The moonlight streamed in through the huge bay windows opposite the single bed. On the roads, the city seemed to be on constant move, despite the fact hat it was nearly freezing, the boy tossed and turned in the bed, caught in his worst nightmare, but still not wanting to wake up. Tangled with the bed sheets, he murmured inarticulately at times, sweating excessively in his temperature controlled boxy prison of a room.
He saw a huge room, almost teeming full of unfamiliar people, and one small boy sitting unobtrusively in a dark, cold corner, in the shadows. The boy must have been around six. A coffin lay in a nearby boom. The man inside had he same white-blond hair and greenish-grey eyes as the boy. Someone had dressed him up in black formals. He wasn’t crying—he wasn’t brought up like that.
He had been sitting in that corner since the morning, waiting for all those people to leave. He was sure his father was going to come back. How dare they all say that ‘the poor boy is all alone . . .’ and ‘what is going to happen to him . . .’ He wondered why all their sentences were half finished and sounded so ominous.
Daddy was going to come back. . .
He thought he heard someone call him, and turned ever so slightly. His mother’s distraught face came into view. She burst out crying on seeing him sitting alone in a corner. She got on her knees and hugged him tightly. The boy’s expression didn't change. He didn’t remember his mother so well. She had left his father when the boy was no more than four, and she never came back. She would call every week, and send him letters and couriers, but never to see him.
When his parents got divorced, his father had wanted his mother to take him. She had wanted to, but then she refused, out of the blue. And she never returned.