On this point, I could be sure. I did a lot of tastings before I found establishments that served decent beer. If it was too sour, the keg was old. If it was bland, it was diluted with water. If it was too pungent, it was over-hopped. I remembered all these nuances and chose with extreme precision.

Perhaps that's why I didn't remember the taste of the food. After a few cups, I didn't care what I ate, as long as I could get the aftertaste out of my mouth.

The girl was sitting across from him, and her gaze seemed both attentive and detached at the same time. Her expression changed subtly, from slight irritation to something like curiosity. She held the mug, as if weighing this new experience in her hand, and then took another sip with perfect equanimity.

There was something in her manner that made one stare. Not beauty in the usual way, but a combination of casualness and some inner dignity. She blended easily into any background, yet she invariably stood out. If there were people here, they would surely notice her, not because she was conspicuous, but because it was impossible otherwise.

She set the mug aside and looked at me thoughtfully, her head tilted slightly to the side.

— But it looks curious, — she said.

I laughed again, making bubbles and dousing myself with beer. Nothing new, though.

As soon as we left the place, the landscape around us began to change. The asphalt beneath our feet became softer, draped in lush greenery, as if someone invisible had begun to erase the streets, replacing them with a living carpet of grass. Space opened up ahead, and before I knew it, we were standing on top of a hill studded with flowering phlox.

Thousands of cherry trees surrounded us, their petals swirling in the air as the wind picked them up, covering the ground in a soft pink blanket. They didn't just fall-they seemed to float around us.

My gaze chased the falling blossoms until it finally stopped on her.

As trivial as it sounds, I marveled again at the image of the girl. In the moonlight, surrounded by a swirl of petals, she looked especially magical. I wanted to tell her so, but before I could open my mouth, one of the petals touched my lips, a silent sign to keep silent. So I preferred to smile as I continued to watch her.

Step by step, our journey continued. I didn't immediately notice how the grass was replaced by a smooth, dry crust of earth. The wind, which a moment ago should have brought the scent of blossoming trees, now carried a brackish bitterness that made my throat sore and my skin tingle.

We went forward. Under our feet, the black surface of the earth was black, as if oil had seeped out of the ground. In the moonlight its boundaries were lost, dissolved, turning the surface of the water into a torn sky. Only the stars remained in place-not above, but below us, reflected in the liquid glass. It didn't move, not even in the gusts of wind.

I remembered the warmth of this place well-the sticky heat, the drops of sweat running down your skin before you dipped into the water, and the cold wind that blasted you right after a shower.

I glanced at the girl-she squatted down, dipped her fingers into the water, and looked at them thoughtfully.

— How interesting, — she murmured.

I couldn't help but agree with her. I think I'd heard a story somewhere about a man who once walked on water. It wasn't the same place, of course, but the way we moved easily across the water reminded me of it for some reason. Looking at the legend from this angle, it didn't seem so fantastic anymore. Perhaps someone like her existed in my world, too.

I looked around at my surroundings. Just like then, there was nothing of note around me. The water was moving farther away, leaving behind abandoned buildings, echoes of beaches, and marks on the cliffs, traces of where it had once reached.

This desiccated landscape, drenched in salty bitterness, couldn't help but leave me with a sense of loss.

Why? Perhaps it was because I felt a strange sentimentality as I went through these stages anew.

I shifted my gaze to the girl. Her long hair moved in the breeze, and the shadow of her eyelashes fluttered against her skin. Under her fingers, the thin film of salt crumbled, leaving a whitish trace on her skin, and for some reason at that moment I thought, When will this end? Obviously, when we get to the end. And beyond that? Would I be able to stay with her, or would I just be a fleeting touch, like this white residue that the first wave would wipe away?

— You think too much. It's not healthy, — she said, touching her palm to my cheek.

It took me a few moments to pull myself out of my thoughts and back to reality. When I realized what was happening, I felt the heat rising to my face, but I still found the strength to respond:

— You decided to wipe your hands on me? That's not how it works!

A strange expression flashed across her face that I couldn't interpret. But after a moment, she laughed..... and actually started wiping her hand on my cheek!

— Stop it! Stop fooling around, — I frowned and waved her away.

— You're the one who should stop fooling around. My hands are perfectly clean. See? — She twirled her palms in front of my face defiantly.

— Huh, apparently all the salt is already on my face!

— Oh, are you sure about that? Why don't you check it out?

She bowed her head and smiled slyly. I wasn't sure what she meant, but I did as instructed - I ran my fingers over my cheek. There was no stickiness, no roughness - just the warmth left by her touch.

— You're flushed, — she said with a grin, — Are you more impressed by indirect touch than direct? You're so weird.

My face flushed even more, and she laughed again.

— Come on. Let's move on already

— Hee-hee, we're already here. Can't you see?

— We're here? See what? — I asked in confusion.

I tilted my head to the side, scrutinizing the girl, and she repeated after me like a parrot.

— Very funny, — I muttered, narrowing my eyes. But, admittedly, even that was cute.

I leveled myself and shook my head-she repeated after me, with a slight delay, like she was mimicking me. I frowned, and her face immediately had the exact same expression on it, but with a tinge of mockery.

It was like playing with my reflection, but the mirror suddenly had a mind of its own. The only thing that distinguished us was obviously our looks, and the fact that my hair didn't move as beautifully as hers.

With each new look, I seemed to see a new side of her, as if I was slowly making my way around. Her eyes shone as they had never shone before, and the slight smile began to disturb me. She was like a mischievous child up to some mischief.

As was often the case, I couldn't make out anything from the expression on her face, and that was probably the cause of my anxiety.

Of course, as time went on, her strange antics didn't seem so strange to me anymore. But still, she was like a skilled magician, always ready to pull something unimaginable out of her hat.

.

And then... We traveled. The snow-capped hills spread out before us like frozen waves, and the running rivers whispered their stories with splashes of water - though I never saw a single fish. In the forests, the leaves were still trembling from the past rain, and the mountains rose from steep cliffs to gentle slopes covered with a soft carpet of fallen leaves. We saw beaches - sandy, wild, rocky. Everything around us was familiar. It was like walking in your own footprints imprinted in the snow. The only difference was that there were two more pairs of feet.

How would my life be different if she was always around? We'd come home together after work, chatting leisurely on the way home from the supermarket. In the evenings we'd watch something we both liked, or just sit buried in books. On vacation, we could visit places like this, picnic under the sakura, or spend it inside the walls of the house, avoiding sunlight like vampires. We'd talk before bed, and the first thing I'd see in the morning would be her face, first asleep, then still a little sleepy, with a lazy smile and a reluctant awakening.

Perhaps, no, more likely, my life would have lasted just a little longer

I soon found my thoughts returning to the girl again and again.

And the more I thought about it, the clearer one truth emerged, like an image on an old photographic film slowly revealing itself in the light.

When did it happen? In retrospect, somehow I think it was from the beginning. I was probably too preoccupied with myself to accept it, or even notice it. I was like a fool rummaging around looking for the key while it was in my hand.

Of course, it could have been a simple infatuation caused by the lack of other people around us, but I wasn't entirely sure. Given my dysfunctional brain and heart, the question remained, where did this feeling come from? It wasn't clear.

— Where are we going now?

— To a good place

— Hmm? A good place?

What would that mean to her? What place would she consider good if we had already been to Moon Lake? As I continued walking, I pondered this for a long time, but couldn't come up with anything.

The journey of a thousand li begins with the first step. It's amazing how much we had to walk before we ended up here.

The house I lived in was neither a new high-rise with shiny glass facades nor a cozy Japanese-style mansion. It was an old, two-story apartment building, the kind of building not many of which remained in Tokyo. Cream-colored walls, cracked plaster in some places, a roof of blackened tiles that had survived more than one summer and more than one winter.

The main staircase was common - long, metal, it stretched along the facade, creaking under footsteps. The paint had peeled over the years, leaving rust stains, but the railing was still sturdy, albeit cold to the touch. On each floor went identical doors, hiding small apartments behind them. Some decorated with nameplates, others plain, faceless.

There was no garden with perfectly trimmed trees or carp ponds in the courtyard. Only an asphalt path leading to the gate, narrow streets of earth by the walls, where someone had planted flowers, and someone just left a couple of old pots with already dried up plants. Bicycles stood near the entrance - some chained to the rack, some just leaned against the wall, as if the owners knew no one would touch them.

In summer the air smelled of fried fish and soy sauce, in winter of something hot, with a slight tang of gas as the tenants cooked dinner. In the evening, the light from the windows blurred in warm spots, and if you listened closely, you could hear the noise of televisions, the clinking of dishes, and voices-not loud, but lively, creating an atmosphere where it felt like you weren't quite alone.

— And this is the “good” place? — I asked the girl.

— You don't like it?

— Not that...

— “Places that once lost their importance to me can regain it with you”, — she reminded me, drawing a circle in the air with her finger.

Her logic was hard to argue with, especially when she was quoting my own words. I grimaced, but had to agree. But why this particular place? What made it “good”? Both then and now, I couldn't understand her.

There was nothing special about this place. A bird would hardly call the bars of a cage “good” if it was lucky enough to get out one day.

All I could say was that my life ended here. This was the end. The only one. Among hundreds of commas.

We walked slowly up to the second floor. The steps echoed with a familiar creak, and the banister was cold. The landscape outside the stairwell remained hidden by the high-rise buildings - by day they cast a gloomy shadow, and at night they turned into a frightening silhouette of all-consuming progress.

In the windows of neighboring apartments there was light - somewhere dim, barely visible, somewhere bright, leaving warm paths of light. It seemed that life was boiling behind these walls, but there was no one but us. There was no one else.

— Open it. There should be a key in your pocket, — the girl said, stopping at the door.

I gave her a puzzled look before rummaging through my pockets. This whole world belonged to her, but she was amazingly polite about respecting other people's boundaries, wasn't she?

Fumbling for the key, I took it out, inserted it into the lock, and turned it. The door opened.

— Let me in, — she said loudly as she stepped through the door.

The hallway greeted me with a coldness that wasn't tangible, but rather phantom. My own apartment seemed so distant, so foreign.

In my mind's eye I could see that morning, me and that hallway. But I could hardly visualize my face at that moment: more like an image embellished by my own desire. It was hard to say whether it was better or worse than reality.

Bitterness slid across my tongue, leaving behind the tang of metal. I wrinkled my nose, but the sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as if it hadn't even been there. Only a faint aftertaste lingered for a moment before dissolving. Everything around me slowly lost its colors, as if to bring me back to the place where nothing was left.

Darkness enveloped my body, trying to plunge me into its depths. I didn't want to know what was at its bottom, so I wandered - wandered, following the fireflies.

Eyes wide open, I put my palm to my neck and crunched my vertebrae sharply. A muffled click echoed in the silence of the hallway, as if shaking my frozen thoughts.

I wonder if that image I'd been reaching for... Those fireflies that led me... That was you, wasn't it?

I wanted to ask her that so badly. I wanted to know so badly. But I decided to put it behind me, staring confidently into the present.

I looked up at the girl. She was smiling serenely, looking at me over her shoulder. In that moment, she was shining brighter than that figure made entirely of light. I smiled back at her and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

— I'm home, — I think it was the first time I'd ever said those words in this apartment, not into the void.