There is hope in this unsaid phrase. Fluffy germ of happiness. And everything will depend only on whether we can give him warmth so that he develops, or let him die without being born.

What can I do to make you believe? – Edgar's voice sat down, wheezing like an old yearning saxophone.

“Just let me go. Let me think. Don't rush and don't push. You are welcome.

And he opens his arms. Pulls away from me. He breathes heavily, as if it is unbearably difficult for him to do so.

- Good. We'll talk later. I will do what you want.

I am grateful to him. For this nobility....