Personal Magdalene

On October 6th, the first snow fell. Lyne had just left a rock concert and was walking down the street late at night, wanting to take a break from the excitement. He remembered how everything suddenly turned white, and in that moment of silence he felt the summer leaving, the fall giving way to winter coming in. It was the beginning of something important, although Lyne couldn't quite put his finger on it. He just knew that the snow was a beginning, albeit a small one.

But after three days the snow was gone. On October 9th it melted, taking with it the little bit of winter charm that had given the dreary autumn some meaning. That morning, Lyne sat on his bed and opened a can of the cheapest beer he could find at the nearest store. It was ice cold. He drank it without turning on the light, staring at the dark ceiling. A fly was crawling along the wall, its monotonous buzzing reminding him of something frozen and helpless. He didn't chase it away. He didn't care. Let it be a silent witness to his impotence.

Everything in his life remained the same – quiet and unchanged. Even when Lyne recalled that concert, his eyes were empty, as if nothing had happened. On October 6th, in addition to the snow, the city gave him another unexpected moment: a rock band that performed in his dirty, gray city for just one night. Lyne was there not out of loyalty, but simply by chance – having noticed a poster on the way home from university, he bought a ticket without thinking. After all, there are no normal concerts, but the chance to see something special – that's what's worth the risk. And so he went.

And there he saw him. Cyrus.

Cyrus moved on stage as if the whole world lay at his feet. It wasn't anything grand or supernatural – Cyrus was just there, and Lyne stood in the dark, holding a beer in his hand, feeling like something was missing. Every move Cyrus made seemed so natural, as if he were the center of the universe and everyone else was just an observer. Meanwhile, Lyne felt alienated and awkward.

Something inside him clenched: envy, jealousy, horror at the thought that he could never be like that, that he would never be on stage, that he would never become the one who was watched, the one who got everything without effort.

And now, on the ninth day, sitting in an empty apartment, Lyne could still feel the cold that had entered his chest the moment Cyrus had walked backstage. Cyrus hadn't even noticed him, but the laughter that had spread in that direction hadn't let Lyne forget his own insignificance - it was the laughter of those who pass by without noticing people like him.

Lyne took another sip of beer, but it tasted strange, as if the drink had absorbed something foreign, invisible. He squeezed the can too hard, accidentally cutting his fingers, and blood came out in thin lines, trickling down to his wrist. He ran his thumb over the cut, smearing the blood, but he couldn't let go of the can.

He still remembered how, on the first snow, on October sixth, he stood and watched the silence, the white roofs, as if the city had stopped for a moment, listening to itself. But now only memories remained from that moment, and everything that seemed important was gone without a trace. Lyne could not understand what exactly had broken - where was the world he was looking for, and where was the Cyrus who had become the reason for his hatred?

The seventh he could barely remember, and the eighth was just a grey, wet day, a day with a bitter taste in his throat, with the snow gone, and, it seemed, with a piece of his soul missing. And today is the ninth, and Lyne still feels the cold in his chest.

He suddenly got out of bed, leaving the murky remnants of sleep behind, and went to the kitchen to wash the blood from a cut caused by yet another carelessness. In the small space of his apartment, under the sink, a nearly empty bottle of liquid soap flashed. As the icy water began to flow down his arm, pinkish traces of blood mixed with the clear water, forming small droplets that swirled in a whirlpool, as if trying to erase all memories of pain.

The thought of bandages flashed through his mind for a moment, but it quickly dissipated. Why try to record something that the wound would heal on its own anyway? Lyne just sighed and looked up to meet himself in the old mirror. There he saw not only the weariness expressed in the deep shadows under his eyes and the tousled strands of hair, but also something inexpressibly empty – the reflection of a man who had long since ceased to have anything meaningful.

He clutched the cold surface of the sink with his hands and asked quietly, as if addressing an invisible interlocutor, "What am I missing?" There was no answer, but deep in his soul, a truth was already ripening that he could not drive away. He was left alone with himself, in a cramped, damp-smelling room, where the dim light of a lamp tried to warm the cold walls, and the aroma of cheap soap reminded him of a ghostly feeling of comfort.

The image of the concert stage floated into his mind – the bright lights, the noise of the crowd, the music that made you forget everything, and that elusive moment when Cyrus, on stage, seemed to be the embodiment of life. But now this image was replaced by an unsettling reality: he looked at his reflection and saw a man who had lost something important. Maybe he himself was to blame for his coldness? Or maybe it was his soul that demanded something that he had been looking for so long in other people's successes and other people's smiles?

Lyne's fingers, still shaking from the pain, began to slowly slide over his face, as if trying to remember the lost feelings. Suddenly his gaze caught on the corner of the mirror, where a scent flashed like a memory: a subtle aroma of old wood and something distant, reminiscent of childhood, of forgotten toys in the attic. This smell, like a quiet call from the past, made him think about when everything changed, when joy gave way to impenetrable melancholy.

He slowly turned away from the mirror and walked to the window. The city beyond seemed vast and lifeless, as if all the people were blurred silhouettes, disappearing into the cold rain. Lyne caught every drop, as if they might hold the answer to the eternal question: "Who needs me?" Maybe he could become a caregiver, or at least feel like there was room for something real in his life. But the urge quickly died down, replaced by the bitter realization that answers did not come so easily.

He walked back to the table, touched its scratched surface, and felt something inside him clench with uncertainty. Thoughts swarmed in his head, and suddenly one of them - absurd, almost mocking – made him grin. Maybe if he pretended he already had someone to love, the pain would be less acute? Even if it was just a figment of his imagination, to believe for a moment that he could become someone important to someone else.

But how can you convince yourself when there is only endless emptiness around you? Lyne looked in the mirror again, seeing the familiar face that always accompanied him – the face that he was the only spectator of. He carefully ran his hand over his cheeks, as if trying to find confirmation that all these wounds and scars were not just accidents, but traces of a long-lost soul.

At that moment, something inside him trembled, and he asked himself a question he had long put off: should he love the one he saw in the reflection? There was no answer, only a quiet echo in his mind, mixed with a drop of cold water running down his chin. Perhaps this drop was not just water, but a symbol of the fact that even in the coldest moments, something alive remains.

Lyne looked around his apartment, feeling how every speck of dust, every shadowy corner, seemed to absorb his loneliness. He returned again to the small bathroom, where the walls, soaked with humidity, received the dim light of the lamp, and the air was heavy with dampness and imperceptible sadness. And now he was alone, in front of himself and his reflection, in the same space where time seemed to have stood still.

Images began to swim in Lyne's mind. This time they were strangely clear and specific – about a child. Not at all what he was used to thinking about, not some future or a woman. He imagined her – a girl in a red T-shirt. Why red? He didn't know. Maybe it was just the color that appeared against the fresh cuts, not yet healed, perhaps out of habit.

A girl. She would be different from him. He saw her in clear strokes in his imagination: short shorts, like he once had, and a bright T-shirt. Not a boy, not himself, no. He didn't need someone as broken as he was by his side. No, she would be different. Her gaze would be full of energy, a life-affirming fire. She would be strong, not like him, not cornered by her helplessness.

He imagined her, bold, with a fiery tenacity, unafraid to go forward, as if she were his first love, but not in the way he was used to understanding it. Not as a woman who could be by his side. No. This was a different, strange image of love. This was an image of someone who could be important to him, who could need him. Someone who could break down his walls with simple words, with her questions, with such a naive look, but with such a strength that he lacked.

Why did he need this girl? He didn't know. He didn't know what to call these thoughts. It wasn't like wanting a child. It was something else, something unclear. Like an emptiness he was trying to fill, without knowing what. Maybe it was his fear, his helplessness, his desire to be someone for someone else, someone more than just a lonely man wandering through this world. He looked at his hands, in which there was no trace of the old pain, but he still felt the weight of some invisible burden.

He saw her again in his mind's eye, the girl in the red tank top. She was running forward, and there was such determination in her step that Lyne felt something inexpressible inside himself. A strange feeling, as if this small figure could change something in him, in his life. As if it was enough for her to simply exist for him to feel that he could be someone else. Maybe she could be the one to free him from this vast loneliness. But why her? Why not someone else? Why this strange, unfinished feeling?

Lost in thought, Lyne left the bathroom and sat down at the table. The room was still empty, only the creaking of the fan and the lingering silence broke its silence. He opened an old notebook, the pages of which still smelled of abandoned dust, and his gaze slid over the lines:

October 6 – It snowed, there was a concert.

October 7 – Cyrus's group left.

October 8 – The snow began to melt.

The notes seemed alien to him, distant, like forgotten memories. The day when the snow, the concert, and the farewell had been significant, now lost their importance. Everything that had seemed important yesterday had vanished like an instant. Lyne leaned back in his chair again, rubbed his neck, and thought. All this time he could have been thinking about other things – about work, about what to have for dinner – but his thoughts would not give him rest, everything would return to her.

In his imagination, she was the answer to all the questions that tormented him. He realized that he had not brought her into his thoughts by accident: she was a reflection of himself, an image that he could never fully comprehend. It was not just a childish desire - it was a way to escape from everything that was happening to him. Mentally "giving birth" to her seemed like a joke, an attempt to cope with something he could not control. Why not invent a non-existent salvation for himself, not explain it? He himself did not know what to say. Maybe it was just a way to forget.

Taking up a pen, Lyne, lost in thought, wrote:

October 9th – the snow melted and I gave birth to a child.

Why? Why write this? Who will understand? But it's just… a thought. Words. Pure imagination, nothing more. He tried to convince himself that this was normal. That all this wasn't madness. He might not have written it. But for some reason he decided to write it down. As if he needed to document this moment, so as not to forget. Even if no one would understand it.

He put down his pen, looked up at the notebook, and smiled again. It was a cruel, forced, almost theatrical smile. It was all like part of a play, in which he himself was the main actor, and everything around him was just scenery. He was writing his own script, not even noticing the absurdity. All these thoughts about the child, about the girl who could be his salvation. It was all like a joke, but too heavy to laugh at.

A child. In his head. Funny. As if anything could be done about it. But what? There was nothing real about it. Just an emptiness that was being filled with something… imaginary.

Lyne looked at his notes in the notebook again, reading the lines as if they were supposed to change something. Nothing changed. But in his head everything sounded louder, growing, like a hum in his ears. He whispered to himself:

"Well, since you gave birth, it's time to take care of her."

His voice was barely audible, but for a moment it seemed as if the words were making sense, as if he were taking responsibility for what had previously seemed like an absurd figment of his imagination. Before he could fully comprehend this new decision, however, a strange creaking sound came from the apartment.

"What the…"

Lyne jumped up, feeling his heart beat faster, like an echo of childhood memories. The creaking reminded him of the evenings when he would sit at the table with his mother, waiting for his father to return, and the door would open with some harbinger of something important. The sound did not belong to the past – It was here and now, instilling anxiety and uncertainty.

Lyne quickly walked up to the front door. He gripped the handle tightly, expecting someone to appear on the other side. Images flashed through his mind: someone who had come true in his fantasies, or perhaps a reality that could change the course of events. And then, slowly, the door opened.

A girl stood on the threshold. A small one, about eight years old, with long black hair that was slightly tossed by the gusts of wind. She looked at him with curiosity and slight wariness, as if she had already become accustomed to surprises, but still not losing her childish wonder.

"Hi," she said quietly, hesitantly, as if she didn't know where to begin. "I'm home."

Lyne froze in place, his fingers involuntarily tightening on the door handle. The familiar statement flashed through his mind: "That's his girl," as if she were the very idea that was still fighting for a place in his life. He crouched down, trying to meet her gaze.

"Oh, hi, how's school?" he asked, trying to sound calm and friendly.

The girl thought for a moment, and then with a quiet sigh began to talk about her day:

"The teacher yelled at me again. And my classmates..." She wrinkled her nose slightly, like little children do when they don't understand the weight of words. "All they do is laugh. So what now? I can be loud."

Lyne exhaled, as if he heard in her voice an echo of long-forgotten memories of his own childhood and the hurts he had to endure. He stood up and, gently taking her hand, helped her into the hallway. The girl followed him, slowly, as if carefully stepping through a new, unfamiliar world that he was trying to show her.

As he passed the cramped rooms, Lyne noticed her gaze linger on his face, studying him as if trying to figure out who this strange adult was. He tried to smile, but his attempt was awkward and clumsy.

"You… look kind of weird," Lyne said, trying to make his voice softer.

The girl giggled softly, and at that moment Lyne realized that her sincerity and spontaneity were what he had been missing. With an inexplicable sense of care, he leaned down to remove her dirty sneakers, traces of the autumn weather that were part of her little world. He carefully lifted her foot, and the girl, swaying slightly from surprise, soon burst into laughter.

Lyne couldn't help but grin, took off his shoes and placed them carefully at the threshold, as if it was an important ritual action. The girl shook her feet, as if trying to wash away all the fatigue of the day.

"Thank you!" she said, as if completely oblivious to the unusualness of the situation.

Lyne held his breath and said quietly:

"Everything's fine," and then, almost in a whisper, he added to himself: "Don't worry."

Her voice and cheerful laughter dispersed the internal hum a little, but unfamiliar voices sounded in Lyne's head again, reminding him that he could not simply forget about his internal chaos. Flashes of self-deprecation and strange self-condemnation flashed like an echo in the empty hall, but the girl, unperturbed and real, continued to stand in front of him. Perhaps it was she who became for him a living confirmation that reality could still be different from the joyless world of his thoughts.

Lyne carefully placed her sneakers by the door, as if it were a rite of passage, and directed his gaze to the window where the wind raged outside the glass. He saw in this storm not only the force of nature, but also a reflection of his own internal storms. Watching the girl, he felt a desire to care, to create something new, and perhaps to heal himself through her presence, begin to awaken in his soul.

"Let's go wash up," he quietly suggested, pointing towards the bathroom.

The girl crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes.

"Oh, come on, let's do it later," she answered lazily.

Lyne frowned, trying to understand her rebellious attitude, which resonated so precisely with his own internal conflicts.

"Wash yourself first, and then do whatever you want," he added.

The girl narrowed her eyes, holding back a smile, and added:

"Why are you so angry? You look like some old man."

Lyne looked away, muttering sheepishly:

"Sorry," he muttered quietly, "don't judge me harshly."

She giggled again, and he realized he'd just apologized to an empty space. To the emptiness that filled his head. What the hell? Are you really apologizing to your schizophrenia?

But the girl didn't disappear, didn't dissolve into a ghostly haze, as she should have if he had understood everything correctly. She just shrugged and headed for the kitchen. Lyne remained in the hallway, listening to her footsteps.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Although the steps were light and almost silent, Lyne could distinguish their rhythm, as if he heard a melody familiar from childhood. Suddenly, the sound of the refrigerator door opening was heard, followed by a soft click.

"Hey!" came an indignant voice from the kitchen. "Where's my cereal?"

Lyne blinked, trying to understand what was going on.

"What cereal?" he asked.

"My favorites!" he heard as the girl closed the refrigerator with a dull thud. "Did you forget to buy them?"

He instinctively ran his hand over his face, remembering how he himself loved those same cereals as a child - crispy, slightly sweet, which could be eaten straight from the box, without unnecessary ceremony.

There was a noise from the kitchen, as if she was sorting through boxes, examining the contents of the shelves. Lyne took a step forward, but then froze, as if expecting to see something or someone.

"You're going to see who? There's no one there," he thought, but suddenly the refrigerator creaked again and the door opened again. Lyne swallowed.

Damn.

"Dad!" the girl shouted from the kitchen. "What a clumsy person you are!"

He exhaled.

"I'm sorry," he answered quietly, without moving from his spot.

And at that moment, Lyne suddenly caught himself on a strange thought: he apologized again. To whom?

Without wasting a minute, he went to the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove and turned on the gas. A small flame flared up under the metal bottom, playing with blue tongues. The girl had already settled down at the table, resting her head on her palms and frowning.

"Are you mad at me?" Lyne asked, taking a pack of tea from the cupboard.

"Yeah," she muttered.

"Because of the cereal?"

"Well, yes," her voice sounded tired, as if she was showing how hard it was to live with such a careless father who forgets even the simplest things.

The kettle began to sing, and Lyne took out two mugs, dropped a tea bag into each, then poured boiling water over them. He opened the cupboard and took out a box of marmalade, bought long ago but never used. Placing the box on the table, he sat down opposite the girl, watching her carefully.

The girl immediately perked up: she opened the lid of the box and instantly grabbed a red cube of marmalade, putting it in her mouth, chewing with exaggerated pleasure.

"Oh, that's different!" she muttered, not forgetting the tasty treat.

"So everything's okay?" Lyne chuckled.

"Yes, yes," she nodded, clearly pleased. "How generous of you!"

Her laughter filled the small kitchen, and Lyne briefly forgot the emptiness that usually filled his mind. He watched as the girl picked up the jelly beans again, wrapping her small hands around the mug, her nose crinkling slightly as she concentrated on chewing.

He slowly sipped his tea, feeling the warmth spreading through his body, and involuntarily remembered how he himself sat at the table as a child, listening to his father's stories. Then he was the same as now - dreamy, a little lost, and everything seemed important to him.

Lyne looked down at his mug, his thoughts quieting again for a moment.

"What?" the girl asked, looking at him.

"Nothing," he answered quietly.

She shrugged and reached for another cube of marmalade. Lyne smiled, took a sip of tea, and felt an instant warmth penetrate every cell of his body.

At the table opposite him, a girl was quietly drinking tea and chewing marmalade, her fingers gently picking up another piece, playing with its shape so that it wouldn't stick to her lips. She suddenly looked up and grinned.

"What?" Lyne asked, trying to hide his tension.

"You're just stupid," she said in a tone that made Lyne almost choke on his tea. "You always look at me like I'm all you have."

"So what?" Lyne chuckled softly. "Maybe you really are all I have."

The girl glanced at him with a look that was slightly mocking, but at the same time, filled with sincere childish spontaneity.

"Okay, okay, don't bother. I didn't come to talk to you about that. Do you want to know how things are at my school?"

Lyne, putting down his mug, said almost without thinking:

"Of course. It's your life."

The sounds of childhood echoed around the table in their small kitchen, mingling with the rustle of the kettle and the quiet crackle of the fire beneath the stove. And in Lyne's mind, the thought still swirled about his brain, forcing him to imagine things he himself could not always understand.

The girl, who now looked genuinely focused, leaned forward slightly.

"We drew at school today," she said cheerfully, beaming with delight. "The assignment was simple: draw a mother and child relaxing by the river. Can you imagine?"

Lyne nodded, though he found it hard to understand what exactly this river and these characters meant to her. In his mind, these images were connected to something much more complicated than the usual idyllic couple on the riverbank.

"Uh-huh," he said, trying to guess her mood. He could pretend to understand, but it seemed to him that the subject of a mother, a child, and a river was very far from what was in his world.

"So I'm drawing and drawing," she paused, "and the teacher is like, 'Molly, what's that?! That's not a mother and child, that's some kind of prisoners on a barge!'"

Lyne suppressed a chuckle. For some reason he knew his little girl's name was Molly, because in his head the name sounded like a quiet reminder of the past, of something he himself had never known.

"Seriously?" he asked, surprised. "You drew a whole crowd? There must have been too many of them for your teacher, huh?"

Molly smiled, narrowing her eyes slightly.

"Don't you think you're a master?" she remarked, picking at the marmalade with a spoon, which was no less important to her than paints and brushes. "The teacher also said, 'Molly, you're crazy! This isn't a family idyll, it's some kind of action movie!' And Leo and Brian, as always, are laughing. Do you understand?"

Lyne nodded silently, not trying to figure out where exactly the names Leo and Brian came from. They were just flashes in his life, like characters from old movies or books, but to Molly, the bearers of these names were real and alive people.

"They laugh because they don't understand," Molly continued, unable to restrain herself from giggling. "Leo is like a plaster statuette, no emotion, no soul. And our Mrs. Dunlop even called Brian an 'uncontrollable blockhead'. You should have seen his face! If you'd asked me, I'd have drawn it for sure. And look at all my classmates – they all look like they've been sent to hard labor!"

Lyne nodded again, trying not to get lost in the flood of memories she was telling so vividly. Vague images of his childhood and echoes of conversations he had once heard from his father flitted through his mind. But now his thoughts were with Molly, with her boldness and unpredictability.

"Well, anyway," Molly pushed the cup away and started fiddling with the marmalade, "the teacher scolded me for my imagination. She said that I drew everything wrong, as if I hadn't tried to capture the 'family theme'! She also added that I was interpreting the assignment too freely. But, you know, screw it!"

Lyne laughed, feeling her sincerity and strength of spirit filling the emptiness in his soul. He didn't know how to respond to such energetic behavior, but he wanted to show that he was genuinely interested in her story – as if he was trying to find in her an answer to his own unresolved pain.

"Molly," he began, as if remembering something important, "did you really draw a crowd of people on a barge instead of two people in love? I wouldn't have thought you were capable of such a thing..."

She frowned and replied with a slight mockery:

"What, are you going to start reproaching me like Mrs. Dunlop?" she grinned. "Apparently, you haven't realized yet that I think above school rules. Haven't you ever drawn yourself?"

Lyne coughed, trying to hold back a smile.

"Well, I drew," he replied, trying to show that he could create, too, albeit not so expressively. "But to interpret the task so freely…"

He paused for a moment, watching Molly, as if trying to commit every detail of her to memory. There was something startlingly true in her voice, in her movements, that made him forget the grayness of the world around him. Her name, simple and soft, sounded like a promise of a new life, where there was no place for emptiness and fear.

Molly continued to chatter, her words flowing effortlessly, as if all her thoughts were woven into the fabric of her childhood world. Lyne listened, partly forgetting his own doubts, and allowed himself to believe that perhaps in this strange symphony of her voice he would find answers to his questions.

"…And then in the cafeteria this fat guy Bobby from the parallel class takes a tray and… BAM!" Molly waved her arms, pretending to punch. "And all the tea is on his shirt! Just like in the movies!"

Lyne nodded, grinning quietly.

Molly. Her courage and spontaneity seemed ideal to him. He knew that she was created just like this: strong, courageous, with the character that he was looking for in this world. Because for him, for Lyne, Molly became not just a girl, but the personification of something new and real.

"And then Jonathan gets up and yells, 'Hey, you! Don't you dare touch her!'" she continued, imitating the voice of a hero from some action movie, "Of course, Claire could have handled it herself, but, you know, it's so nice when Johnny takes it upon himself to protect the girls!"

Lyne nodded again, not taking his eyes off her bright eyes, where all her childish sincerity was reflected. Leo. Brian. These names flickered through her story, like echoes of long-forgotten fairy tales. But Molly was an integral part of her own reality, unlike the one Lyne had known before.

He felt proud, proud of her and proud that she was here, next to him. After all, in this small kitchen, at the table with tea and marmalade, she had become the meaning for him, the very consolation that he so lacked in his loneliness.

"What are you…" Molly began, but her words merged with the steady hum of the kettle and the quiet crackling of the fire, leaving Lyne in a thoughtful calm. And he, as if not wishing to disturb this atmosphere, allowed her to continue without interrupting.

And while the world outside the windows continued its quiet evening ritual, Lyne sat opposite Molly, lost in his thoughts, where her image became ever brighter and more important. Thus, between hot tea, laughter and children's stories, time flowed unnoticed, leaving behind only a slight echo of hope for something new, unknown and beautiful.

"Hey, dad, what's wrong?" the girl narrowed her eyes slyly, leaning her elbows on the table. "Do you miss me?"

Lyne blinked, trying to catch her mood, as if her gaze reflected memories of long-forgotten dreams. He didn't know how to respond to such a provocation, not because there were no words, but because he felt like a spectator on his own stage, where every moment was his own creation.

She laughed, shaking her hair, and the sound echoed through the kitchen like a warm echo of childhood. Lyne was silent, allowing himself to simply watch her ease, the way she filled the space with her energy and carefreeness.

"You're the best," Lyne said quietly, still savoring her name, Molly.

Her smile softened the atmosphere, and for a moment time stood still in this simple, almost intimate moment. She paused briefly, between bites of marmalade, as if digesting his every word.

"Oh, Dad, if you were younger, I'd think you were hitting on me," she winked, grinning as if she understood his game as well as he did.

Lyne exhaled weakly, almost smiling in response. In her manner, in her words, he found echoes of what he so lacked in reality - sincerity, warmth and, at times, carelessness that seemed lost in a world where everything was measured by cold precision and empty promises.

He watched her, trying to remember every detail: how she chewed the marmalade, comically puffing out her cheeks, how her leg swung smoothly under the table, how she wrinkled her nose, as if wondering whether to share new stories. Her speech, easy and natural, wove into his consciousness, as if life itself was regaining meaning.

But suddenly, something inside Lyne tightened, as if some ice was breaking through his soul. Why this feeling? The answer was painfully clear: if it weren't for Cyrus—his damned self-confidence, his cheeky stage smile, his all-consuming need to prove his worth—if it weren't for all these echoes of someone else's life, Lyne would never have created Molly. He gave birth to her in his head, to somehow hold on to the hopelessness of reality.

Molly laughed again, leaning her elbows on the table, and her voice took on a cheerful, defiant note.

"Come on, dad, relax! Don't look at me like I messed up the exam."

Lyne blinked, trying to compose himself, as if her words were lifting the weight of the pain. He spoke quietly, almost in a whisper:

"I'm just... Proud of you."

A sly smile lit up her face and with the confident air of a teenager she said:

"Here it is, finally! I knew I could do it."

There was not only mockery in her voice, but also something childish and touching – as if she was looking for confirmation of her importance in simple, sincere words. Lyne looked at her, catching every little detail: how her eyes twinkled with joy, how softly her smile curved when she spoke about her school adventures, about the laughter of her friends and even about failures in class.

At that moment, everything was mixed up in Lyne: a warm feeling of pride, the bitterness of memories of lost youth, and a quiet pain from the realization that his world had once been different, full of light and hope. He understood that Molly was not just a figment of his imagination, she had become his salvation, the spark that helped him forget about the difficult moments associated with the past, with Cyrus, with his own failures. Because without her, Lyne would have nothing to live for.

After finishing her tea, Molly put the cup on the table and stretched.

"Well, I'm going to do my homework, dad," she said lazily, yawning. "Don't just sit here, you're probably bored."

She stood up on her tiptoes and headed for the door, but Lyne couldn't take his eyes off her. He sat at the table, motionless, as if waiting for something unclear. His heart was clenching, his breathing was uneven, his body demanding something he couldn't comprehend.

As she began to rise, Lyne suddenly, as if under the dictation of an inexplicable passion, stretched out his arms and hugged her with such force that she almost staggered. Molly froze for a moment, looking at him in surprise, and then, deciding that this was another of his jokes, burst out laughing.

"Oh, Dad! Are you in love with me? That much?" Her voice, light and playful, echoed through the kitchen, but Lyne didn't seem to hear her mockery.

He couldn't let her go, he held her tightly, as if her warmth could drown out all the pain and loneliness. His palms pressed hotly against her back, and his heart beat so hard that it seemed like it would burst out. His forehead was covered in sweat, his gaze lost focus, and time flowed away in an endless feeling of tenderness and fear at the same time.

Molly laughed again, not noticing how her jokes only fanned the flames in his soul.

"Oh, Dad, you've gone completely crazy! Don't hug me like that, or I'll think you've... well, you know, gone completely crazy!" she said, playfully squeezing his fingers, as if trying to bring normalcy back into this strange game.

Lyne continued to hold her, unwilling to let go, as if he was seeking refuge in the innocent warmth of her body. He inhaled the scent of her hair, sweet and pure, reminiscent of distant, unblemished dreams. This scent was far from everything that surrounded him in the world: from the abuse, pain and stress. It was like a ray of light breaking through gray clouds, like a hot flame warming a frozen soul.

"Daddy, are you hot? You're just like the sun!" Molly teased him, but Lyne didn't catch her words – he was completely absorbed in the wave of feelings that was engulfing him entirely.

He was absorbed in the sensation that was taking over him completely. He heard only the hum of his own heart, and, in a stifled voice, he barely said:

"Molly..."

Her gaze, full of innocence and simplicity, did not cause alarm, although inside him everything was shrinking from pain and unresolved conflict. In her world, everything was so simple, and in his, chaos raged.

"Are you completely crazy?" she suddenly asked, as if she had just now noticed something strange in his gaze.

Lyne let her go, unsure of how to proceed. His body was still burning with sensation, his heart was pounding, and his words were stuck in his throat. A pause, filled with heavy silence, filled the space between them. He knew only one thing – he could not tear himself away from her. Every touch, every breath she took seemed the most important meaning of his existence. His hands remained in the air, not knowing where to go, and the air around him seemed especially thick and heavy.

Molly pulled back, but not too far, and watched him with narrowed eyes and a slight smile.

"Okay, that's enough, Dad," she said playfully. "Don't hug me so hard, it's kind of… well, weird."

Lyne was silent. Everything inside him froze, and he could not break out of this state. Molly touched his shoulder coquettishly, but he could not feel her touch – it seemed that he was somewhere between sleep and reality, where the body responded, but the mind screamed that all this was just an illusion.

Her jokes, her laughter only worsened his inner turmoil. His hands began to tremble, clenching into fists, his gaze clung to her face, and the thought stuck in his head: "This is not real. This is a hallucination. You are just my imagination."

"Don't you think this is all… well, a little strange?" she said again, her voice growing lighter, "Or do you miss me so much that you're ready to hug me like some kind of lover?"

Her infectious laughter echoed around him, but Lyne could no longer enjoy it. Voice after voice was roaring in his head, condemning him: You're crazy. You made her up. This is just your hallucination.

Lyne felt his chest tighten, his breath getting tight, his heart beating faster. He felt helpless, like a child, not knowing what to do, how to stop the flow of pain and turmoil inside him.

"You…" his voice broke, unable to utter more words to stop this whirlpool of feelings.

But Molly didn't seem to notice Lyne's internal struggle. She continued to tease him coquettishly, not realizing that her lightness only made him more confused. He was confused and couldn't believe what was happening, because it was all his own creation, his own imagination.

"You're just like a hero from some movie," she giggled again, and Lyne could only remain silent, drowning in his unresolved pain.

His lips formed an involuntary, strange smile, as if trying to forget the internal struggle, but she could not calm the growing sense of despair. He stood in the kitchen doorway, his clenched fists holding the feeling of recent tension. He felt himself breathing heavily, his heart pounding wildly, and her light laughter still sounded in his ears, like an echo of long-gone happiness. His body demanded relief, as if something inside him could no longer withstand this unbearable closeness.

He walked out of the kitchen with difficulty and into the bedroom, where it was cooler than the kitchen, where the warmth of his love literally warmed the air. He went to the window, lifting the curtain. The wind was driving leaves along the asphalt, and a gray, dull picture of an autumn city flickered outside the window. Somewhere in the distance, a couple of people ran past, disappearing into the span between the buildings. Time seemed to stop. Lyne didn't know what he expected when he went to the window. Maybe some clarity, calm. Or just salvation from the chaos that raged in his head. He looked out onto the street, but his thoughts continued to run in circles.

"Daddy, can you hear me?" the girl's gentle voice suddenly broke the silence.

Lyne turned and peered through the doorway into his office to see Molly standing at his old desk. It had once been filled with reports, notes, and to-do lists that he had never been able to complete. Now it was filled only with school books that she had apparently pulled out of her purse to do her homework.

"Hey, didn't you hear me?" she asked, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

Lyne sighed and, getting out of bed, slowly walked to the office. He approached her, but could not find the right words. His gaze was confused, and his voice seemed to be stuck in his throat. He nervously ran his hand over his face and looked out at the street again, not knowing what to do with this state.

"Well, yeah, everything's fine..." he muttered, although inside he knew that this was far from the truth.

Molly sat down in the chair, shifting slightly to get her books in a more comfortable position. She looked at him with a slightly puzzled expression, then continued to flip through the pages quickly.

"You always act like that when things go wrong," she said, not taking her eyes off the text. Her voice held a hint of humor, as if she had grown accustomed to his silence and quiet sadness.

Lyne tried to smile, but it was odd, almost nervous, and out of place. He cleared his throat, trying to focus. He wanted to look confident, not to show how helpless he was. But in this room, with her soft laughter and warmth, he felt more and more helpless.

"So, are you doing well with your studies?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

Molly looked up at him, her eyes curious and a little amused.

"Yes, it's all right," she replied, shrugging. "Mrs. Dunlop just said I couldn't draw properly. Like, I don't have any outdoor lessons, I just spend all my time on a barge, and so on."

Lyne suddenly felt his gaze shift slightly. She was talking about something completely mundane, but something in her voice made him think. He felt his chest tighten, as if this seemingly silly situation had suddenly taken on significance. He chuckled softly and shook his head.

"Wow, this looks like your school," he said, suddenly interested in her words.

"Yes," she smiled back, "school is like prison. Same old crap. But Leo said I was still the best. And you should have seen how they fought over me. Hilarious."

Lyne froze, not immediately realizing what she was talking about. His whole body was tense, and her words—they sounded so… alive, so natural, that he didn't know how to respond.

"Fighting?" he muttered.

"Well, yeah," she answered, absorbed in her textbook again. "For me! Cool, right? Leo's a normal guy. You know, not one of those people who usually bullies everyone. He's not one of those dumb ones."

Lyne looked at her silently, not knowing what to think. He himself was far from sure that he could understand this world, these children, their school problems. All that was in his head was her voice, her words that made him feel that she was alive, that she was real.

Molly looked up again.

"Are you here?" she asked, noticing his thoughtfulness. "Don't worry about me, okay? I'll quickly do my homework, and then I'll come to your place, we'll go to bed!"

Lyne vaguely understood something in her words, but nodded anyway. He tried to return to a reality in which at least something was under control, in which his feelings did not tear him apart from the inside.

"Okay," he said, but his voice sounded strange.

Now he was no longer interested in the reports, no longer interested in the past. Only one thought was pulsing in his head: what would happen if all this were torn apart? If at some point everything he felt would no longer make sense?

Lyne was left alone in the bedroom. He stood by the window, not noticing how the light was gradually fading. The street was growing quiet, and he, as always, could not turn off the internal monologue. Everything in his head was a jumbled mess of thoughts. The girl had just left, and now he was left in emptiness. One thought, like a broken record, did not give him peace: "Where will she sleep?"

Incredibly, this question became important to him. Where would she find a place to sleep? Would she sleep on the floor, like an occasional guest, or perhaps on the sofa, which had long been his refuge? Or would she end up in his bed? These thoughts troubled Lyne, and he quickly looked around the room: the familiar sofa, the bed, the modest furniture that surrounded him in solitude. But not a single hint of baby things, toys, soft pillows or even a small blanket - nothing that could hint at the presence of a child. Only the familiar surroundings in which Molly now unexpectedly found herself.

"On the floor?" he thought, feeling the absurdity of the idea, his body tightening with hidden anxiety. No, she wouldn't sleep on the floor. She would... But what if she ended up on my bed? Lyne frowned, his thoughts racing. "Oh, God, what's wrong with me? How can I even think about this?" the questions flashed through his mind, causing anxiety and despair.

Suddenly a new thought flashed through his mind: what if at that very second a stranger came through the door? The police. He imagined them opening the door, seeing him lying in bed with a small child, and recording the crime with disdain. "Here comes the molester," the guardians of the law might rightfully say. But then Lyne reminded himself: this was all just a figment of his imagination, a hallucination that no one but him could see.

A laugh, bitter and ironic, rose in his throat. He felt ridiculous, like a tragicomedy character trapped in his own thoughts. Even if no one saw Molly, she was still with him, and if she disappeared, the emptiness would overwhelm him again. "Molly, where will you sleep?" the question echoed in his head, making his heart beat faster.

Lyne sat on the edge of the bed, lost in his thoughts, which kept returning to that recurring theme. He suddenly realized that before he fell asleep, his hallucinations were just a reflection of his desires and fears. In his dreams, everything seemed different, easier, without that painful choice. But when he woke up, he found himself again in a world where Molly existed only in his imagination.

His gaze fell on the usual sofa, on the familiar bed, and he felt how everything inside began to shrink from tension. "Hallucinations only exist during wakefulness," he repeated quietly to himself, trying to find a rational explanation for his condition. And now, in this thought, he felt some strange lightness, as if he had found a temporary solution, although he understood that this was only a temporary consolation.

He looked around the room: the darkness was deepening, the clock ticked inexorably, and each strike of the second hand reminded him that time was inexorably passing. The same question still sounded in his mind: "Where will she sleep?" This question became a symbol of his loss of control, his fear of his own desires.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and for a moment he felt his heart beat steadily, as if he had accepted his situation. But then the anxiety returned, and thoughts washed over him like waves. What if… He didn't know how to live with his imagination becoming both his cure and his curse.

He glanced back at the door, where Molly was probably still standing, his only illusion of comfort in this dark world. And despite his fear, he felt the warmth she brought, like a reminder that even in emptiness, there was a spark of life to be found.

With these thoughts, Lyne settled down on the pillow and closed his eyes, almost forgetting that he had been tormented by these questions just recently. There was no longer panic in his head, only a strange feeling of lightness. He could finally relax. Everything seemed so familiar, as if he had always lived like this, as if this silence was a part of his life. He knew that there was nothing unusual about this - just another evening that was no different from the previous ones.

And then, just before he finally drifted off to sleep, he heard a sound he knew so well. The creak of the bedroom door, light, barely audible. It was the sound that brought with it the inevitable feeling that she was there.

Lyne didn't open his eyes, but he felt her presence. She was there, as always, with the scent of her perfume, that innocent, not too cloying scent that had been with him since she came into his life. He knew her as well as if he had lived with her all these years. He could almost feel her breath on him, her approach, her sliding across the bed, settling next to him.

"Aren't you asleep yet?" Her voice was soft, playful, with a slight hint of coquetry. "You missed me, huh?"

Lyne didn't answer. He felt her hand on his shoulder, her fingers tightening slightly but not twitching. He didn't even try to pull away, his body relaxed, his thoughts melting further and further, dissolving in her presence. All that mattered was here and now, in this moment, in this feeling.

She laughed softly, clearly enjoying the moment, but Lyne didn't react. He continued to lie motionless, as if he no longer had the strength to even respond. He didn't care. He listened to her voice, knew that she was near, but inside he let this moment go, forgetting why he was worried at all.

"You're in love with me, aren't you?" she teased, with a hint of irony as always. "And if I tell you I'm not the one you need? Will you send me away?"

He didn't answer again. He didn't want to talk. He knew the answers didn't matter. It was all strange, but natural at the same time, like breathing, like sleeping. These questions were funny, and he knew she would stay with him, no matter what, no matter his silence. Molly was in his head, but sometimes it felt like she was somewhere further, beyond this room, like her image was part of something bigger.

And then, as if in response to her words, Lyne felt his eyes growing heavier and his breathing slower. All the heaviness of the day, all those thoughts, all the worries that had been bothering him lately, suddenly disappeared, dissolved. Molly was there, but it was as if she, too, was becoming part of his dream, a particle of something intangible. It was no longer just an image. It was something else that was now falling asleep with him.

His hand reached out unconsciously to hers, and he felt her fingers tighten in response. She was there, she sensed him, and maybe even knew that he was ready to leave all of this behind. In this strange, foggy world he had become accustomed to, she was the anchor that kept him from getting lost altogether.

When he finally closed his eyes, immersing himself in the silence of the night, he felt her breath on his cheek. It was soft, almost weightless. He didn't know how much time had passed, but he knew that with each breath his body was relaxing more and more.

Sleep consumed him, and Molly, his Molly, was no longer a figment of his imagination. She was part of his world, a world in which there were no doubts, no fears. She was simply there, with him. Or she wasn't. But what mattered now?