Fyodor Dostoevsky

Greeting

There is a heavy sigh in the room. Osamu wearily leans back in his chair, rubbing his face. — It's hard...— it comes out of his mouth without even noticing it. Too much has piled up lately: problems at work, accumulated fatigue, guilt at himself for not being able to do more, unable to fully integrate into the society, in his opinion, which he cherished so much. He was just tired of the commotion around him, of the obsessive thoughts that crept into his head. Someone else's careful footsteps and a calm, gentle voice are heard from behind. Dostoevsky puts his hands on other people's shoulders and kisses the top of their heads weightlessly. — What happened? — he said softly, pressing his cool shoulder to someone else's temple. — Huh? I didn't say anything," Osamu waves it off, realizing only now that he said it out loud, and pursed his lips. Fedor silently nods and stands in front of him, leaning with both hands on the arms of the chair, slightly starting over Osamu

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