I removed from your memory a certain event that became the source of this fear. You went alone to the mountains and fell into the abyss. It's good? - I involuntarily looked at her.

She is not afraid of heights. She is afraid of losing her son’s confidence. She is afraid of death from wounds and diseases. She is frightened by sounds coming from the street at night. Her worst nightmare is when her own son puts a knife in her back. I turned away again.

- And what you are afraid of, I would not clean it at all. This is a natural fear for any woman who raises a child alone. But you have nothing to fear - your son will not do anything like that. You're a good mother, and he knows about it ...

“You ... you calmed me ... Thank you,” she kissed my shoulder, and her arms were wrapped around my waist. - Good night.

I ran my fingertips through her hair:

- Good night...

I was sitting in a small semi-basement cafe by the window that looked out onto the pavement of the main street. At the level of my face, hundreds of legs — male and female, slim and flabby, with terrible ulcers and inflamed veins — ran through, passed through, young and old, in pants and skirts, in shoes, shoes, and boots. Here, the small wheels of the pram ran past, small legs in colorful rubber boots passed right through the puddles, followed closely by the full female legs in elegant but not new shoes with a small heel. Men's feet in baggy trousers and worn out boots shuffled towards them. Next to her feet, a wooden stick was knocking steadily, shamelessly falling into the rhythm of drops falling from the sky. Then young strong legs in dirty sneakers and dark blue jeans with fray legs stopped in front of the window. The legs went forward, back, then returned to their original place, a bit trampled, apparently expecting some beautiful legs in boots and a mini-skirt. Soon these legs, only in low shoes on a low wedge, ran up to my feet in jeans, got up on toes, and then both pairs of legs slowly left the street.

I slowly sipped my coffee and waited. He was to appear from minute to minute.

Suddenly a big, strong hand lay on my shoulder. I set the cup down on a saucer and looked away from the window with an absent look.

“I’m not afraid of you,” said a low, hoarse male voice over my very ear.

I did not answer.

He let go of my shoulder and sat in a chair across from me.

- I'm not afraid of you, Dem, - he said, and I grinned, still looking out the window.

And then slowly looked at him.

Do not be afraid of me. Be afraid of something else. I will find how to get close to it.

And then his memory appeared before me like a map of the hemispheres. Multicolored spots, bright and joyful - memories of the last days. Slightly faded, blurry - images of the last year. And below them - black and gray childhood memories.

I extracted the blackest spot — something he was trying to forget — straightened him, laid out in front of his mind, and went deep into reading. It was a great memory - at the age of three he drowned his younger brother in the bath. Everyone then decided that it was an accident, but in fact he did it on purpose - he was jealous and did not want to share his mother’s love with anyone else, and certainly not with this nasty screaming helpless lump of pink flesh. This memory haunts him to this day - about a small body that floats face down in a bath filled with water. He often dreams of how a tiny corpse raises its head covered with dark, wet hair, smiles with its toothless mouth and pulls its hands towards it, as if calling to itself. He wakes up in a cold sweat when the water around the dead baby becomes blood-red and begins to boil and smoke.

I exhaled and made the images in his memory come alive, stir, speak.

A genuine horror flashed in his eyes, his lips quivered, his cheeks turned pale and gray.

I slowly got up from my seat, patted him on the shoulder and went out into the street.

The rain has intensified. Drops tarabanili on asphalt, almost without ceasing.

I crossed the road, sat on the curb and took a cigarette out of my pocket.

“I knew that you could rely on,” Shaul sat next to me.

“No thanks,” I replied, trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette.

“You did the right thing,” Gaer patted me on the shoulder and held my index finger to the tip of my cigarette. He immediately flashed. I dragged on.

- Now I'm free? - I asked.

“Of course,” Shaul smiled.

I got to my feet.

“Once again, apologize to Lady Anastasia,” I said, turning to the bus stop.

- You do not want to say goodbye to her? - Gaer looked at me.

I shook my head.

“And you don't want to know how she is?” - asked Shaul.

I shook my head again.

“I hope I didn’t hurt her much,” I said quietly.

“Everything is normal,” the twins answered with a laugh. - Not you first.

I flinched, and my fists clenched themselves.

- Do not dare to say so about her, hear? - I exclaimed suddenly with anger and turned to them. - She is your brother's mother! You must treat her with respect, whatever her past! It's not your business at all! Now she is a mother, she gave life to man. For this alone, she deserves respect and respect!

They looked at each other and stared at me in bewilderment.

“And she’s a great mother,” I added softly, and looked away. - Many only dream of such ...

- You're right ... - they also lowered their heads after silence, then turned around and disappeared into the crowd.

And I moved in the opposite direction ...

At night, I once again dreamed of my mother. She stretched her arms to me, going down some luminous stairs, smiled, and with each step her face more and more resembled Anastasia's face ...