Viktor skipped a couple of lines and closed the laptop, completely leaving the torment of creativity to the writer’s neural network. Now, the clever program continued composing without him, using the method of free associations and his previously studied personal writing style.
Initially, the writer was skeptical about machine creativity, imagining that from a chaotic set of words in its vocabulary, the computer could at best produce some kind of schizophrenic pseudo-philosophical essay, like those regularly written by failures on literary websites. But after several trial texts, the neural network learned to write quite coherent stories with plot twists and intrigue. At one point, Viktor decided to take a risk and sent such a manuscript to a publisher. To his surprise, the text, in which the author had not actually written a single coherent sentence, was accepted for publication.
Resisting the temptation proved too difficult, so Viktor “wrote” his next “own” story in exactly the same way. After the third machine-made “masterpiece,” it became easier to deceive himself. Once, the writer additionally fed the computer some Chekhov, and then read with undisguised glee in the editor’s column of a literary almanac that he had developed “a unique style: ironic and slightly melancholy.”
It should be noted that the writer’s laptop was not new, but the owner did not have high demands for it, so the computer faithfully served as a typewriter for many years. Now, however, the outdated device, creaking noticeably, executed the instructions of the neural engine. It quickly sketched descriptions of places and interiors, then carefully selected words, polishing the style, and would hang up for a long time, pondering characters’ dialogues. Probably, a more modern machine would have handled the task many times faster. But this way, Viktor created a full-fledged illusion of a complex creative process, and he happily spent his newfound abundance of free time idling.
The writer put his feet into heavily worn but comfortable tennis shoes, threw on a windbreaker faded at the sleeves, and left the house. The small country cottage with a pointed roof in the Gothic style was once considered the family’s summer residence. Back then, as they said, “to the dacha,” their father took everyone there in mid-May and almost until the very end of August. His mother tried to grow some flowers, but the shade of the surrounding forest never allowed her to fully realize her creative plans. Now it had become even denser and darker, and due to numerous leaning and fallen trunks, it seemed somewhat untidy. Nevertheless, this did not prevent walking along well-trodden paths and trails.
This place always reminded Viktor of childhood memories—perhaps the brightest and happiest moments, just like for everyone else. Unlike the cramped city apartment where both of his elderly relatives had long been ill and eventually passed away. Therefore, when his parents died, and Viktor faced the question of where to live, the choice was obvious.
The life of a writer bored by nature appealed to him both because of the external setting and his own sincere desire to finally escape the hustle and bustle of the city. By that time, Viktor had already gained sufficient popularity; the publisher gladly printed his collections and novels, and the royalties, once helping his aging parents, now more than covered all his modest needs.
Lost in his gloomy memories, the writer wandered deeper into the forest. Dry leaves rustled underfoot, making his thoughts even more melancholy. Interestingly, recently he had almost unlearned how to reflect on detached topics and had completely stopped fantasizing. Fictional stories seemed empty and useless to Viktor; perhaps, except for the fact that they sold well. Long ago, the desire to pour thoughts onto paper came from within, bubbled up, and burst forth. Later, it was replaced by the desire to earn a living, and Viktor could spend days sitting at the keyboard without ever leaving home. Now, he no longer had either the desire or the need to engage in writing in the old-fashioned way. He had become completely free and could finally simply stroll through the forest, as he was doing now. The writer did not remember exactly where the path he turned onto led, so he just walked forward.
He reached the riverbank. Here, the forest ended almost directly at the water’s edge in a narrow strip of semi-wild beach, and a row of several old wooden benches, placed there sometime long ago, created the impression of a small promenade stretching along the water. Viktor sat down on a bench and ran his hand over the rough planks with peeling paint. He remembered this place. He and his father used to come here and swim for half a day, sometimes skipping lunch. Their mother scolded them when they returned wet, happy, with disheveled hair and smiling faces. The writer sighed sadly. Was there really nothing left for him to think about? Why was there nothing inside him except memories? It seemed this moment had come too early.
Viktor sat, thoughtfully looking at the water, but unexpectedly, this melancholy reflection was interrupted by someone’s cough. He turned around and saw a girl with a camera ten steps away. She was intently aiming the lens at some leaves, branches, and tree crowns known only to herself, frequently clicking the shutter. The writer mentally found her interest strange and turned away, deciding that she was probably one of the periodically arriving tourists, rushing to mindlessly capture every pleasing view to later post the picture on social media.
However, the day was indeed pleasant and beautiful. The sun brightly gilded the reddish crowns and silvered the small ripples on the water. And this girl with red dyed hair, wearing some funny orange scarf, also seemed somehow autumnal and strangely fitting, as if deliberately integrated into the surrounding landscape. The writer suddenly wanted to look at her again. He cautiously and somewhat hesitantly turned around, but the girl was no longer visible.
* * *
Natalia woke up early in the morning. She lay on the folding bed as she had fallen asleep the previous evening, still wearing her outerwear and covered with a prickly camel blanket. The house was empty and cold. The dual-circuit boiler hadn’t worked since yesterday, and the old electric oil heater clearly couldn’t handle the volume of the room.
The girl stretched, adjusted the high, thick collar of her knitted sweater—striped beige and brown like fir trees and leaping deer—and unplugged the heater from the extension cord, replacing it with a bulky electric kettle. Running her fingers through her fiery-red hair, which had become tangled overnight, she tied it into a ponytail with a rubber band and began to rummage through her small backpack with monkey-like agility.
The previous tenants had not bothered to leave any furniture behind. Therefore, both the kettle, the backpack, and a small case for a mirror camera were placed directly on the floor next to the folding bed. However, in this utterly uncomfortable house, one could appreciate the geometry of space and sense a special visual magic of constructive emptiness, demanding to be filled.
Yesterday, Natalia spent almost two hours capturing individual details that seemed interesting to her: unevenness of the boards, fragments of supporting beams, separate scratches and dents disrupting the seamless textures of walls, floors, and ceilings. Probably, all of this would soon be hidden under new finishes after she decided to move permanently, and this information would be lost forever—or at least for a long time. The true appearance of the room would be concealed by standard, faceless wallpaper, wall panels, flooring, and ceiling tiles. It would take a year or two before the new surfaces naturally acquired their own texture again. And in a sense, it would already be an entirely different space.
The kettle bubbled and clicked, releasing a stream of hot steam into the cold air. The girl poured boiling water into the lid of a thermos and added instant coffee from a packet. Not the best option, but quite suitable when nothing else was available. She simply couldn’t deny herself a morning cup of coffee. The girl slowly sipped the overly hot, overly sweet, and overly artificial drink, closing her eyes in pleasure.
Fully awake now, she once again surveyed the empty house, wrapped a long orange scarf around her neck, slung the case with her trusted SLR camera over her shoulder, and confidently stepped out into the autumn forest.
In the slightly nose-tingling coolness of the morning air, one could feel the approaching winter. The forest had already begun to bare itself in places, scratching the clear blue sky with sharp black branches like claws. But the gold of the still-unshed leaves still glowed brightly, as if giving back all the sunlight they had absorbed during the summer.
Natalia took the SLR camera out of its case, opened the lens, and with a click turned on the camera, which responded with a light welcoming beep. Now the girl was ready for her photo hunt. She started shooting quite early: her grandfather had given her a small but quite good camera back in school. Since then, she hardly remembered a time when she parted with her lens. The desire to photograph everything—starting with her breakfast, reflections in the mirror, and ending with her own legs framed in the shot—quickly passed. Natalia decided to take photography seriously and became more selective in choosing subjects to shoot.
At first, like many others, she imagined herself as a photographer creating unique images in her original photo series. From the outside, the process looked very aesthetic and attractive and also promised a decent income. But by the tenth time, Natalia literally felt nauseated by yet another dull chicken with puffed-up lips wanting to capture herself as a forest nymph. Looking at her new client, the girl repeatedly caught herself thinking that nothing worthwhile would come out of this swampy kikimora anyway.
And one fine day, she simply didn’t show up for the photoshoot. After spending two or three days in a depressed state, the girl idly reviewed her entire archive and then uploaded it entirely online for paid download. Again, everything in a row: her breakfast, her legs in the frame, treetops, views from the window… To her surprise, within minutes the first photograph was sold. A very old shot of a pine cone lying on a stump, which she had taken back when she was a schoolgirl with her first camera given to her by her grandfather. The girl was inspired and picked up her camera again.
Quickly understanding all the benefits of digital photography and tasting success, Natalia threw herself into her work with renewed vigor. Studying download statistics, she determined that landscape photography and nature sketches brought her the most income. Various macro shots featuring leaves, berries, and insects sold exceptionally well for website and magazine design; extensive landscapes were eagerly purchased by glossy magazine editors and advertisers for their printed materials; and photos filled with grass, foliage, or pebbles were enthusiastically used as textures by computer game developers.
Gradually, Natalia’s digital collection included every conceivable and inconceivable shot related to spring and summer themes—almost everything she could capture during long walks through city parks, squares, and courtyards. By autumn, the girl decided to prepare more thoroughly and came up with the idea of moving to a rural setting. Finding a suitable place didn’t take long. After filtering real estate listings by price, she immediately stumbled upon a house she instantly fell in love with. It was spacious, with a triangular roof, huge stained-glass windows reaching almost to the ceiling, two large studio rooms on the ground floor, and an improvised second level under the roof—and most importantly, completely empty, without any trace of previous residents’ lives.
That very evening, Natalia impulsively paid a deposit, and the next day, having collected the cherished keys, she went to inspect her future home. Neither the old automatic water heater, which refused to work, nor the complete lack of lighting fixtures upset the delighted buyer. She was already dreamily imagining how she would arrange everything here into a haven for a solitary photographer.
For now, however, the girl simply continued doing what she loved, repeatedly pressing the shutter button and each time thinking that she could never have captured such a vibrant and striking image in the cursed dusty city. Walking along a forest path and frequently turning off it in search of interesting views, she gradually ventured deeper into the woods and unexpectedly found herself near a river. Capturing the view of the water and the opposite bank, photographing a wooden bench covered with yellowed leaves and a close-up of a lone leaf lying on old cracked planks, she focused on the branches of a huge, sprawling willow tree. Its elongated leaves gracefully hung against the backdrop of the water, beautifully blurred by sunlight reflecting in short-focus lenses.
After taking several shots, Natalia suddenly sensed someone’s presence and turned around. On one of the benches standing along the water like a small makeshift promenade, sat a man. He seemed strange and somewhat detached to her. At least, he sat completely motionless, thoughtfully gazing at the water, probably completely absorbed in his own thoughts. The girl automatically raised her camera, looked at the man through the viewfinder, and was about to press the button when she stopped. Suddenly, the overly vivid memory of pretentious “beauties” with plump lips flashed before her eyes, even making her wince. Besides, as the girl reasonably concluded, justifying her decision, such a photo was unlikely to be bought by anyone. Without specifying the name of the model involved in the shoot, commercial use would be difficult. Online buyers are reluctant to deal with photographs featuring random people.
She once again carefully examined the willow, glanced around, and walked further into the forest, where bright crimson crowns of aspen trees were visible.
* * *
Every morning for Viktor was like the one before. After a quick breakfast, he called his publisher and listened to excessively enthusiastic news about how well his books were selling, statistics on paid downloads of electronic versions, and dubious speculation about readers’ renewed interest in printed words. Then the writer lay around on the couch for a while, flipping through channels aimlessly with the remote control. He approached the bookshelves filled with classics, spent a long time examining the spines, but still couldn’t decide what he might reread. Throughout the day, he didn’t even touch his laptop, where the plot of “his” new story was probably already developing rapidly. In the end, Viktor came up with nothing better than to get dressed and take another walk through the forest toward the riverbank.
The day turned out unusually warm for autumn. The sun was noticeably warming. The river sparkled brightly, beckoning as if inviting him to dive into its depths. Carefully approaching the bank, trying not to slip down the muddy slope, the writer dipped his hand into the water. It was icy, clear, and completely empty. In summer, life teemed here: small fish darted inside, plump frogs splashed from the bank into the reeds, dragonflies flew above the water, but now not a single water strider could be seen. Life was falling asleep, sensing the approach of cold weather.
Viktor walked over to the bench where he had sat yesterday and only now noticed how thickly the entire area around it was covered with a carpet of yellow fallen leaves. He took a few steps across this fluffy, rustling blanket and suddenly, obeying some childish impulse, lay down on it, spreading his arms wide, and closed his eyes. Fragmentary memories of childhood, of summer days spent by this river, flashed through his mind, and suddenly an image of the girl from yesterday with the camera appeared.
“Are you feeling unwell?” a pleasant female voice suddenly sounded from above.
The writer opened his eyes and saw the very girl he had been thinking about just moments ago. She looked exactly as she had yesterday: fiery red hair, slightly disheveled, wearing an absurd orange scarf. Her face was slightly agitated, and her greenish eyes stared directly at Viktor.
“No, I’m fine,” replied the writer, and noticing the camera around the girl’s neck, added, “but please don’t take pictures.”
“Why did you assume I would photograph you?”
“Well, you seem to be a photographer.”
“Yes… But I don’t photograph people.”
“Why not?”
“Well… It doesn’t matter,” the girl hesitated slightly, then suddenly asked, “May I sit next to you?”
“Please… If you think it’s appropriate,” answered the writer and even shifted slightly closer.
“Well, you do think so,” Natalia lay down in the leaves just twenty centimeters away from Viktor. “Hmm… This really is an interesting angle.”
“I see that you’re hard to put in an awkward position…” remarked the writer, watching as the girl photographed upward from below the orange treetops framing a small patch of blue sky.
“Yes, I’m quite comfortable,” she replied without looking away from the process. “Considering that for the past couple of days I’ve been sleeping in pretty much the same conditions.”
“You don’t have a home?”
“No, I do have a home. It just doesn’t have heating…” The girl tilted her head to the side and looked at Viktor. “By the way, are you by any chance an engineer?”
“No, I’m a writer,” he replied, still gazing upward at the treetops.
“Oh… I recognized you… You’re the writer… The very one…”
“Yes, I’m that very writer.”
“That’s a pity…”
“It’s unusual to hear that,” Viktor finally looked at the girl. “Usually readers immediately want an autograph or a selfie.”
“Well, I’m not a reader. I don’t read you.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“Don’t worry, lately I haven’t been reading anyone—not just you, but other writers either.”
“That’s somewhat comforting. So, what’s wrong with your heating?”
“Something’s wrong with the boiler… But do you, as a writer, understand anything about that?”
“Not much. But enough to keep the heating working in my house,” Viktor turned away again.
“I think that’s enough. Don’t you want to help me?”
“Are you sure you shouldn’t look for a real professional?”
“Au-uu-u! Professional!” the girl cried out mockingly loudly, then turned back to Viktor. “It seems there aren’t any nearby. I’ll have to resort to your unskilled help after all.”
“All right,” replied the writer, getting up from the ground and brushing off the leaves. “But you might regret this…”
“I don’t doubt it for a second. Let’s go!”
The two walked along the path through the autumn forest and soon disappeared behind the trees.
* * *
Viktor and Natalia entered the empty house. The room, devoid of decoration and any furniture, seemed lifeless to the writer, and the air inside was almost indistinguishable from the street air.
“Is this where you live?” he asked, looking around as if with slight disdain, it seemed to Natalia.
“Yes. For two days now,” the girl replied, looking intently at Viktor.
“I see…” he said thoughtfully.
“Do you think it was a bad choice?”
“No… Why would it be? Not at all. That’s not what I mean…”
“And what is it about?”
“It’s just that when I saw you yesterday, your face seemed very familiar to me. Like a memory from childhood…” The writer took a few steps up the stairs to the second level and surveyed the room again from this height. “I’m currently living in my parents’ house, not far from here. It’s not as spacious, but somehow reminds me of something… So I thought it would be amusing if we turned out to be old neighbors.”
“Yes, that would be an interesting plot. Meeting old neighbors…” the girl agreed. “But no.”
“Yes, it would be…” Viktor said thoughtfully.
“But we can become good new neighbors, can’t we?” Natalia smiled and looked questioningly at the writer.
“I think so,” he nodded. “So, where’s your water heater?”
“There it is!” The girl pointed to a massive shiny unit mounted on the wall.
“Let’s take a look…” Viktor pressed the single flat button slightly recessed into the surface, and a touch screen display lit up on the front panel.
For some time, the appliance made noise, then emitted a piercing, drawn-out beep and fell silent. On the display, only the mysterious inscription “E1” was visible.
“That’s exactly how it always behaves,” Natalia said sadly.
“This is ‘GlobalAutomatix’,” the writer stated, examining the metal tag on the side of the unit. “They offer a 25-year warranty… Why haven’t you tried calling support?”
“The connection here is very poor. And the Internet doesn’t work either.”
“And the instructions, of course, have been lost…” Viktor muttered. “I have a similar model. ‘E1’ is an error code indicating depressurization. The water heater blows through all the pipes and tries to determine if there’s a leak, which is why the instructions say that you need to close all the taps when turning it on for the first time.”
“You have a good memory. But I don’t even have any taps yet…”
“Give me a wrench. Let’s try reconnecting everything…”
Natalia rummaged through cardboard boxes piled under the stairs for a while and finally pulled out a shiny wrench. The writer took the tool and silently got to work.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” the girl suddenly remarked, watching as Viktor concentratedly unscrewed the nuts. “That you saw me as a child. It’s strange… Don’t you think?”
“Nothing strange about it,” he replied, without taking his eyes off his task. “Memories from childhood are pleasant to me. You also seemed pleasant and nice to me. Warm memories and a warm feeling from a sweet girl. Probably, it just coincided nicely. Like an unexpected sense of déjà vu.”
“Do you flirt?”
“No. Please hold this washer-seal.”
“Just you talk so easily about what you feel,” the girl said, spinning the black rubber circle in her hands.
“I’m a writer. It’s part of my profession—to understand and explain human feelings, turning them into words.”
“You writers are always inventing things… Things that don’t exist.”
“Yes, and you photographers simply capture what is. Give me the washer.”
“I call it digitizing reality,” said Natalia, handing the detail to Viktor. “Whatever image I shoot, it remains forever in my computer.”
“That’s an interesting idea. In that case, my texts are digitized fantasy.”
“Logical.”
“Both are, ultimately, just a sequence of zeros and ones,” the writer said thoughtfully. “And we consider it important enough to spend our lives on this.”
“You’re a pessimist…”
“No. If I were a pessimist, I wouldn’t believe that your water heater should start working right now,” said Viktor and tapped the button on the front panel.
The appliance turned on, displaying temperature readings and control buttons on the touch screen. Natalia pretended to applaud. Water began to hum in the pipes, filling the heating system. Gradually, warmth spread throughout the house.
“So you’re not only a master of words, but also of deeds.”
“Well, mostly a master of words, of course,” the writer replied, blushing slightly, as it seemed to him.
The girl pressed the button on the electric kettle, and it began rapidly heating water with increasing noise.
“Now I simply must offer you a cup of coffee,” she said, pouring the contents of a packet into the screwed-on lid of a thermos. “True, it’s not exactly a cup… And not exactly coffee… But I have nothing else. I promise I’ll be better prepared next time.”
“Thank you,” said Viktor, taking the improvised cup from Natalia’s hands and sipping the hot drink.
“Awful, isn’t it?” the girl asked anxiously.
“Yes. The most delicious awful coffee I’ve had this week, and I…” The writer suddenly stopped, staring thoughtfully into space.
“What’s wrong with you?” the girl asked, slightly worried. “Is it really that bad?”
“No… It’s just… Another strange sensation.”
“Deja vu again?”
“No, something different… Suddenly, I felt how strange and unusual everything was today. Our meeting. This empty house. You in this autumn scarf. Everything seems unreal…”
“Oh, stop it!” laughed the girl. “You clearly haven’t left your house in a long time. And generally, you’ve gone wild here…”
“Maybe, but… You mentioned digitizing reality… What if not only our fantasies and what we see around us, but we ourselves can be digitized? What if we’re already someone’s digitized fantasy? A sequence of zeros and ones…”
“You probably need to watch less science fiction at night,” Natalia said kindly. “I’ll walk you out, I suppose.”
“Do you think I’m not quite sane?”
“Yes. Overworked from unfamiliar labor,” the girl said suddenly, taking Viktor by the arm and leading him out of the house. “Get some fresh air immediately!”
* * *
Twilight began to deepen over the forest. In the rays of the setting sun, which was about to disappear beyond the horizon, golden crowns appeared cherry-red. Night coolness from the river spread among the trees. Soon the warm, bright day would smoothly transition into a cold and damp autumn night.
Viktor and Natalia slowly walked through the forest along the bank. She held his arm as if they had known each other for a very long time, rather than having just met today.
“I’d like to confess something to you,” the writer broke the prolonged silence.
“Love?” Natalia playfully asked.
“No… Much worse.”
“Oh, my God! What could be worse? Are you sure you’re ready to entrust such serious secrets to a barely acquainted girl?”
“Why not?”
“You’re a risky person!”
“You won’t tell anyone anyway… And no one will believe you…”
“Well, speak already!” the girl tugged at the writer’s sleeve. “I adore other people’s secrets! Don’t keep me in suspense, you intrigue!”
Viktor paused, sighed heavily, and then said:
“The thing is, I didn’t actually write the last dozen of my books.”
“What do you mean? How is that possible?” the girl asked, suddenly bursting out laughing. “Do you have a personal literary slave whom you keep in the basement? Did I guess right? You’re making it all up again! Were you trying to trick me?”
“Not at all,” the writer replied sadly. “My friend, a programmer, installed a self-learning program on my computer… A neural network. It can read texts that you give it, and then starts writing by itself. It turns out very coherent and quite good. That’s how I’ve been doing things for the past year. Neither the publisher nor the readers even suspect that I didn’t write them myself. I haven’t written a single line in a long time…”
“That’s very funny,” the girl reacted unexpectedly calmly. “So now you’re not only a talented writer, but also a talented fraudster!”
“Do you find this amusing?”
“Yes… Quite amusing… And it reminded me of a story I read last week. An impressionist painter did exactly the same thing. Critics admired how accurately he conveyed the whole range of human emotions in his works. But the paintings were created by a computer. When the deception was revealed, ironically, his paintings only increased in value…”
“Indeed amusing,” the writer thoughtfully said and looked at the girl. “Do you think I should do the same?”
“Who knows…” she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “In any case, I don’t see anything particularly shameful in it. People pay for digital copies, buy subscriptions to stupid online series. Why shouldn’t they read books written by a neural network? And you yourself said that all this is just sequences of zeros and ones…”
“But is there any real value in such ‘creativity’?”
“Real? Is there anything real left in this world?!”
“You… Me… This evening…”
“You know what?! Why did I stop photographing people?! People are constantly lying! When they write, when they talk… To each other, to themselves, to everyone… Even when they look into my lens!”
“Do you think I’m deceiving you in some way?”
“I think you’re just making everything up…” Natalia said more calmly, with a kind of hopeless sadness in her voice, and turned away.
She stood in her ridiculous sweater with Christmas trees and deer jumping on beige and brown stripes, wrapped around her neck with a frivolous orange scarf, and gazed thoughtfully at the water, where the sunset burned with its fiery colors. Almost with the same gaze that Viktor had used yesterday to look at the same water.
“Well, I didn’t promise myself not to photograph people…” the writer said, taking out his smartphone and suddenly taking a picture of Natalia in the rays of the setting sun.
“Why do you need this?” the girl asked, frowning slightly, yet turning toward the camera at the last moment in the most advantageous way and smiling faintly.
“We writers make everything up… So I’ll have proof of your existence,” Viktor smirked. “I’ll save it in my contacts list under the phone number you’ll give me now.”
“You’re so bold… Don’t you want to know my name first?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Viktor replied, continuing to rummage through his phone. “I’ve already saved you as ‘Neighbor.’ I don’t have any other neighbors here anyway. Give me the number…”
“Well, go ahead and write it down… Plus eight… Two hundred thirty-three…” Natalia began dictating, leaning slightly and looking at the screen. “What if you get another neighbor here?”
“One no less attractive?” the writer asked, looking away from the screen without showing any emotion.
“Let’s say so.”
“I’ll write her down as ‘Neighbor 2’.”
“That’s offensive.”
“Don’t worry. At least for my phone book, you’ll always be number one.”
“What a nasty guy you are!” the girl remarked.
“And a very calculating nasty guy,” Viktor added.
“This is something I’ll definitely remember and include in the bill next time I provide my unskilled assistance,” Viktor smiled.
“And a very calculating nasty guy,” Natalia added.
“This is my business card. It says so right there,” the writer suddenly took out a slightly worn card from his pocket and handed it to his companion.
“Why do you carry them around in the forest?” she asked, taking the worn card from the writer’s hand.
“Just happened to fall into my hands.”
“I thought it was just in case I meet some attractive neighbors.”
“A good idea. I’ll keep that in mind for the future. There’s your number and your name…”
“I’ll still write you down as ‘That Writer’,” Natalia smiled and took Viktor’s arm again. “By the way, about your unskilled assistance… They’re supposed to deliver furniture to me at the end of the week. Someone will have to assemble it.”
“Do you suppose it’ll be me?” the writer voiced an almost rhetorical question to the girl.
“You’re perceptive… Writers really see through people. Unlike us superficial photographers,” she remarked somewhat sarcastically.
“So we’ll see each other at the end of the week?”
“No… Did you really decide to offend me today? Did I displease you so much?”
“On the contrary,” Viktor blushed. “You pleased me…”
“Well, why wait until the end of the week? Why don’t we meet tomorrow? Let’s meet here… You can sit on this bench. Or, as you like, bury yourself in the leaves. Just not too deep, so I can find you…”
“I’m not against it, actually…” the writer mumbled, clearly not expecting such a decisive turn of events.
“So, until tomorrow?”
“Yes, until tomorrow.”
“Or maybe we should kiss goodbye?” Viktor suddenly asked, gathering courage.
“You’re so bold… Such things should be done, not said,” Natalia laughed and looked intently into his eyes. “And besides… It’s still too early now. And already too late. So we’ll just go home.”
“You’re right,” the writer agreed with Natalia. “Until tomorrow…”
“Know what came to my mind… Maybe we really knew each other in childhood? Your house was over there, behind that bend to the right at the end of a long maple alley. You came almost every summer and spent the whole day swimming with your father in the river. And I was left here with my grandmother for only a month. I ran around the forest for a long time, played hide-and-seek, imagined some adventures, and then, when it was already getting dark, I ran home, and my grandmother made a delicious cherry pie…”
“Maybe,” the writer shrugged his shoulders and smiled slightly.
“We can just take and invent this story. And it will exist. After all, invented stories are no worse than real ones. Right?”
* * *
Viktor woke up when the sun was shining brightly outside the window. For the first time in a month, the writer had slept well and now felt completely refreshed and even cheerful. He pulled back the dusty curtain, threw open the window wide, and let the cool air of the autumn forest into the house. From somewhere above, an autumn leaf gently descended onto the windowsill with a barely audible rustle. Viktor smiled and didn’t bother to remove it.
Suddenly, the writer’s gaze fell upon a cardboard box under the table, tied with tape. He remembered what was inside. Searching for scissors but not finding them, he tore off the tape with his hands and took out an old typewriter from the box. Friends had once given it to Viktor as a gift for some holiday. It was more symbolic and playful than practical. Nevertheless, now the writer placed the ancient device on the table, inserted a clean sheet of paper, adjusted the tangled ribbon, and, thoughtfully looking out the window, began typing.
At first, he stumbled frequently, muttering curses as he confused letters or pressed them too lightly due to unfamiliarity, but then the process completely absorbed him. The clatter of the typewriter, escaping through the open window, seemed to tremble in the clear and cool autumn air, spreading far into the forest.
Natalia sat alone on a bench. Several times she tried to take her mobile phone and call someone, but the display stopped her with the message “No network.” The girl listened to the sounds in the forest silence and smiled slightly. Somewhere behind her, a cheerful children’s cry rang out. She turned around and saw a family strolling a little further away. Apparently, city dwellers who had decided to go on a picnic during the last warm days of autumn.
Leaving her parents behind and breaking free, a girl about ten years old was playing in the autumn leaves. She cheerfully grabbed handfuls of yellow leaves with her little hands, tossed them high into the air above her head, and laughed heartily. Natalia was even somewhat surprised that modern children were still capable of such primal joy. Unexpectedly, the girl herself reached for her camera and, looking at the playing child through the viewfinder, took several pictures.
However, jumping in the leaves soon became boring for the girl. She began searching something in her jacket pockets and pulled out a smartphone. Still watching this through her camera, Natalia suddenly felt sad, but then something completely unexpected happened. The girl suddenly picked up a small pine cone from the ground, placed it on a stump, and took a photograph.
* * *
Viktor mechanically checked the last paragraph of the text, added a couple of blank lines, printed the date, and contentedly closed the laptop lid. This time it turned out simply wonderful: he, she, autumn… Certainly, he had never written so well before. Readers would be delighted. If only they knew… The writer smiled, then threw an old windbreaker over himself and went for a walk in the autumn forest.
