of old was never weary to offer a wide embrace, looming before the very edifice of the railway station. While inside that precise watch, their perimeters were graced solely by certain passing, already lightly withering and dwarf-statured cypresses, clad whole beneath the green-yellowish hues, ...and across each and every single expansiveness, heavily besieged by a vast abundance of wild, self-sown and well-nigh faceless, nameless herbs.

“...Whereupon, remoter lessening and breaking inside a key still remoter minute that private, already sufficiently and elegantly small pace of his, Leo continuous-ly advanced toward that singular entrance, positioned nigher onto the ticket-booths.

And all at once, ...(: For unto his spirit it has since the dawning of old most frequent-ly wended inside such a guise!) a lady, already deep advanced in winters, cut across his path! ...quite simply her frame had severed his roadway via a bicycle, ...laden whole and over-burdened with woven wicker-baskets filled with blossoms, ...

And... she chanced to lose... the mastery o'er her steering-handle, ...and following a handful of curve-twistings both onto the left and onto the right quarter, ...

Overturned the entirety of that vast multitude of baskets, and from their frames an even remoter cargo of diverse blossoms, ...whereof a certain portion did roll and cascade even straight under Leo’s feet.

Aye, close onto twenty of those specific, kingly-crimson roses had fallen precisely before his footsteps. And but across a brief watch, ...enfolded whole inside a key of wonder and bewilderment, Leo straightway did, ...quite simply rush onward to bring aid unto that, for what hidden cause indeed, ...sorrow-stricken elderly lady, whereupon he set forth alongside her kinsmanship to gather those blossoms whose crowns still remained unbroken; only so that, after her frame had across a brief watch found a sanctuary of rest for her soul, ...he addressed his syllables onto her presence:

"My lady, wendeth everything well onto thy frame now?" — and immediately thereafter, beforehand than her lips had even succeeded to make answer, in a low, warm and gentle key, he proffered the genuine cause for his in such a guise continuous-ly present care (: for you see, she stood as a matron who possessed the craft to endure, ...habituated to comprehend life whole with gravity, and he possessed the craft to fully register that omen, wherefore his soul gathered the courage to let fall these syllables before her sight):

"Thy countenance hath well-nigh transfigured into the identical hue belonging onto these cypresses-roses held fast inside my palm."

Yet she notwithstanding, following those watch-beats, ...across a brief watch of time answered nothing (resembling a guise as if her spirit were summing and gathering within her innermost chambers the entirety of this situation, ...), only so that (merely) following a handful of brief and shallow inhalations and exhalations she all at once delivered, ...and made her response:

"My intellect gathereth the reflection that my frame wendeth remoter well, ...Of a certainty, the current of my life-blood pressure did across some measure alter its course under the consequences belonging onto the entirety of this contemporary sun's weather."

Whilst Leo notwithstanding, even though heavily disturbed across a grand measure by this entire event wherein their paths had chanced to be trapped, above all alternative components, ...before all alternative souls, ...unearth-ed these following syllables:

"In truth, it wendeth as a monumental pity for cypresses-roses of such exquisite beauty." — because his ghost was powerfully pierced and touched by the moving picture which wended opening before his countenance. And whether that matron, advanced inside those winters matching peradventure even the count belonging onto his own grandmother, did by these following words of her choosing, ...(unto his spirit for some hidden cause inside that precise heartbeat beyond all doubt unlooked-for...):

"Aye, yet that omen signifieth that a monumental fortune and happiness hath unearth-ed thy steps, young man." — bring to his memory a reminder of the length of all his private agony, a cargo which looked as if it had merely for a passing second been deposited inside his own pocket (then, ) ...Yet by a certain element her presence did take his spirit by a sudden surprise.

Oh, what description of unrest was ruling now, ...wending all the way unto a sharp revolt... For what hidden cause indeed, ...? Whether emerging from the sheer terror hovering o'er those grandest, supreme minutes of this eve, which currently are but drawing nigh, his tongue commenced to give voice (: and whether what manner of dread inside that precise heartbeat chanced to touch his frame, ...or peradventure rising from what description of a solitary, his private death-agony ropac and minute defiance):

"My spirit would bide inside the highest fortune had matters wended after such a design, even as thy lips declare, yet bestow the faith of thy word upon my spirit, ..." (—and a certain, what manner of twilight sorrow precisely now, inside this precise watch did ambush his frame yonder immediately thereafter...) "I possess no knowledge whether thy words wend in the right!" — yet she accepted the weight of those syllables even beforehand than his hand had placed a definitive full-stop onto their lines, portraying thereupon that certain, born of a long-sustained experience, amorously-mocking smile, so that immediately thereafter she might with an unblemished honesty, and after a somehow warmly solemn key, declare unto his hearing:

"Nay, deliver not such an oracle onto the air, ...a solitary soul among those ancient legends of old decreeth that unto the mortal before whose footsteps the cypresses-roses fall, there continuous-ly followeth a monumental fortune." — escorted furthermore in the final turning even adjacent onto that warm, gentle and well-nigh forever lightly compassionate rebuke custom to belong onto the traits of wise, silver-haired elders .

Whilst he inside that watch, employing a unique key of his voice (: through whose notes his memory had well-nigh forever recalled her presence, Liliana, ...) resembling the touch of a but recently moistened cotton, did with a half-vocal breath still remoter ponder, wending through a sigh:

"Ah, had but even this alternative... someone's grandmother been in the right. All of their company hitherto have wended so."

Whereupon she thereupon inside a key softly-astonished wended her query:

"Thy pardon, young man?!"

So that he, using that private gentle, ...merely a fragile smile made his answer:

"Bestow thy forgiveness, ...this token was destined uniquely onto my private ears."

And following those heartbeats, she made this declaration:

"My spirit would with a glad heart after some manner render a recompense unto thy path."

Whilst he, thoroughly grounded inside the rock-firm conviction of those specific syllables of his, and by no means merely for the sake of empty routine, gave voice to this decree:

"Yet inside the living reality there abideth no cause." — whereupon she thereupon did extend toward his hand a solitary yonder, ...wicker-basket filled whole with those flowers that wend never void of fragrance, ...and forever woven of pure luxury, those kingly-crimson, wholly ripe cypresses-roses, and so commanded:

"I do but implore thy soul, ...at the least receive and take from my hands these noble blossoms, for you see, their weight can nevermore prove heavy unto a youthful hand. After all wendings, ...thy path shall right easily unearth a soul unto whom thy frame might, beyond all doubt, proffer them as a tribute-gift.” — whereupon he thereupon, adjacent onto that unique (“Be it so, since thy lips declare it inside such a key,”) foremost smile, made his response:

"Very well, ...So be it." — (escorted by that singular, quiet smile of understanding, yet an alignment rising whole from the very soul, ...measured, warm, and sincere). "My thanks wend unto your presence." — whereupon, alongside a gentle inclination of his head and one among his rare, opulent smiles, he let fall this parting oracle:

"Guard thy steps and keep safe." — and enfolding within his grasp that entire wicker-basket, he once more, remoter set his steps in the direction of the main edifice belonging onto the railway station, when yet another instance, peradventure fated even as the very final watch, ...he caught behind his tracks the resonance of the crone as she inside a guise somehow softly, ...yet enwoven with that certain warm spell, gave voice:

"And thou likewise, young man! .."

Aye, currently his strides had already arrived, ...

And he stood but upon the very threshold of entry, yet had not yet stepped inside.

And well-nigh in the selfsame heartbeat when his boot took its stride, right adjacent onto his flank there wended with rapid haste two mechanicians arrayed inside those certain faded, yet continuously caustic-blue mantles, solely so that immediately thereafter they brought their frames to a halt yonder high above, ...but a little distance remoter, precisely yonder before the presence of the sliding sensor-portals which on this watch kept their vigil motionless, ...gaping yonder, thinned merely unto the half opened. And inside such a design, Leo, having passed past their flanks, did enter through their frame, and at long last by his own strides wended deep inside that monumental, highly and well-nigh forever after such a solemn key, wide-expansive hall (: ...that unique miniature heaven fashioned whole from a certain eternally warm grayness and the frequent, that specific, ...sorrowful yet amorous ballad rising from the song of the doves) belonging onto the structure which looked as if since the dawning of old it never bided its time in solitude...’

And inside the living reality, that structure had been compiled and builded inside that specific, rock-firm socialist-realistic design, ...could it indeed be... inside that unique bygone era of colossal dispositions, after the likeness of what manner of a grandiose pavilion-tent fashioned of concrete, ...of glass panes and those certain elements born of what description of deep locked silence, ...pieces of heavy metal. Aye, ...resembling a guise as if it wended as a single colossal monument of pure marble reared unto that, unto that specific era belonging onto Mahir.

“...While from that yonder high somewhere, custom otherwise to wend as a certain heavy and massive loudspeaker, throughout the entire space of the administrative building inside those precise minutes there was expanding one among those, ...those (Leo’s), aye, even as the tongue is custom to declare, his private ballad-song:

— ‘Sorrowful winters and summers of mine, can it be that this private hope of my soul continuous-ly quickeneth, ...all my suns on this day wend after a gray guise, yet her presence continuous-ly still wendeth young, if she merely avoideth to drift astray, this miniature dream of mine fanned into flame, my solitary turtledove, whither chanced our strides to wander astray?’  — , ...rendered by the lips of one among those singers wherewith Leo’s heart, for some hidden cause, had since the dawning of old held a perfect and thorough understanding... Most uniquely across the span of those suns, born of that certain minute yet wide fear, and each and every alternative damp, moisture-laden melancholy...

Whilst the marble did after some manner after such a key venomously glitter and shimmer (: after the likeness as if any passing boot possessed the virtue to stumble o'er its stone, ...), yet notwithstanding it wended wide, ...rock-firm, and fashioned of what manner of majestic combat (: resembling a guise as if beneath its veins there lay frozen a vast multitude of entire winters and summers), ...and sacred even to such a towering measure, that it stood thoroughly heavy to offer any resistance unto its power. Aye, inside an accursed guise it did entice and snare the eyes and quite simply did rivet and chain the feet onto its surface, after the likeness, ...as if it should precisely inside that watch (, then, ...) melt and fuse Leo’s footsteps alongside that private, custom to portray a spasm rock-firm mass. Aye, his legs quite simply had transfigured into a weight as heavy as that entire, absolute stone opening beneath his feet.

While surrounding his flanks yonder, upon every quarter... there kept their vigil those specific moving pictures resting upon the walls, woven inside that unique mechanistic style... inside the spirit belonging onto those foremost dawnings of the new era, ...and the walls wended gray, and the walls wended gray, ...And step-by-step they were tracked and escorted by the staircases, which did guide the strides high toward that yonder upraised, sublime part of the edifice, and onto the exit, ...yonder high, onto the platforms... ’

(In some manner,) for some hidden cause, ...it looked onto the senses as if a single whole, alternative invisible spider-web had besieged and occupied the entirety of that space.

“...And once he had already ascended yonder high, onto the very crest and summit, he turned, ...he wended his steps onto the right quarter... Yonder into that singular high and narrow buffet-tavern.

And upon that ground he harbored the resolution to bide his time and await the presence of Vasil himself, along with the length of all those monumental, ...those from a towering measure his tidings. (...‘for you see, the whole of this current, this flow of my existence wended not yet as my private cargo,’ did press one against the alternative, well-nigh each and every single reflection of his breast—and from passing watch to passing watch, yonder somewhere lay the open abyss...).

And he did proffer a command for a solitary black coffee. He implored yonder, from that singular, solitary maiden-server keeping vigil upon that ground—a matron enfolded whole after a guise within that specific comfortable yet dust-covered stillness, warm inside her countenance, and wending inside what description of quiet joy... even though already advanced inside those winters, ...—that the coffee should be swift (: quite simply, inside such a key prepared, and inside such a key delivered, ...and inside such a design drained to the dregs).  Whilst continuous with that current, he furthermore after a guise after some manner slow and far too elegant did direct his gaze upon the watch-dial...

And the entirety of all those components thereupon did forge that specific, far too uncustomary impression inside the chambers of that already (: through a wide expansiveness and far in the distance) experienced maiden-server, so that she furthermore after those moments (: as if after no alternative design could it break and as if after no alternative key possessed she the craft), following all trials, with absolute courtesy yet did (declare) and disclose onto his hearing:

“Young man, if it belongeth onto my hands to bring any manner of omen onto thy attention, my tongue should declare unto thy ears that by no means wendeth it well and good to drain the chalice of coffee, even as the world is custom to voice, ‘on the fly’ [на брзака].”

Whereupon Leo, after that specific guise wherewith his soul otherwise possesseth the craft to wend, elegantly, ...and inside an identical measure with absolute courtesy, yet notwithstanding over against her presence, ...employing a certain mightier or at the least merely, after a denser key his voice, made his response inside that precise heartbeat:

"Yet I, my courteous lady, by every token of the world possess not remoter much time inside my keeping. Inside a certain key I remoter harbor the dread that when I right soon step outside from this perimeter, nevermore upon this earth shall my boots retrace their path hither." — yet she had been well-mentored already to gather and sum winters and summers, wherefore she bided her time not a long watch, but straightway set forth to vanquish and deny his bearing, once more employing that single self-assured yet wholly tender resonance of syllables:

"Ah, young man, after such a guise have a vast multitude of mortals already given voice, yet matters turn not after their words. And inside the final turning of the hour they nevertheless after some manner return hither. And thou shalt likewise!" — (: “My spirit knoweth, and by no means merely gathereth the sensation of that clause,” —stood as the unuttered token which her lips chanced not to release). Yet Leo notwithstanding all trials, on this watch solitary through the medium of locked silence, maintained his private disagreement... whereupon she thereafter departed from his presence. And inside that precise heartbeat he set into flame yet another tompy-cigar, ...(: for you see, on this sun it looked as if matters could break after no alternative design, ...because on this sun he wended far remote from each and every alternative mortal upon the earth, whilst each passing heartbeat inside that watch looked to belong no longer solely onto his private cargo, ...). Quite simply, it wended as a necessity unto his ghost inside those seconds to observe solely the drifting smoke... and alongside its trails examine the entirety of his own unrest. Even though everything inside the chambers of the buffet-tavern, and within his innermost being, had already beyond all doubt turned into a shifting haze: wending from the countenances of the travelers who upon those benches merely bided their time to await their destined train, and those who on the contrary, kept a watch solitary to receive a kindred soul, even unto the countenances belonging onto the very laborers of the railway lines.

And before long there was filled and accomplished even the absolute twenty-first hour belonging onto that second sun, of that eternally spring-like, month of May . Whereupon the uncertainty did all at once from a monumental measure transfigure into the towering colossal.

Yet notwithstanding!..

When there had already wended past even the twenty-second minute of that selfsame hour, Leo inside that precise heartbeat possessed no longer the craft to explain any manner of omen unto his own spirit... ’

At the least onto his senses in that watch so it appeared!

“...and the entirety of his world all at once looked onto his senses as if it commenced to sink lower into what description of tones, and yet another instance of that specific abyss, ...exactly inside the likeness of that bygone season, long ago, on this sun already inside the far chasm of the past, when that foremost monumental vessel did plunge lower into the ice-frozen, deep sea. And inside that precise heartbeat his ghost harbored this reflection:

‘Was it fated in truth that the entirety of everything must wend precisely after such a design?’ ...for you see, his spirit had held fast the faith that the detective Master Vasil wended since the dawning of old never belated across the hour. He gave his faith in this watch even onto the clause that his old companion, solely by the law of some newborn component ruling inside his currently deep advanced old age, harbored no desire evermore, once remoter..., yet currently to wound his breast after the most crushing, heavy guise. Because he chanced not even (—inside the totality of his state, ...) nay, possessed he the craft even to divine inside his intellect for what fated cause the detective Master Vasil should on this sun after any manner have power to be belated... Aye, for a long season of time had he measured solely his private minutes.

And: “Had my frame on this sun been stripped of this, my private suit, ...peradventure not a single mortal currently would extend faith unto my word that I continuously still bide as an officer belonging onto that foremost, earliest love.” And peradventure for the foremost instance inside his life, he inside that watch did with his teeth inside a key so piercing press his own lips. All at once the entirety of his reflections transfigured into a weight thoroughly heavy, ...And he commenced to lose the fated alignment and order amidst their ranks. “And from what quarter do there appear without the walls all at once so vast a multitude of officials belonging onto the police-force, ...Aye, that wendeth not as my private investigation.” — Yet the life-blood had since a faraway chasm of old been spilled and cascaded...

Wherefore he stepped outside onto the perimeter without. (: Quite simply, his frame possessed no remoter power to endure devoid of the crisp air, ...quite simply, his frame possessed no remoter power to endure devoid of sovereign liberty!)

And he directed currently those his, those his strides in the direction of the West, yonder where inside a raging flame a monumental sun had precisely sunk into stillness and been extinguished.

Yet well-nigh in the selfsame heartbeat when his boots had departed outside from the buffet-tavern, there did inside well-nigh the identical second rush lower into its perimeter twain mortals, ...inside a cinematic guise, whole with their long cream-hued cloaks.

Aye, those were none alternative than the detective Master Vasil and his young assistant Stefan.

Whereupon Vasil—even though as forevermore enfolded beneath total composure, inside that specific key wherewith solitary folk of that character possess the craft to wend—restrainedly yet with a deep advanced disappointment gave voice, well-nigh employing a certain romantic-vanquished key of his voice:

"For the sake of the merciful Almighty, art thou enfolded inside absolute consciousness as to what deed we have executed, Stevo?" — whereupon after a thoroughly rhetorical design he furthermore made both his answer and posed his query:

"Peradventure we have in this precise watch utterly ruined and undone the mortal whose soul extended faith unto our custody, while our hands wended by no means constraint-driven by force onto that deed." — only so that following all trials, inside a voice fanned into supreme haste, he commanded:

"Our steps are constraint-driven by honor to unearth his presence!"

Stefan transfigured whole into a state of rigid tension (: Aye, that stood as that specific righteous and honest dread). And merely to that measure, carrying a constricted throat yet with absolute loudness gave indication:

"Yet our spirits possess no knowledge whither his strides have wended."

Yet Vasil, after the likeness of a thoroughly brilliant student of psychology hailing still from the faculty of that royal medicine, even though his entire being wended absent inside his reflections, made his response:

"He hath directed his steps toward what description of a yonder solitary, his private quarter. Inside that perimeter there well-nigh forever exist at the least twin paths, the Eastern and the Western. The Western trail on this eve is wholly packed and enfolded beneath the presence of the gendarme-guards. And they harbor no love toward deeply disconsolate, heavy hearts..." — Whilst Stefan, even though peradventure merely inside this passing heartbeat, ...yet his master on this watch had he failed to thoroughly comprehend. Wherefore following all trials, he merely inside a guise thoroughly uncrafty, yet beyond all doubt well-intentioned, proffered his counsel:

"Thy frame on this sun wendeth far too fragile that thy strides should overtake his path, wherefore it would wend finest if my boots nevertheless set forth via the Eastern railway line, while thy presence for every fated turn wendeth along the Western roadway."

Yet Vasil welcomed syllables of that character from the lips of his pupil using a solitary, that private his opulent-self-assured and professor-like opaque gaze, through whose lens looked to be drifting the entire marrow belonging onto his currently approaching stance, ...only so that following those moments, remoter still and through precisely a rebuke of that exact character, he let fall this decree:

"A error in the paces, young man. Thy frame shall for every fated turn set forth adjacent to the Western railway line, while unto my hands thou shalt surrender the Eastern."  — dropping thereupon lower into his beard, inside such a guise merely unto his own private ghost, these syllables:

"I have hitherto not a single race surrendered to defeat against a rolling train."  —lines woven whole from the notes of what manner of monumental destiny, whereupon after a secretive, romantic guise he did but softly smile, ...over against the minutes which were fated to follow inside their tracks.

Yet notwithstanding all trials, ...enfolded whole inside a key of anxiety, Stefan nevertheless still directed this parting warning:

"Avoid to consign to oblivion, Master, that these contemporary trains wend far too swift, while the iron tracks remain forevermore wretched and broken."  —whereupon he far in the distance chanced solitary to register upon his Master’s lips, continuous-ly still for that fleeting heartbeat, a message carrying a remoter gravity still than that prior warning of his:

"Implore the Almighty solely that we (—'by the law of what description of cause soever'—stood as the unuttered clause) be not belated across the fated hour."

And by what description of a certain wondrous—unto the grand majority of mortals—miracle, the entirety of that selfsame twilight of a thoroughly fragile, thinned sense did inside some manner, ...as if all at once overflow and transfigure into a completely magical midnight watch,

While yonder high above, the stars continuous-ly still, softly and but one after the alternative, set their fires into flame, after the likeness as if they nevertheless stood inside the living reality as certain yonder candelabra scattered high o'er the midnight clouds.

Whilst Leo throughout the entire span of that watch in truth did wend his steps adjacent onto the railway line, ...wholly and across a monumental measure tracking beneath its shadow his own trembling, shudd-ering reflections... ’

Because, aye, his Maho had long ago in a bygone season decreed onto his hearing: that those authentic, true romantics possess no power under the heavens save to forever track uniquely those trails eternally described and drawn by stardust. Yet inside some design, Leo had since the dawning of old never been struck with dread whether his strides should wander astray, wending along their patterns, but remoter than any alternative cargo, it had since the dawning of old filled his ghost with terror: lest he should possess no kindred soul wherewith to divide and share the entirety of the locked solitude belonging onto such wanderings...

“...while throughout the entire span of that watch, yonder, ...far in the distance, that reflection of the crimson lights rising from the railway traffic-beacons did continuous-ly flash an omen to warn his spirit that for some hidden cause, ...he currently wended his path o'er a perilous roadway. Yet Leo following all trials, inside the perimeter of all those components, merely harbored the reflection inside his breast: how he was constraint-driven by honor at long last to conquer and win those certain, unto his spirit until this watch forever somehow uncatchable heartbeats, ...howsoever monumental they wended o'er against his stature. Aye, even though each and every single sigh of his chambers was already varnished with the fragrances of the midnight hour, he continuous-ly still had not consigned to oblivion how there breatheth the scent even of at the least that solitary, single warm domestic morning tea... ”

Even though even this (such a) fragrance of the air beneath the very clear canopy of heaven, ...can forevermore deliver a sufficient cargo of strength before all those monumental, supreme heartbeats. And Leo had since the dawning of old held that knowledge well.

And inside such a design he wended and continuous-ly wended on his path... Inside no alternative design could it have broken. Whilst alongside his steps he had on this sun borne furthermore the entirety of his private life-film, ... “Whose city indeed was that in truth, ...Aye, beyond all doubt it wended as mine and hers, ...the knowledge concerning that clause is peradventure held fast by that somehow eternally sharp, playful little river. Whither wend on this sun all those wizard-like slopes? Whose family indeed was it that surrendered and sold the pearl necklace? ..” He did recall matters even in this watch, after a guise as if the entirety of that event had transpired on this contemporary sun. Solitary upon that fated ground, Maho had harbored no single dread for the sake of his progeny... Aye, yonder for the foremost instance inside his life had he fallen into slumber even upon the grass, and yonder for the foremost instance had he lain after such a key, as if alone beneath the clear canopy of heaven. Yonder had his steps for the foremost instance in living reality encountered HER! Oh, after what a extraordinary guise did she wend beautiful onto his eyes. Warmly, warmly, tenderly and sweetly beautiful. Her presence did justify (—somehow inside his breast, inside his heart, ...) each and every single child-like terror of his... After a somehow serene guise, sovereign and for each passing minute joyful, did she wend her steps opening before the presence of her grandmother Florina, and not a single soul specifically did she measure with a gaze by the flank. Aye, ...there held sovereign rule within her chambers (—even inside that bygone era...—) a certain monumental love, a monumental faith, and a towering sorrow. Yet Leo had shielded and preserved the length of all those components (solitary) inside his private locked silence, observing her presence forever after some manner (after such a key, ...) from a far distance yonder, and from behind the suits and raiments belonging onto his Uncle Maho... ’

Aye, unto Florina’s path it was precisely Maho whose hand had brought aid, that she might find her anchor inside their inside that era still monumental, grand nation. Aye, he had since the dawning of old held fast a vast multitude of companions...

’...And inside such a design even, he did once, inside a guise wending merely after the likeness of a playful jest—which thereafter for a boundlessly long chasm of summers and winters did echo and resonance deeply inside Liliana’s inside that era still thoroughly too-young and after what description of a manner, ...somehow elf-like ears (exactly after the likeness of certain faraway church bells, ...), ...—make mention how, if their souls should (at long last) finally wend onto a mutual acquaintance, peradventure that most quiet, hushed child of his would succeed to hide and shield that certain, forevermore for what hidden cause indeed, ...unsubmissive, untamed nature belonging onto her granddaughter. For you see, Florina beforehand, had in absolute confidence entrusted her soul onto his keeping, disclosing how inside some manner she since the dawning of old harbored a heavy dread for her sake, ...because quite simply, she wended far too serene and far too uniquely sovereign, destined for the suns that had wended before, that wend now, and that wend approaching onward inside their tracks... Yet they both had across a far too towering measure revered and honored one another (...for inside that bygone era mortals inside the living reality still possessed the craft to shield and keep the secrets), so that they with a far too frequent pace avoided to visit each alternative hearth.

Whilst Leo, harboring not the most minute presentiment concerning the length of all these components, stood already sufficiently inside that specific, most sugary key touched and pierced; having captured then but a solitary instance that her forever somehow so warm and after that uniquely her private guise, innocently-roguish gaze upon his countenance, during the span of one among those excursions right before the very twilight-dusk belonging onto the foremost early nineties. Aye, his spirit held the perfect knowledge as to whose form he had in that bygone season, ...yonder, ...upon the blood-stained bank encountered. Until that watch, for a long season of time had he hidden from his own soul the truth: that since that faraway chasm of old, he had for the foremost instance wended deeply inside love.

Yet behold currently a RESONANCE, ...nay, CAN IT TRULY BE POSSIBLE?.. that he from some unknown quarter simply all at once currently (—inside that precise heartbeat, ...) caught the hearing of that to his memory so deeply familiar, ...bell-like voice... Aye, that selfsame smile (: that sugar destined for each and every single sigh of his chambers).

And he quickened and was alive...

Nay, this token wended by no means as a mere shadow of a reflection.

While upon his left flank there was softly drawing nigher and closer a rolling train...

Upon the right quarter, matters came to no halt whatsoever (: yet that stood already yonder as that certain fourth or peradventure fifth iron track which guideth the cars toward the industrial colony). The iron rails solitary were keeping the fated count.

Yet notwithstanding, ...“Did my eyes yonder truly behold (—even—) a solitary lock of her hair?” Here that eternally quiet, minute yet after some manner, ...omnipresent and forever tense attention of his did (—already...—) quite simply lose its alignment and vanish... Whereupon his entire being stood in the likeness of what description of water poured outside the frames of a pitcher.

Quite simply, his boots slid with a sudden stride straight onto the iron track...

An entire multitude of crossroads-lines, and a vast web layer beneath and before his feet yonder now kept its watch before his strides. “Can it be yonder... behind my back, what description of a shadow currently, whose specific shoes are those, whose quiet footsteps?” Whilst before their countenance there currently kept its vigil a entire composition woven whole of heavy freight-wagons.

“My steps are constraint-driven by honor to pass behind its frames!” “Continuous-ly still far too remote abideth that lamp-beacon of the train rising upon the left flank...”

He forced his passage, creeping across the joints and couplings... between the foremost twain wagons nighest onto his stature.

Somewhere his raiment caught and snagged, ...(“Yet under the heavens there abideth no cargo of time for occurrences of such a lineage:”) so that upon his suit there remained but a solitary wide grease-stain rising from that, ...from a certain heavy and burnt wagon-oil.

And precisely inside that heartbeat when he had already won and reached the perimeter of that unique, continuously still unblemished iron track... (And yonder...) Inside the far distance there was found once more the railway traffic-beacon carrying those its (—after some manner...—) unto the point of agony patient, crimson lights. Yet yonder already (, remoter) not a single soul kept vigil, ...neither upon the left flank nor upon the right.

“Oh, can it be that currently yonder, someone, something softly whispereth yonder but a little beside his steps, ...aye, yonder merely a touch remoter distance... upon the left quarter.” Stationary upon his right hand there kept their vigil a handful of wagon-tankers (вагона-цистерни), whilst upon his left flank, ...the horizon wended clear, and that selfsame iron line all the way deep into the distance wended vacant and bare...

Yet, behold, ...precisely from that quarter there drew near a certain pointsman-conductor, merely softly straightening his cap (: “My spirit hopeth that my stature hath been well-placed, that my intellect hath well-unfolded this omen. Wherefore inside such a key must it break. Inside what alternative design indeed?” —resembling a guise as if such were his reflections). ...“With what mortal indeed could his presence have shared a discourse upon this precise ground?” And Leo inside that precise heartbeat lightly concealed his frame behind that specific wagon nighest onto his stature, continuous-ly until that certain mortal and official had yonder, high above passed past his flank.

“My ears in truth caught the resonance, ...Aye, they did.”

And he leaped outside straightway, following those moments, onto the subsequent iron track (: Whence there possessed the leave to be looked upon the absolute totality of a monumental quarter of the Metropolis yonder lower inside the plain, and a vast abundance of remoter elements surrounding the station all the way deep into the distance...)

Yet awkwardly... Aye, thoroughly awkwardly did his boots meet the ground!.. He twisted and wrenched his foot, ...and his shoe chanced even to fall and trap itself amidst the iron rails, ...wedged inside an awkward, tight clutch.

And.

Peradventure merely for a span of some ten seconds did his frame exert its labor (: even though onto his senses the entirety of all those components already looked to portray a single miniature eternity, and after a guise as if he led a combat for at the least a half of an hour now...) to extract its form, ...to extract his fated foot, ...nay, to extract the absolute totality of his being outside from that perimeter now!

While the rolling train already was drawing nigh. And it wended status-by-status closer, ...and status-by-status closer. And already there were trembling and shuddering even the iron rails beneath Leo’s feet, ...And all at once SOLITARY... !

There was caught the hearing of that singular dense, all-piercing yet after some manner forever muffled (: after the likeness of what description of a monumental serpent... or peradventure solely a herd of stallions) resonance.

That stood as the whistle-blaze of the train engine!..

And a certain that, custom well-nigh forever onto the heart to wend strange (—the entirety of it fashioned whole from an invisible, silent unrest—) brief lull, did divide and part that specific heartbeat from... yet another!

A resonance, born of a rock-firm and what manner of... a dull, blunt impact.

And inside that precise heartbeat Leo, neither stood he himself conscious after what design, all at once simply (—succeeded to extract, ...) did extract his fated foot.

And Leo for some hidden cause did set forth to run, after a guise completely outside his own being, inside such a key, ...beyond all measure, and lightly scattered. Peradventure matters wended after such a design even for the foremost instance inside his life, because he had been well-mentored since the dawning of childhood to forever measure each and every single shard of his strength... Inside his absolute totality did he hasten yonder toward the rolling train...

A machine which before its brow continuous-ly still was pushing a certain crumpled, mangled automobile... And enfolded within its steel chassis currently already a kindred crushed body.

And Leo did run for a span of remoter still... close onto a hundred meters and had already stepped past even that singular curve-bend, which upon that fated ground the iron line describeth, ...yonder where its tracks descend lower onto the automotive highway... ’

By pure instinct (: quite simply, the totality of everything) did he run through its length. Peradventure nevermore had an occurrence of such a lineage broke upon his path. And nay, harbored he not the most minute presentiment: that on this watch he chanced to be truly, heavily belated... (and,) aye, Signor Vasil possesseth no remoter power under the heavens to deliver the message into his keeping...

“...and once his eyes had at long last registered the token (“...nay, that clause possesseth no power to be!”), that thoroughly well-known, ...yonder, ...there shattered, crushed carriage-vessel.

Aye, that motor-chariot had belonged onto his companion, onto that mortal concerning whom Leo for a brief watch had already held the reflection that his ghost had already, ...surrendered his memory to oblivion. And to bring aid unto that ancient man inside this hour there remained no power under the sun... Because these contemporary trains... look looked to the senses (any remoter) to grant no forgiveness onto the races waged against their iron iron-wheels.”

(Inside the crumpled sheet-metal after such a guise, ...belonging onto a certain unique, exquisitely beautiful oldtimer, hailing yonder from the thirty-some fated year of the past, there was extinguished the quickening life of the legendary detective, who for some hidden cause! had exerted such a monumental haste, ...as if his spirit held fast something soоо boundlessly momentous to declare or peradventure furthermore to lay bare...)

Leo... Inside his intellect did turn into a maze of bewilderment, ...inside his soul did he thoroughly, for a fleeting heartbeat, by the law of something yonder, something far too pre-deep, ...turn frozen with a towering dread.

And.

A sorrow after the likeness of a concealed geyser, ...did strive (—quite simply—) to plunder the tubes of his lungs. Aye, a sorrow for Vasil’s sake, for the length of his entire path, ...for everything emerging from his kinsmanship. A sorrow for the sake of a vast multitude of alternative souls. “Oh, inside what a crushing guise did this stand solitary as a terrifying assault launched by the contemporary and savage, realistic, by the absolute totality of that rock-firm and coarse world over against that, ...over against that unique ancient and forever romanesque universe...” Aye, continuous-ly still they weave their intrigues one alongside the alternative... And. Could it peradventure be that these deeds were executed by the hands of the secrets, currently already weary from (so vast a cargo of, ...) running before (—that specific...—) silver-haired man bearing a beard, ...and before the mortal arrayed inside a long cloak?”

Yet this token inside the living reality stood as an omen sign. And through the lens of that exact omen sign, it looked as if there after some manner were engraved and painted the absolute totality of his hitherto youthful existence, ...as well as that portion which his boots were fated yet to wend across.

Aye, inside what manner of a (—solitary...—) state belonging onto his soul, and thereupon onto his analytical mind, and thereupon onto his spirit, he did after a guise after such a spontaneous key simply descend outside from the iron tracks, whereupon he once remoter directed his path through the length of all that bed of reeds and those yonder marsh-puddles toward those yonder foremost auxiliary administrative structures, belonging onto this request-station of the railway transit. So vast a cargo of tumult wended, ...so vast a cargo of syllables, and so vast a cargo of whispers (: ...currently now).

Aye, his frames were moving currently already across a wide measure awkwardly, ...and merely employing that, as if uniquely for the sake of empty routine, care... Inside a key as if each passing watch-beat could strike his body with what manner of a newborn bullet. As if his boots kept their watch upon what description of a foremost line of the battle-front, ...

Yet the terror had well-nigh already departed from his breast.

And inside such a design did he turn his steps and wend through those (—certain yonder...—) ancient and by rust devoured portals which did guide (—once remoter return, ...—) back toward the perimeter of the platforms.

He was constraint-driven by honor, ...for some hidden cause he was bound by fate, and quite simply it wended as a force mightier than his own strength, to once remoter enter inside yonder, ...into that selfsame buffet-tavern wherein it was fated from the very dawning and beginning onto his path to await the presence of Vasil.

And currently, while his frames were moving backward, yonder high above, ...toward the platforms, opening before his strides across this watch there kept their vigil the green lights, resting upon those selfsame railway traffic-beacons hovering past that yonder roadway which but a brief watch beforehand chanced to be capable to guide his body straight into death...

Whilst the mortals adjacent onto whose flanks his steps wended past did for some hidden cause turn vibrant with joy and cheerful, ...exactly inside the likeness yonder, ...of that single specific midnight watch, inside that yonder miniature birth-city which chanced in that bygone era to unearth its presence upon his roadway toward her face, and his foremost renewed return back into his native birth-city... ’

Aye, they bided their time to await a train, that unique rolling train wherewith there was once remoter unbolted and opened the international line wending from the near East straight unto the West of the Continent.

’...“Yet notwithstanding my soul shall unearth thy presence.., aye, my power shall find thee, my young maiden, sooner or later I shall unearth thy tracks” ... “Can it be indeed that there abide under the heavens suns which wend void of a fated purpose?”

And inside the living reality he once remoter entered inside the passenger buffet-tavern, and across this watch did seat his frame behind a table. Whilst upon its wood surface he deposited and laid those exquisitely beautiful kingly-crimson cypresses-roses which throughout the entire span of the prior watch his palm had held fast inside its grasp.

Whereupon when that selfsame maiden-server drew nigh onto his presence, ...whole with her once remoter pleasant smile (: for inside her spirit look you, there dwelt no shadow of any manner of condemnation... ) seasoned and accumulated through the course of winters and summers, his lips were the foremost to direct syllables onto her hearing:

"To a wondrous miracle, thy words inside the living reality wended in the right when but a brief watch beforehand thy tongue declared that our paths should once remoter cross tracks."

While onto his words that courteous lady merely, after a guise wise yet enigmatic did softly smile (: whole with a solitary spark which looked as if inside that precise heartbeat it chanced to flash outside from her lips... ). And solely wended her query:

"What description of a draught do we partake of on this watch?"

And he did proffer a command once remoter for a black coffee, and adjacent onto that cargo, a chalice of rum-and-cola. Aye, his ghost held fast a custom to frequently mingle and blend their streams, because you see, those twain draughts, thus one alongside the alternative inside a mixture, did according onto his faith portray that certain dark-shaded, over-ripe romance... carrying the hue of a late-spring midnight watch. Peradventure, the solitary one which throughout the entire expanse of his waitings, his expectations and his sighs, did in truth belong onto his private destiny. Wherefore, so that he might after some manner remoter shield and preserve a resonance of such lineage inside his beating heart, he did furthermore append even a pinch of cinnamon rising from that single specific packet which he preserved inside the pocket of his raiment, into each individual draught separate. Yet beforehand than his lips had even commenced to drain their streams inside those his forevermore slow and deep draughts, he did furthermore proffer a command for yet a single chalice of robust, fierce domestic brandy, whereupon his boots stepped outside onto the platform and his hand did spill and cascade its stream yonder across the iron rails... Aye, for Vasil’s sake, ...before his definitive departure outside into eternity.

And that token was by what description of a hidden secret, ...or as certain mortals would voice, “by a single sheer coincidence” registered and noticed even by Vasil’s surviving apprentice, Stefan, who beforehand had wended his way inside through those yonder alternative portals, emerging from the direction of the staircases, and had already seized his place behind a solitary among those yonder remote tables inside the buffet-tavern—a perimeter which inside some design, ...how, ...following all trials, ...currently, for some hidden cause it looked... but for a fleeting heartbeat had been abandoned by Leo... ’

Because you see, while returning thereupon, wending from the East straight toward the Western quarter, already merely at the half of the roadway leading onto the request-station, his eyes had looked upon Leo as he moved, treading yonder between the alignment of the iron tracks.

Whereupon thereafter... Thereafter did Vasil meet his destruction, and Vasil’s whole unto the very marrow of his heart stunned and taken assistant, inside that precise heartbeat already enfolded beneath the shadow of a thoroughly heavy and bitter situation, resolved to surrender and leave the entirety onto all those 'organs of public order', that their hands should be the foremost to receive the absolute totality of the situation, ... solely so that his hands might at the least fulfill and accomplish this current, ...beyond all doubt already, ...definitive final mission of Vasil’s choosing. Aye, the absolute totality of their combat had since the dawning of old belonged unto the ancient school.

It wended fated as a necessity to bide inside the frame of a priest, it wended fated as a necessity to bide inside the frame of a soldier...

A mortal was bound by destiny to endure to the very dregs and end.

’...Whilst Leo, following all trials, having retraced his steps, ...whereupon catch-ing sight of Stefan (: his presence drew nigh unto his ghost in the guise of a healing medicament for each and every single wound, and for everything... ) commenced to seek after syllables and merely let fall through his lips:

"To my deepest sorrow, ..." — whereupon his voice paused already upon the foremost breath... so that his hand might part and scatter the width of all that dark and dense shifting haze. Yet Stefan, even though currently, beyond all doubt deeply moved and displaced from the center of his being, ...harbored no yearning after the syllables of alternative souls (: his private agony had he deposited and left solitary for his own chest, ...because far too much within that perimeter wended onto his senses as sacred, ...and he stood precisely as a unique mortal of that exact grain: fashioned whole from deep and rock-firm principles, yet tokens which he first and foremost well-nigh forever shielded uniquely for his private keeping and failed to deploy straightway upon any passing foremost look of a stranger... ) wherefore he solitary gave voice, carrying that unique gaze spellbound and lost deep into the far distance yonder (: after a key, wholly after some manner over-baked, squinting... after the likeness as if before the glare of a harsh sun, —a look which layeth bare the agony, ...yet granteth no permit onto any shared pity):

"My spirit abideth inside the rock-firm faith that this specific race wended as his most cherished, yet by no means because it chanced to be fated as his definitive final one, for concerning that clause his intellect possessed no craft to hold the knowledge, ... (upon this ground it wended impossible under the heavens save that a locked pause be forged). Yet peradventure his spirit held that knowledge notwithstanding (: yet inside a key boundlessly remoter hushed). Nay, but rather because across this watch, it wended justified." — a testament which Leo, enfolded whole beneath that unique restrained piety did escort and track with his eyes, ...and by the law of something higher, something sacred, wholly measured and kingly-elegant, Vasil’s assistant accepted its weight; and having unearthed that selfsame quality inside Leo’s frame, and having welcomed its presence... placing its burden upon that unique, their fated destiny-resonance:

"His power was correcting a inadmissible error. His intellect had predicted beforehand that a delay across this hour could peradventure break as one among those fated dangerous ones. Wherefore his strides had striven to unearth thy presence with supreme haste, and... merely a touch did his carriage drift astray outside from the roadway." — carrying furthermore a destiny-significance.

And having heard and given ear onto those selfsame currents, Leo first of all acquired that single deep, uncustomary sensation of twilight sorrow, woven whole from a majestic dignity and a towering reverence, adjacent onto a multitude of high, noble values. Yet notwithstanding all trials, immediately thereafter broke the agony... a long, enduring one (: of that specific lineage which scarce any mortal possesseth the craft to to the very dregs explain) along with that unique compassion stretching beyond each and every single measure (: because quite simply, of such a character stood a heartbeat of that fated nature). Yet Stefan likewise wended as a true man upon the earth, and possessed no permit to grant leave for such a self-destruction:

"Yet notwithstanding... " (: for you see, he stood poised and girded to give voice unto something grave, something unique onto whose frame there shall remain a eternal duration:) "There abideth no single necessity under the heavens for the corrosion and gnawing of thy young soul... A vast cargo of elements towereth far above our heads." — (: Leo merely measured his stature, enfolded whole beneath a deep advanced gravity, ... and from those minutes which were woven whole from pure piety, he did measure and scan his eyes straight into his gaze, shielding and holding fast within them solely that cargo which unto heartbeats of such character belongeth, ...carrying a heart enfolded beneath that attention which rightfully belongeth onto Stefan’s syllables; whereupon precisely beforehand than his power was fated to usher and guide lower into his innermost chambers that clause: “yet notwithstanding, there furthermore existeth that alternative which is uniquely my private cargo...”, Stefan did continuous-ly furthermore give voice onto this decree:

"Vasil inside the living reality would by no means harbor a yearning after such a turn..." — whereupon, after a design whereat following those words there held sovereign rule a solitary, specific majestic silence, ...straight through its frame Stefan, employing a certain stable, after some manner forever grounded and implicitly understood posture of his hand, ...(: in a bygone season, long ago characteristic for the officials and clerks belonging onto the ancient administration, ...among those mortals who continuous-ly still inside those days held the knowledge what stood as their private right, and what cargo wended as foreign) did deliver over into Leo’s keeping a solitary such, non-offensive onto the eye, ...implicitly understood and tasteful, opulently engorged envelope. A vessel wherein Signor Vasil, inside a flawlessly sealed notebook-ledger, had presented and laid bare before his sight the absolute totality of his definitive, final annual masterpiece, answering onto Leo’s grandest, ...existential life-query. Whereupon following that deed, he did furthermore supplement even this clause onto his hearing (: because it wended as a fated necessity above all alternative components to be born of the official service. That quite simply stood as a sacred ritual... And it belonged unto Vasil’s grain... His entire laboring century of life had borne witness onto that design...):

"This delay wendeth in truth as far too towering, ... (that stood as that specific exhalation over against the characters belonging onto the syllable „...ogo”) an irreparable theft executed from the vaults of the agency, yet it continuous-ly after an identical key..."

"Nay, ..." (—whereupon, after a guise as if his spirit, or peradventure merely his beating heart had outstripped the watch:) "Matters require no such words. My soul holdeth fast the faith that after such a design it was bound by destiny to break." — Those stood as specific syllables, which uniquely and solely belong onto the litany of a funeral mass-opelo. And having received and welcomed, after each and every single measure of their crushing weight, words of that character, Stefan, inside a guise both grateful and inside an identical key majestic, ...lightly proud adjacent onto the absolute totality of his twilight sorrow, did accept the clause into his chest:

"My thanks wend onto... (—aye, there chanced to be lacking from his throat a fated vocal sound—) in the name of the agency." — only so that thereafter, according onto each and every single depth familiar onto his ghost, he made his declaration:

"And since my private role hath found its final twilight and end, ...thou shalt extend leave unto my steps that my frame may retire outside." — in the stead of each and every alternative parting greeting. (: Aye, his spirit held fast the knowledge concerning what matter his tongue shared its discourse, and his spirit held the knowledge for what fated cause his lips gave voice onto its line).

Whereupon, after Leo inside that unique locked silence, ...woven whole from the resonance, all fashioned from the resonance..., in such a grand measure as wend even those grandest, supreme songs and ballads of the world... (Aye, inside that precise heartbeat his love-filled heart quickened and was alive...) escorted whole by that unique measured gesture of his hand, (: custom to be found inside the traits of each and every single satisfied master-employer, ...), having welcomed and accepted the absolute thickness of his proposal, Vasil’s master-assistant assumed his departing posture; whereupon through its lines he did furthermore extend, continuous-ly after an identical key through the locked silence, his palm unto Leo’s grasp (: that specific hand which inside its veins did implicitly understand each alternative component upon the earth) destined for a solitary that rock-firm and unblemished parting greeting, only so that following its seal, ...employing a specific that official, administrative stride, he had already wended remote even unto the half of the distance dividing their until a brief watch beforehand shared table outside unto the very portals of that station buffet-tavern, when something inside his innermost chambers looked as though it possessed no power to endure remoter, wherefore above all alternative components he merely directed this final oracle onto Leo’s hearing:

"Avoid to lay so vast a cargo of destruction upon thy own soul, because onto his spirit it brought no heavy, crushing sorrow that he chanced solitary a single, unique race across the span of his existence to surrender to defeat against a rolling train, ... (—resembling a guise as if inside that precise heartbeat, his lips had drained a single specific chalice, born of some antiquated and excellent draught). ...and most uniquely this current one."

And Leo after his hearing had welcomed words of such a character, ...for some hidden cause recalled even those unique testaments belonging onto Maho’s lips: that it wendeth by no means as the most terrifying doom upon the earth to lose thy fated stride behind quickening life, . . but rather, it wendeth fated as the most perilous doom under the heavens fail-ing to comprehend for what fated cause thy strides inside the living reality wended along that specific roadway — because following that shadow, everything transfigureth into the uniform all-the-same... Aye, inside no alternative design could even Vasil’s pupil hold that knowledge.

And Leo was left solitary, whole alongside his own ghost...

Aye, exactly inside the likeness of those his specific heartbeats inside eternity, in such a guise do solitary the enamored gather their sensation right before the foremost kiss. The terror had bound its lines alongside the joy. And unto whose dawning, ...unto whose keeping shall all these fleeting heartbeats belong? Aye, that clause had brought to pass that Leo did omit in the fated watch to execute the selfsame deed, ...wherefore inside a key of delay he directed his parting syllables onto Stefan’s hearing:

"Farewell." — yet Stefan adjacent onto his flank upon that ground wended remoter no longer.

Thereupon...

From what manner of far-off chasm indeed did his ghost set forth to ponder concerning the absolute design of unbolting and opening this current envelope. Aye, Leo across this watch for some hidden cause, stood constraint-driven by honor to select inside the fleeting shimmer of a solitary second, wending between the kingly-elegant and the majestic-solemn, and, peradventure even for the foremost instance... Because even currently, even though already fashioned whole from pure agony, ...the inside his soul disappointed, (—across so wide an expansiveness disappointed—) Stefan had revered and kept that specific rule of Vasil’s chooses: that the definitive agency chronicles are well-nigh forever delivered inside a written form, ...wherefore neither by a single gesture of his raiment had he portrayed onto Leo’s sight the verdict belonging onto the absolute totality of Vasil’s and his private labor, and inside Leo’s case that clause inside some manner wended after no design even possible, ...or it should break, ...shattering and ruinous unto both men, ...and onto each alternative soul, ...aye, it stood as the discourteous. Whilst the length of all that across summers and winters scattered hope was currently melted and poured straight amidst Leo’s pupils. And everything enfolded within his palms was currently trembling. Nay, his hand dared by no means notwithstanding to tear and rend the envelope, ...and he unbolted its seal inside a slow key, after such a guise wending from the crest as, ...when a mortal inside its depths unearth-eth that single long-awaited, exquisitely beautiful book.

He extracted, ... (Those wended by no means as passing heartbeats, ...Those handful of seconds, aye, those stood inside the living reality as... Strides). And.

He chanced to extract a notebook-ledger which did belong onto no single hitherto already covenanted color.

Aye.

These current seconds did belong onto nothing minute or small. He possessed no power inside that watch, ...he possesseth no power currently, even to call to memory how that matter wended, ... what description of an omen that unique color did portray inside the code-notations belonging onto the agency. (Did its shade indeed under the heavens ever even exist?..)

And he unbolted and opened the notebook-ledger...

A majestic, solemn silence held its vigil dividing their alignment...

Because all at once his eyes in their absolute fullness did expand, and by no means merely the pupils... and a warm tear, a solitary that warm and burning, hot tear, enfolded whole beneath what manner of shudder, after the likeness of what description of... that single snowflake of old, softly did cascade and melt lower along his countenance.

Whilst inside the perimeter of the notebook-ledger there stood written inside such a guise:

— '“Agency chronicle concerning the covenanted annual masterpiece, destined for the client, Signor Leon the Prince, for the sun of: May the second, inside the year 2000, compiled upon the sun of: May the foremost, inside the year 2000.”'

And adjacent onto each and every alternative fated notation and intelligence-report, there kept its vigil furthermore even this clause:

“The Operational Essence:

Liliana von Schönberg, child of father Leopold, born inside ...existeth as a quickening human being, that is to say, a young matron, beneath a transfigured, alternative personal name as Aida Kemaloglu. Her current ground and territory of habitation wendeth inside the city of [ . . . . .], upon the address:

<<Det. Stefan Nikolović assumed the transcription of the chronicle upon April the sixth, inside the year 2000>>:

Following a long, unyielding and wide-expansive investigation, inside the season of July, inside the year 1999, det. Master Vasil Zlatnik did inside [ . . . . .] during the course of a solitary tavern-discourse shared alongside his ancient and solemn companion, a mortal in a bygone season positioned as one among his professional co-laborers hailing from that selfsame nation, did unearth a personage whose eyes registered Liliana’s photograph and identified her stature as the sovereign owner of the Restaurant „Aida” inside [ . . . .   . .] And continuous with that current, the personage in question furthermore had declared how their line possessed certain kinsmen yonder... who hold fast a chain of bakeries inside that selfsame birth-city, and alongside whose houses, amidst alternative ones, co-operateth furthermore even the aforementioned restaurant; wherefore under the weight of such circumstances, their presence had won the opportunity to personally encounter our sought-after person, a maiden, even as that specific soul phrased onto his hearing, “of an extraordinary beauty, whom across no design under the heavens wended it easy to consign to oblivion.” Furthermore had that soul disclosed how upon a passing instance, during the span of one among their own attendances at a evening feast under the roof of the aforementioned kinsmen, she inside that watch chanced furthermore to gather the lore: that Mistress Liliana had utterly lost the memory concerning her prior existence inside [ . . . . . ], and how she continuous-ly still harbored not the courage to explore and investigate the thickness of her previous life, because she holdeth fast a heavy dread surrounding the clause what description of truths her ghost might inside that event lay bare, and what manner of doom-circumstances would under its weight once remoter unearth her tracks.

By further investigative labors which his hand had executed, det. Master Vasil Zlatnik did visit furthermore even the aforementioned restaurant, for the fated purpose of the inquiry, falsely portraying his stature as her kinsman of old, a mortal who had for a long season of time been tracking her trails; whereat inside a fitting discourse shared alongside Mistress Liliana herself, his intellect gathered furthermore the grandest cargo of intelligence-records herein inscribed, as well as those tokens which are fated yet to be committed to script. Namely, Signor Kemal, her current monumental companion holding fast the virtues of a parent and a legal guardian, a mortal otherwise wending as a professor at the academy of culinary arts yonder... and the master-owner of the already high above mentioned restaurant, had in a bygone season adopted her frame and had taken upon his own shoulders each and every single obligation surrounding the remoter course of her existence, after his hand—by the law of fortunate circumstances—had saved her quickening life, during the span of during her private attempt of depriving her own frame of the same; under whose heavy consequences, by the law of the trauma which her breast had inside that watch endured, she did indeed lose each and every single shard of memory concerning her prior life preceding that shadow. Continuous with that current, he likewise gathered the lore how Signor Kemal had across a vast multitude of watches striven to unearth onto her path her foremost and prior family via the medium of his own companions stationed inside [ . . . . . ], yet notwithstanding, that continuous with those actions his hand had met with no success, and following the length of all those components on this sun Aida—unto our own alliance known as Liliana—had locked her resolution across a longer stretch of time to cease and halt each and every single search.

The private impression belonging onto det. Master Vasil, following the shared discourse alongside her presence, wendeth that the young maiden continuous-ly still remains upon a vast multitude of personal levels thoroughly bewildered and abideth inside a specific state of deep confusion, and her soul wendeth unsure surrounding the execution of strides inside the perimeter of this situation which following all trials hath ambushed her path; wherefore under the weight of that clause she currently and for the passing watch harboreth no desire remoter still to cognize a grander cargo of personal records concerning her frame and her prior life, until the watch her spirit shall win the fated self-assurance and a sufficient psychic stability.

Det. Master Vasil Zlatnik, via subsequently gathered operational intelligence-records onto which his hand had reached inside a supreme-ly confidential, secret key, did furthermore secure the absolute knowledge: that Mistress Liliana von Schönberg, upon that fateful date destined onto her head and the perimeter of her closest family, chanced to unearth her presence beneath the shadow of thoroughly heavy and supreme-ly non-pleasant circumstances.

Therefore, the convoy-league wherein she inside that watch chanced to bide alongside her own blood-born sister, and whose wending had been marshalled and organized by a certain lady Signora Angela Krüger-Carlsson, the official envoy-ambassadress belonging onto the Countess von Schönberg, and whose power inside that watch had received Liliana before the face of the official authorities inside [. . . . . .] was inside a specific heartbeat, under the weight of all those inside that hour confused and wartime circumstances, fiercely assaulted and its roadway cut asunder; following whose doom Mistress Liliana chanced to find her presence besieged and surrounded whole by the army inside a near-lying village bearing the title of [. . . . . .].

And currently our syllables, to our deepest sorrow, transfigure into the heaviest... ’

Under the weight of the aforementioned circumstances, Mistress Liliana did endure a targeted and thoroughly heavy torture executed by the hands of those irregular units which inside that watch had occupied the aforementioned village; following whose doom her frame was via a criminal pathway transported outside into the frontiers of [ . . . . . .] so that she might yonder be sold outside into the chains of white slavery. And inside that precise heartbeat there set its tracks even her grandest and beyond-description hell.

She wended exploited and violated o'er the perimeter of her exquisitely beautiful and young body, ...inside a vast abundance of needlessly describable designs. The grand majority belonging onto those actions and events wended in alignment alongside a certain ship inside private ownership, predominantly anchored upon a specific ground inside [ . . . . .].

And following a specific, brief chasm of time, Mistress Liliana under the weight of such onto a human being intolerable circumstances—and after her spirit had fully gathered and understood that there abideth no alternative exit under the heavens—locked her resolution to deprive her own frame of quickening life and thereby sever each and every single such remoter agony. Inside a specific heartbeat, across the course of a solitary midnight watch, after her hand had already turned into utilitarian value the negligence belonging onto her tormentors and wicked guardians, she set forth her strides to materialize that intent after a design that from the deck-board belonging onto the aforementioned ship, she chanced to leap lower into that inside that watch continuously still cold, cold maritime water so that she might drown. By a fated turn of circumstances, inside the absolute vicinity, inside that watch there kept its anchor the private ship belonging onto Signor Kemal, otherwise a passionate nautical voyager and a professional fisherman, and a highly positioned and revered member belonging onto the commune of the metropolis of [. . . . . .], whose power upon that watch saved her quickening life and took upon his own shoulders each and every single remoter care surrounding her path.

.....

For the unblemished accuracy of each and every single clause high above inscribed, the agency maketh answer both inside the material and inside the moral sense, yet notwithstanding the selfsame league wendeth by no means constraint-driven by honor to lay bare the length of all its wells and sources of intelligence-records.

Beneath the signature: Det. Master Vasil Zlat

Aye, unto scarce any mortal under the heavens wendeth it easy to commit to script what manner of absolute emotions held sovereign rule inside Leo’s breast upon the reading of that, and of such an agency chronicle...

Leo’s heart quite simply clenched inside a tight spasm of agony upon gathering the knowledge that mortals had severed the wings of his angel, tearing outside from their framework, until that watch milk-white feathers, plume by plume.

Yet he inside that precise watch solitary did harbor a yearning boundlessly mightier to hold her presence adjacent onto his flank... and his love across the span of merely a handful of seconds transfigured into something boundlessly, immeasurably deeper! Because a sufficient cargo of honor did he possess rising from his own soul... Yet first and foremost of love, ...destined toward Her countenance.

And his hands would upraise the notebook-ledger and press its weight onto his breasts, whereupon once remoter releasing its hold lest his frame should inside any guise violate the fortune quickening inside his innermost chambers, only so that he once remoter upraised the parchment, leaned it close and softly sighed, and once remoter released its hold, lest he should stain with his own presence, ...the absolute totality of that joy.

And inside such a design did he execute that rite a handful of passing watches remoter, fashioned whole from that nurturing sweat of the soul, and entire from the terror of his own spirit... because he chanced by no devices under the heavens to dare once remoter to forfeit and lose that at long last quickening life within his breast.

And only inside that watch did his eyes register the token: that following each and every single clause already read, ...aye, there kept its vigil yet a remoter fragment.

Namely, inside the very perimeter of the notebook-ledger there lay hidden furthermore a solitary specific yellow parchment-leaf whereon there stood written remoter still:

“My cherished client, my hand hath extended onto my own path the liberty to step outside the frontiers of my trade and the private statute governing the agency, deeply stirred and impelled by human regards, wherefore I chanced furthermore even to meddle—if I have leave before thy sight to inside such a guise name the deed—inside the fabric of thy affair. And inside the name of that clause, unto the sought-after person, Mistress Liliana von Schönberg, did I personally bear and deliver a brief script-description of the absolute totality of what in a bygone season wended as a fragment of her universe, and wended accessible unto my hands in the capacity of intelligence-records.

Inside the same parchment it standeth written furthermore that thy soul tracketh her trails, because thou possessest something from a towering measure momentous destined onto her hearing to disclose before her sight. Furthermore have I inside that selfsame vessel left behind even thy current address as well as a solitary photograph of thy countenance, captured via the surveillance camera belonging onto our agency.” —and... following, ...after his eyes had read, after his sight had read the fullness of all these syllables, there commenced to inundate his frame a azure, blue torrent of a never until that watch cognized fortune (...that unique miracle when the heart danceth!), and everything turned warm, the entirety of everything transfigured into the warm, ...which currently, ...inside that watch wended surrounding his tracks.

“And let my lungs at long last find their sanctuary of rest...” Whilst the absolute totality of everything was crowned by the knowledge that notwithstanding all trials... his cherished, beloved being, those certain yonder... mortals thoroughly unconscious of quickening life, ...can they indeed remoter wend as human beings?.. had by no means renounced and denied even quickening life itself! ..

Even though once remoter and notwithstanding, straight amidst that entire indescribable fortune, after the likeness of that specific and bitter Eastern seasoning-spice, there had been softly ground and throughout the absolute width of his being scattered even a twilight sorrow, ...that Holy sorrow, whole and deep, ...by the law of all those terrifying, ...nay, remoter still terrifying sufferings which his cherished, beloved being had endured.

Yet his love, ...aye, since a faraway chasm of old wended as pure love that cargo which quickened within his chambers, ...which wended through his veins, ...and the absolute totality of everything emerging from his kinsmanship... “Aye, on this sun I peradventure for the foremost instance hold the lore how the celestial Angels of God gather their sensations.”

“Oh, what description of a midnight watch is this current one breaking all at once?” Aye, the night had transfigured inside some manner after a key as brilliant as the day itself. Did it portray such a guise solely unto his eyes? “As if his memory had already consigned to oblivion how quickening life looketh to the sight...” Aye, for some hidden cause he no longer even gathered the sensation of his fated paces.

Inside a design somehow quiet and unhindered... his frame well-nigh hovered and levitated toward that singular, foremost yonder public telephone-booth, so that his hand might call and summon the entirety of that his monumental family-kinship which had, throughout the entire span of time kept a vigil to await his strides yonder upon the bank of the quiet river, that river of eternally rare butterflies; for some hidden cause... trembling with dread (: because that clause wended quite simply as a force mightier than their strength), save for a solitary soul amidst their league, that on this sun wended peradventure the definitive final sun when their eyes were yet permitted to look upon his stature after such a key wherewith they since the dawning of old remember his frame...

"Aunt..." — Aye, Leo inside that precise watch let fall through his lips onto the hearing of his Aunt Anastasia a decree which her frame inside that watch endured... as the most joyful vocal sound upon the earth.

"Ah, mercy..." — ...nay, each and every single word onto her throat wended superfluous...

"She is quickening and alive, ..! And my soul knoweth whither her tracks wend..." — Leo gave voice adjacent onto that unique solemn cadence custom to victors wreathed by heavy travail, enfolded whole beneath that deep, joyful exhaustion... While his aunt solitary kept a vigil to listen, and not a single syllable did her lips utter, yet her ghost in truth wended: “aye, aye... aye”. And following the length of all his words, there blazed into flame, after the likeness of a fireworks-display inside a New Year's midnight watch, a certain her most ripe, mature matronly outcry, ...whereupon inside its tracks there wended the outcries and joyful shouts belonging onto all alternative members of Leo’s uncustomary, rare family-kinship.

And solely did her lips remoter inside a quiet key whisper, all in the guise of a maiden spellbound and lost deep inside a palace of reflection:

"My Angel..."

And Leo thereafter, ...left the telephone-receiver to hang dangling... after such a guise enfolded whole beneath a breakneck overturn above the width of that entire warm midnight air and joyful, locked silence...

And let the electric impulses solitary flow and cascade after the likeness of what manner of... a specific miniature lowland river... yonder, inside one among those certain cultivated fields, belonging onto a design of that character, of those eternally quiet masters of the hearth. “Aye, let my aunt catch the hearing of my oncoming, returning strides...”

And while he already wended his steps backward, ...yonder toward the main bus station belonging onto that somehow since the dawning of old quiet metropolis, that monumental fragrant, wide and forever opulent plain, ...it looked onto his senses after some manner as if the light all at once commenced (and...) to radiate warmth, and it no longer merely delineated its surrounding spaces, but transfigured into something brilliantly vivid, and reinforced each and every single pigment within the soul. The mortals surrounding his tracks turned inside this watch into folk bearing serene, bright countenances... and his ghost gathered the sensation as though he possessed the power to show pure love onto every single human being... As if across that entire territory encompassing the railway station, all at once everything after some manner simply did shudder and vibrate with quickening life... Aye, his every pore stood enwoven whole beneath its stream... He harbored the reflection for a passing heartbeat that his arms could enfold inside a wide embrace the foremost stranger who should advance inside his path.

And the Almighty did inside that watch grant onto his frame the leave for that deed when opening straight before his countenance all at once, ...right soon, there unearth-ed his presence a mortal bearing a specific (one amidst those of blanched features) pale, blanched face.

And he precisely inside that heartbeat, ...now directed onto Leo’s hearing these following syllables:

"Young man, it looketh onto my senses as if thy path continuous-ly still holdeth fast a vast cargo of precious value inside quickening life,.. If thy power hath leave, lend onto my hands the currency destined for a half of a railway ticket wending toward the Capital Metropolis." — and inside that precise watch Leo all at once turned thoroughly softened and moved beneath a wave of pure tenderness. Whilst for some hidden cause there all at once ambushed that mortal what description of a child-like shame and timidity... And he harbored a yearning inside that watch furthermore to enfold Leo inside a embrace, yet for some hidden cause possessed no craft to bring it to a finer end:

"My hand shall render back onto thy custody on a newborn sun the coins which I precisely inside this watch implore."

"Nay, receive them whole, my unknown companion-friend, the entirety of all these coins, and wend with them inside absolute health and fortune, ...because if the Almighty hath already gifted and endowed my own frame with their wealth, ...my soul inside this heartbeat once remoter extendeth its thanks onto His throne." — and aye, a certain element inside that voice in that heartbeat, ...now wended no longer solely as Leo’s private cargo. And he delivered over into the keeping of that mortal bearing a blanched countenance—a face matching the lineage of those souls who had failed to unearth their destiny inside quickening life, even though in a bygone season they harbored a fierce yearning for that prize—a solitary that monumental paper bank-note, a cargo of currency vast for a single evening watch, destined for the sight of the grand majority of eyes inside that hour, inside this, ...and inside this contemporary nation. Aye, a paper bank-note boundlessly grander above the cargo of coins which that mortal had implored, ...

Nay, he chanced not even to extend so vast a faith unto his own private ghost. Wherefore he simply all at once directed his eyes straight into Leo’s gaze. And inside that precise heartbeat he solitary let fall this clause, ... :

“Oh, inside what a guise indeed is this possible under the heavens? Precisely a sum of that character stood as a fierce necessity unto my tracks yonder... Because onto her frame my monumental... ” — whereupon he thereupon all at once sank into a sudden stillness, born both of pure gratitude and of a sufficient, opulent satisfaction; whilst inside Leo’s frame throughout those fleeting heartbeats there wended naught but a solitary, that quiet smile of support (: Aye, each alternative token above its grain would have broken across his path as the discourteous and wounding... ). A smile which shieldeth and keepeth the joy, lest it should by what description of a storm, ...God forbid, be shattered and scattered into the void. Yet he, ...the mortal who kept his vigil before his countenance, held inside his breast no remoter chamber destined for locked silence. Wherefore he sought inside his private keeping after a guise wherewith his soul held the lore and craft, wending whole through his beating heart across the hidden lining of his garments, stumbling amidst his own tracks... after that specific element rising from the most precious, valuable cargo. So that he thereupon inside a key true and coming straight from the heart solitary (—yet furthermore—) decreed:

“The Almighty shall render back onto thy custody this private noble deed of thine...” — whilst Leo, adjacent onto those quiet and gentle steps, currently already wending remote outside the perimeter of that unknown guardian of his joy, yet continuous-ly carrying a face turned toward his countenance, ...solitary furthermore after a somehow princely, patrician-quiet key let fall this oracle:

“He hath executed that deed already...” — harboring not even an approximation of a presentiment as to the absolute, towering expansiveness belonging onto syllables of such a character from his lips. Yet, ...as his frame turned around, he chanced to lose each and every single newborn word... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
............................................................BECAUSE! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
............................................................Howsoever grandly his power did set in motion his lips, outside from their frames save for a solitary, quiet weeping-sob   there wended naught akin onto the absolute thickness of all his prior words.

Aye, these passing minutes did belong onto no single era of time which his soul had hitherto under the heavens cognized.

And while toward his presence, a maiden arrayed inside a skirt bearing the color of emerald-green wended status-by-status nigher, ...and status-by-status nigher, surrounding his flanks there were vanishing (—the entirety of those frantic—) mortals, and each alternative trace of agony upon the countenances, and each and every single (—that—) stride which rejoiceth not. There vanished thereafter furthermore even (—all—) the rolling trains, there vanished even the absolute framework of the railway station itself. Shrunk and sunk into total stillness was (—furthermore—) the whole of that midnight bustle, shrunk into stillness were the resonances of the whistle-blasts, shrunk into stillness was furthermore even the vocal sound pouring from the loudspeakers (: that machine which heraldeth the arrivals and fated departures of the rolling trains).

And in the final turning of the hour, there sunk into stillness even the private resonance of his own footsteps.

Whilst there remained solely the eyes, ...those eyes possessing the color of a specific ancient, deep sea; there remained solely the lips... , those lips carrying the color of grapes harvested from those high, alpine mountain-vineyards, ...and there remained... there remained solely that after the likeness of quickening life exquisitely beautiful countenance, a face after the likeness of that belonging onto a Cherubim-Angel rising from the holy frescoes of the Mount Monasteries.

Aye, those eyes which had since a faraway chasm of time been sealed fast by the hellish fire, ...and until this watch had been healed solely beneath the crimson beam of the moon's light, currently now at long last did proffer and bring before Leo’s sight that private, their specific... that unto his soul even remoter than amber warm tenderness belonging onto their grace. Aye, for you see, that countenance, though torn and rent by the claws of hyenas, possessed no wound under the heavens capable to mar its beauty (: wounds currently already moistened and washed by that unique water carrying the color of the moon, ) across such a measure, ...across which it was crowned and graced by that smile, ...that smile possessing the color of an forevermore warm, spring-like canopy of heaven... Because those lips, in a bygone season desecrated by the venomous saliva of beasts... (: fanning and scattering neither burning coal nor ashes) currently already did bring furthermore even on this watch a solitary, well-nigh forever enfolded whole beneath what description of a sweet secret... fragrance of the moon-rose. Aye, that current did ascend towering o'er the perimeter of these syllables, emerging from that unto his spirit soоо... intoxicating resonance (: ...aye, : “What manner of wine indeed is this current draught, ...from what description of high mountain-crest hath its stream been borne?” —whole with pure joy did his ghost solitary pose the query) ...and those wended as her private syllables; aye, those stood as Liliana’s words:

“My ears have gathered the lore that thy soul tracketh my trails since a long season of winters and summers?” — whereupon making his answer onto her presence, ...his eyes did look straight into her gaze, ...and his ghost looked upon the face of the Almighty, across this watch by no means having implored for a permit onto that deed... his hand took into its keeping her palm, and softly did fold and close her fingers, ...whereupon he enfolded her absolute fullness inside a wide embrace carrying a gaze enfolded whole beneath the eternity of this fleeting heartbeat... and inside that watch brought before her hearing those syllables sacred unto his soul:

“Since a faraway dawning of old hath my spirit harbored the yearning to disclose a certain clause before thy sight.” ...and the absolute totality of everything surrounding his tracks, currently now wendeth as amber, ...and the length of all elements from a joyful agony is crimson-dyed, and everything currently now surrounding his presence, ...on this sun solitary carrying the fragrance of a cypress-rose.

And she in truth did gather the sensation of all those components, and all that cargo looked onto her senses as if her spirit had inside some manner already held the lore, ...and she currently now, uniquely adjacent onto that solitary, thoroughly gentle (: for each and every single agony of mine, a comfort-sanctuary) and enigmatic matronly smile, moving inside a guise as if her spirit already predicted what description of words Leo possessed the power to declare before her sight, ...aye, inside a specific cadence belonging onto a turtledove with moistened wings, did let fall before his presence each and every single hope of her breast:

“My spirit harboreth the faith that it wendeth as the exquisite and beautiful, that which thy power hath to disclose before my sight.”

Whilst Leo burned whole from the stream of his life-blood, from tears and a singular that above all alternative components unblemished-pure sensation... Thousands of giant butterflies did inside that watch commingle and toss inside his womb. Because she wended as his angel inside the bygone era, and on this contemporary sun. And destined for the oncoming morrow, and following all trials. Aye, inside such a key did he inhale currently nothing save the stardust of heaven. “My ghost holdeth no remoter dread for any fated shadow.”

Aye, quickening life had rendered back onto his custody the fated purpose. And after the likeness through the foremost burning flame of the aurora, ...he inside that watch above all alternative components gave voice onto this oracle:

“I love thee.”

And having caught their resonance... she (She), and upon the wells of her eyes there descended the stardust of the heavens... inside a trembling key of her voice did implore:

“Reiterate that clause, I do but pray thee.”

Aye, his soul had wended its path through what description of a absolute anxiety, ...agony and trembling dread, bearing the length of all that yearning, the wounds and rock-firm faith, ...searching had it wended after the hope, searching after the joy, ...yet the sacred oil fanned from pure love did, once remoter bear and upraise those... Specific syllables, ...flaming, ...after the likeness belonging onto that unique star of a newborn quickening life:

“I love thy presence remoter than quickening life itself.”

...because that stood as far too towering a cargo from the alignment of words, that her intellect should all at once comprehend:

“Doth thy tongue intend to declare that my spirit would bide inside fortune and happiness adjacent to thy flank??” — only so that through the perimeter of those specific syllables:

“My tongue intendeth to declare that my power shall execute each and every single deed under the heavens that thy presence bide inside fortune and happiness adjacent to my flank.” — words whole, fashioned coming straight from the beating heart and enfolded beneath each and every single shard of his protector-guardianship, scattered far by that unique quiet midnight breeze, there was fanned into a glowing heat yet another instance of that monumental chronicle-romance, ...in that fated watch when the sparks already, softly, ...remoter and remoter had ceased to burst and leap, ...and had ceased to flash outside from that, ...from yonder, ...monumental flame which even on this sun continuously still, ...was being extinguished by those children, belonging onto that unique, ...even as a vast multitude of mortals voice across their chronicles, inside that bygone era grand nation.

                        *                                              *                                              *

(P.S. — Postscriptum)

 

A long, powerfully robust and warm embrace belonging onto twain young mortals did after the likeness of a ring crown a single whole, born of the wartime gale-whirlwind, odyssey of pure love; and there remained currently solitary onto those twain young, unto the very marrow of their bones stricken and wounded mortals, to set forth their steps to build, ...to once remoter upraise, ...their wounded universe, exerting the whole of their strength—could it indeed be...—to forge a miracle? ...or merely to press remoter onward from that precise ground where their strides in a bygone season had paused... (: For you see... She saved his quickening life, aye, ...and his sovereign soul likewise, ...Because, he saved her sovereign soul, can it be indeed that his hand rescued furthermore even her quickening life...)

 

Instead of an Afterword... The Legend:

 

Inside the perimeter of this romance-book, there hold fast their station certain departures and deviations from the laws of grammar, as well as the orthodox rules of orthography, tokens which have been ushered inside by the reason of artistry: for the sake of emphasizing the (pre-deep, ...) inner meaning and reinforcing the expressiveness belonging onto the aesthetics present within its frame.

Exactly after the likeness of yellow-brown in the stead of yellowbrown and items kindred onto that lineage... —
Because they cascade and melt not into a singular stream, yet notwithstanding they belong one onto the alternative upon a shared ground of the action

Or at the final turning in the stead of finally and elements kindred onto that track... —
Because inside the fabric of a given event, that token wendeth by no means as a mere designation for the cargo of time, place or manner, but rather as a solitary whole heartbeat born of pure purpose and meaning... 

Or furthermore even (—those rarely deployed and non-existent marks of punctuation—:), . ., . . ,, ? . ., . . ? and countenances kindred onto their design are present under the heavens—
carrying the significance of: the unuttered incompleteness of a comma, a comma wending in the tracks of an unuttered incompleteness, the unuttered incompleteness of a query, and a query hovering past the crest of an unuttered incompleteness—alongside values kindred onto their alignment.

Adjacent onto that clause, through the medium of that channel and besides those elements, there continuous-ly exist furthermore certain non-frequently customary stylistic formations:

The variance inside the magnitude of the font-text —

is stationed according onto each and every specific hearing of the action or event, inside the given fleeting heartbeat belonging onto the chronicle.

The brackets-parentheses inside the romance-book —
first and foremost and most frequent-ly hold fast a reminder onto that cargo which wendeth not constraint-driven by necessity, yet could peradventure belong upon that ground, or wendeth non-visible upon the foremost glance of the intellect, yet notwithstanding could hold its private realm of significance: after a guise as if inside a specific design they deliver a three-dimensional (3D) portrayal belonging onto the chronicle.
(—The absolute absence of brackets-parentheses maintain-eth the rigid tension and the temperament, whilst the brackets-parentheses circle around and deepen the inner meaning... The brackets-parentheses nigher designate the master-note belonging onto the chronicle...)

A statement rendered twain times after a kindred guise, the repetition, signifieth —
both for one’s private sake and destined for alternative souls, ...or furthermore both inside its own grain and beneath the weight of alternative components (: both inside the sense of the sovereign position belonging onto the Author and inside the sense of the position belonging onto the characters).

... (three punctuation-dots) —
an intermezzo and a locked silence, because adjacent onto so vast a cargo on this sun of universally-present attention, from passing watch to passing watch it wendeth as the highest wisdom to track and escort what description of a soul even through the length of quickening life inside a hushed key (: because there exist specific grounds whereunder there possesseth no leave to exist a rock-firm, hard word... —yonder where the measures wend scattered, ...and the musical notes wend scattered...)

.../... —
bring and deliver an open space destined for remembrance or a reminder after a guise as if through the medium of a dream... and as if through the shifting haze of the snow.

Diverse countenances of naming and title-giving (—along with the enumeration of names—) all at once and in a continuous alignment are present inside the perimeter of the chronicle —
because peradventure inside a single and selfsame ground there keep their vigil the absolute totality of all those souls who after an identical key belong onto a (single and selfsame) fleeting heartbeat.

(A solitary vowel-sound, or a passing particle or a single word possesseth the virtue to stand even as an entire, sovereign sentence.) —
Aye, ...enfolded within their frame abideth the master-tone belonging onto the length of all that wendeth in their tracks. Because by no means by a mere hazard did the subsequent sentence arrive outside its alignment. Dividing their paths there existeth an entire monumental chronicle-story, ...and that wended by no means as a minute journey, yet the master-tone notwithstanding with the highest ease is read and notwithstanding with the swiftest pace caught by the hearing.

(The commencement and dawning of a sentence employing a minor-lowercase letter.) —
Designat-eth that a sentence of such lineage by its inner purpose belongeth onto the preceding sentence, and solely across the course of fated events wendeth it independent and sovereign.

The repetition or the multiplication of individual letters (—carrying diverse inter-linkings amidst their alignment and inside such a guise designated by the marks of punctuation—) —
represent-eth the diverse heartbeats belonging onto the purposeful passions, and the chanting-out [испевавања] of specific momentous, significant heartbeats (—emphasizing and magnifying the weight-bearing syllable of the inner purpose—)...

The repetition of words diverse by their definition upon the selfsame ground of the description —
Represent-eth an identical belonging of those specific words onto a selfsame inner purpose, and station-eth the three-dimensional (3D) expanse as the absolute boundary-frame of the action.

And after the likeness as if nothing alternative under the sun possessed the power to lead the Reader outside from that monumental path woven whole of a vast multitude of paces, outside from the entirety of that unique, long and fanned-into-furious-heat dream... And it proffereth no sobering awakening, rising from the count of half a thousand inscribed parchment pages, long descriptions, psychological self-examinations, superfluous and yet so constraint-driven by necessity descriptions. Nay, but rather solely that pure love which vanquisheth and overmastereth each alternative shadow, and that fortunate, happy return into the embrace belonging onto twain young mortals. Because peradventure inside the living reality, there did survive even following all trials, a vast multitude of entire families.

Aye, peradventure this notwithstanding first and foremost wended as an absolute, single whole story concerning the quest after a lost domestic hearth-home.

Nataša Pivnički, Graduated Philologist (Comparatist), and Educational Worker.