I'd been expecting this guest for a long time and was even surprised that he came only now. And yet, I involuntarily shudder when our gazes meet.

  He sits down silently at the table, and I, equally silent, begin making coffee.

  For this dear guest, the drink is brewed on special coals soaked in resin and blood. A sharp metallic smell fills the space, and it seems as if the heavy clanking of rusty chains is about to be heard.

  I place a cup of scalding black coffee in front of my guest, adding a generous handful of ash to the drink. I sprinkle the blood-red cherries with it as well.

  The guest nods gratefully and takes a sip of the treat, his flawless lips covered in ash.

  He won't speak. I'll tell it instead.

  He was never a blind fanatic or blood-mad rabble who sees heresy in a gentle smile or a scattering of freckles on rosy cheeks.

  He had always been fascinated by science and philosophy. He was so immersed in them that he learned first to see, and then… to work with vices. Literally. Yes, at first the test subjects died. But that was a drop in the ocean of endless morses and the holy fire of the Inquisitions.

  Then things started to improve. He learned to draw out a person's vice, relieve their mental pain and burden, and provide peace. And many times he nearly died because of this. I stood by his side for decades, silently observing. I didn't dare offer advice, but I obediently learned and adopted some of his methods.

  I was both curious and terrified. I guarded him like an invisible shadow in the outside world. I protected him, kept his bed warm, and drove away nightmares.

  At some point, he transformed another dark cloud taken from some poor man into a nimble little bird. An ordinary bird. Tiny, easily clutched in the palm of your hand. The man fell at his feet, a limp heap, but it no longer mattered. The servants quickly dragged the poor fellow to the cellars, where he probably died.

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  Then the experiments on the bird began. He pricked it with needles, pulled out its feathers, tried to bleed it dry and decapitate it. No, the bird wasn't a phoenix. But he still couldn't kill or harm it. I remember that first bird well. It was incredibly familiar. And its name was Pain.

  Needless to say, with each touch the bird grew stronger, its voice louder. And now, instead of a tiny bird that fits in the palm of your hand, something large and menacing, the size of a plump duck, stares out at the world.

  He couldn't think of anything better than to buy the bird a cage and leave it in his house.

  Needless to say, over the years the cages grew in number, until they began to occupy all the space in his house. The rooms were now nothing but narrow paths between the lab benches, the fireplace, and his bed.

  He became a true master. A master at relieving people of suffering. His cages contained everything: the pain of loss, bitterness, disappointment, betrayal, malice, grumpiness, indifference.

  My dear Inquisitor became a Master of Souls. It was he who burned me at the stake.

  “I broke all my cages.”

  His velvety, tired voice broke the heated silence, reeking of blood. Well, this world deserved it. All the vices it spawned will return to it.

  My Inquisitor licked the ash from his lips and broke the silence again.

  “One bird could not fly away.”

  He sees the silent question in my eyes and continues in the same soft, velvety, and incredibly tired voice:

  “I cut off and burned her wings.”

  My Inquisitor places the cage on the table. I peer through the bars and recoil. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

  My Inquisitor nods and leaves. A silent farewell. Forever. At least in this world.

  The little, mutilated bird in the cage lets out a faint, broken chirp and even takes one fragile step toward me. The bird has no wings; instead, charred skeletons of bone protrude through its faded feathers. In places, wrinkled, bare skin is visible, as if it had been plucked alive. Perhaps it was. One foot is missing toes, and its eyes constantly water, even though it is practically pitch dark here.

  The bird takes another step toward me, bowing its head trustingly. I recoil and manage to cover the massive rusty cage with a black cloak.

  I think I know who to give it to.

  Love sits in a cage.