Ofir was heading towards the bearings production factory, next to which his grandfather lived. The path was not close, there wasn’t a penny in his pocket, and he had to go on his own two. His legs were stiff; he did not feel the muscles. His eyes were closing. There was a crowd of people passing around and shouting something, he could not make out what exactly, and he did not really care to. He had just one desire is to tell his grandfather the whole truth, to take him with them. He imagined a world where a person can choose for himself how long he would live and when he will die.

He turned onto street number thirty-four. There was a small stone bridge in front of him, on which workers were constantly walking. The houses along the street were ordinary, two-or three-story with triangular roofs covered with tiles painted in silver color. He walked across the bridge and heard the sound of an old TR of the first version and thought that it was one in a lifetime chance to see it. Great car. They were able to create masterpieces before. In the distance, a huge factory appeared with many chimneys from which black, tarry smoke poured out, merging with gray clouds.

He turned onto the Avenue of the Saints and walked forward without looking back and noticed how a dazzling bright white light shone from the hotel on the right hand, large and majestic. To his right, bards were singing in the hope of at least some income. They stood at a sufficient distance from each other so as not to interfere with their competitors. A small crowd of workers stood around each of them, someone even sang along. Ofir crossed two more bridges and turned to the tram tracks and walked along them, passing station after station, from time to time watching public transport disappearing around the turns at intersections, like an elusive bird flying out of your hands.

The sound of vapors released into the atmosphere accompanied him throughout the entire journey. Ofir turned onto street number twenty and went ahead and saw a steam bus of a new brand passing by and stopped to examine it. People on the sidewalk, like ants, crawled around him, eddying round him from all sides, as if he was a huge column standing in the middle of the street. There was an unusual house there, instead of windows you could see a massive dial from which the light was burning. From above, special metal beams with banners and propaganda posters connected the roofs of the houses. Some advertised a new book or the opening of a jewelry store or a blacksmith shop or something else, while others called for fighting against metentises, going to work and not laze around.

Life began to boil again in Agernox. If a wandering merchant or a wandering pilgrim had come here now, they would never have thought that a real bacchanal had taken place here last night. People quickly forget the history on which it would be worth studying and drawing conclusions, and this is scary. When he turned onto street number five, in the working-class district, he saw how local blacksmiths were restoring their establishments after the pogroms, everyone was swearing as one, sweeping up sharp shards of glass, taking concrete blocks with their massive hands, throwing them into huge bags and dragging them to a specially designated site for construction debris.

Behind this street, there was a small square with a lonesome prayer post inside which an eternal flame was burning. Now this place was teeming with people, as if they were not people at all, but a flock of bees nesting in their hive in search of a place closer to the queen. Someone at night destroyed the arch ahead, along which Ofir planned to continue his journey. He made a small detour, went out to an unnamed alley, bypassing a lot of scattered nails and screws and arrows, and saw a little gnome. Dead. The arrow hit the neck. Apparently, he wanted to hide or run away, but they caught up to him faster.

He went out onto a paved street, partially covered with snow. It's a dark, gray place. Nothing was there, not a single human soul. A large tent that housed several retail shops was burned earlier. Ofir went ahead and climbed the stone stairs to the top and continued walking forward and after a few minutes he saw an old familiar pastry shop. He went inside and saw that everything was intact and an old acquaintance was standing behind the counter – a nice girl, about fifteen years old with short black hair, green eyes, a white skirt and wide, splayed ears that always made Ofir smile.

"Good afternoon," he said.

"Good afternoon," she said, and smiled back. "As usual, right?"

Ofir nodded. The girl took several small cellophane bags and began to collect various sweets in them.

"You are lucky ones," Ofir said, and saw her father come out of the door, a little strange-looking with the same open ears.

"We, young man, unlike others, are aware of what kind of world we live in. That's why we chose a place behind a stone wall and a steel door. Luck has nothing to do with it. Here’s an exceptionally accurate calculation."

Ofir did not find anything to answer and just nodded. The girl put the first package on the scale, then the second, weighed everything and said:

"That'll be two silvers."

Ofir fumbled in his pockets and remembered that he had no money. For the first time in his life. He politely asked the owner to lend him a loan and promised to return it in the next day, maybe two. He told his story, how he left his grandfather. So now, he wants to please him.

The owner shook his head:

"The time is difficult now. Business is not going well. However, if you don't treat the client like a human being, then what's the point of doing business, right? Family is the most important thing."

"Yeah, you're right. But I don't insist. I can understand everything."

"Take it. But give your word of honor to return the money."

"I give my word of honor."

The girl handed Ofir the bags of sweets, he thanked everyone again and went out the door. He was approaching the house where his grandfather lives, when he saw several medical workers and a steam ambulance. He quickened his pace, went up to the old peasant and asked what the matter was.

"The neighbors said that someone died here. Nevertheless, there's no way we can get through the door. Now we have requested permission to break in."

"And what is the number of the apartment?"

"The seventeenth. On the second floor."

Ofir's candy fell out of his hands, he mumbled in a trembling voice that his grandfather lived in this apartment, then rushed to the front door, went up to the second floor, stumbled, took the keys out of his pocket and could not get into the lock, he swore.

"This shit stuck."

"Can I help you?"

"No!"

Ofir broke down the door and ran inside. In the far room, his grandfather was sitting on a sofa, his head sank on his shoulder, and his skin was as white as snow. Ofir screamed and fainted.