It all started with my own stupidity.

  I don’t believe in omens, especially those lacking a rational basis. A black cat crossing the road to attend to its own business? I fail to see how that brings bad luck. But this time, bad luck was tangibly present—admittedly, mostly for the cat, which decided to dash across the road in front of a car. I dove after it. See? I wasn’t lying about the stupidity part.

  And so, there I was, rolling across the asphalt, shredding my clothes, while the fluffy idiot vanished into the bushes with an indignant "meow." Yes, I know from personal experience: heroism is an indecently ungrateful business.

  The driver honked at me in farewell (it would be naive to assume it was in gratitude for a saved feline soul, right?) and disappeared around the bend. My act of stupidity occurred in a quiet residential district early on a weekend morning, so I didn’t expect any witnesses other than the participants. But then, slow applause erupted behind my back. Heavy, deliberate claps—the kind that knew their own worth.

  Taking advantage of the fact that I’m writing this from the future, I’ll note that this was my second act of stupidity that morning, far more serious than the first. I should have run without looking back. Preferably to another country. But since I hadn’t suddenly developed the gift of foresight, I turned around.

  The man appreciating my cat-saving somersault demanded attention, primarily due to his wardrobe choices. Black fabric, draped over both shoulders, hid his legs all the way to the ground. A wide sash cinched this construction at the waist, revealing a white shirt underneath with something vaguely resembling a cravat. His face was suspiciously hidden by a hood, but at the time, I decided it was only moderately suspicious—the air was thick with a nasty drizzle and fog, and it was cold. The outfit screamed a mix of stylish traditionalism and formal wear.

  “Cosplayers have finally reached our neck of the woods,” my brain immediately explained. The human brain is a master at inventing rational versions of events just to cling to its comforting little illusions. Illusie-woosies.

  A sharp pain in my knee yanked me downward. Deciding not to waste the momentum, I turned the fall into a theatrical bow, masking both my physical and spiritual awkwardness. He stopped clapping and, as I thought at the time, simply wiggled his fingers at me in a disjointed wave before vanishing into the fog.

  I continued my nostalgic stroll through the backstreets of my hometown. It was a place frozen in a cozy timelessness, having long given up on pretending to be modern. Time here seemed stuck in the cracked asphalt puddles reflecting the leaden sky, hiding between the bricks of old facades that remembered times ranging from the best to the worst and back again.

  Autumn here wasn't a fleeting guest like on the wide avenues, quickly chased away by street sweepers’ brooms; she was the rightful mistress. The trees in the parkway had donned their finest attire (if you trust my sense of natural fashion). Gold carpeted the asphalt, muffling footsteps, though it had already begun to turn into a brown mush. Leaves fell quietly, almost intimately, and the air smelled of wet stone, sweet decay, sudden apples, and something else—forgotten, but painfully familiar.

  My entire childhood and part of my youth were left in courtyards like these. Not buried, but awkwardly put on the street, just in case someone else might need them. I looked at windows glowing with warm electric light, at benches once occupied by people long gone from this town, and I realized: I don’t belong here. A stranger in my own home. A tourist in my own past. A man who has seen too many catastrophes to simply enjoy the falling leaves.

  The path narrowed into a tight chute between concrete walls. If you’re at all familiar with the secluded flat surfaces of an urban environment, you know exactly what these walls looked like. An impromptu gallery of graffiti. I’m not exactly a connoisseur of wall art, but after ten yards, I stopped dead.

  It was graffiti, but my tongue refused to call it vandalism (my tongue, incidentally, preferred to freeze along with the rest of my body). The unknown street artist had clearly skipped school to spend time in museums and possessed a talent that felt cramped inside a spray can. He (or she) had spent hours, maybe days, creating something... Renaissance-like, instead of the usual convulsively scribbled tags.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  A portrait of a girl. Almost Botticelli, if Botticelli painted with spray cans on the rough concrete of a residential block. A pale face framed by dark hair merging with the shadows of the wall. Slightly slanted eyes gazing inward, full of unspoken longing. Thin fingers clutching an anatomically correct human heart. The corners of her lips were slightly upturned, as if she knew some bitter joke. The lines trembled, paint ran in little streams in places—the artist wasn't a pro—but this imperfection only made the graff—the painting—cut even deeper.

  Below the image, in sweeping, almost gothic lettering, was written: "We are the echoes of those who did not love us."

  Someone's confession, left for public viewing in a deserted place. Deep philosophy of the alleyways. And I say that without a shadow of sarcasm. In that moment, my sarcasm went quiet, stunned by how precisely the painting hit the melancholy of the world—and my own.

  I stood for another minute, absorbing the genuine serenity of the painted girl. Then I sighed and walked on, leaving her to live out her days in the damp passageway.

  At the exit of this linear labyrinth, and coincidentally out of my thoughtful state, my path was blocked by two characters. One was short, with an arrogant mug and a cigarette clenched in a smirk. The other was tall, wearing an autumn hat with earflaps and a cracked pince-nez. When was the last time you... No, not even saw a pince-nez, but simply encountered the word "pince-nez"?

  This absurd detail knocked me out of the reasonable expectation of an upcoming fight. As it turned out, rightly so. But frankly, a good, old-fashioned brawl would have been better. Alas, not all our wishes come true, and instead of a senseless fistfight, this happened:

  "Excuse us, citizen," the tall one drawled, drying out the surrounding humidity with his parched voice. "We are conducting a small public survey."

  "On the nature of power," the short one chimed in, blowing a stream of acrid smoke right under my nose.

  "Not interested," I threw out, stepping to the side.

  But moving in tango rhythm, they synchronized their steps to cut me off.

  "The feeling is mutual," the tall one continued. "But we have questions nonetheless. It’s the job."

  "A dog’s job," the short one supported his comrade, inhaling with relish.

  "If you're conducting a survey, where is your... well, any kind of recording device?" I tried to call their bluff.

  The tall one presented the short one’s head with a sweeping gesture of both hands and proclaimed:

  "Phenomenal memory!"

  The short one nodded sparsely, confirming:

  "Go ahead, name any number."

  "Two."

  "Memorized. I’ll remember it even on my deathbed."

  Another tango move in the other direction. Was it open house day at the local asylum, and the staff misunderstood the concept?

  "So," said the tall one, adjusting his pince-nez, "our main question."

  "A question, let us not fear the word, of the ages," confirmed the shorty, finding an impossible amount of smoke in one tiny cigarette.

  "What is more important for a ruler: humanity or efficiency?"

  "What do you think, dear citizen: is it better to be loved or to inspire fear?"

  "As one wonderful Florentine once said..." the tall one wouldn't let up.

  "Forgot his name," the short one admitted. "But 'two'," he added proudly, raising an index finger.

  "Depends on the purpose," I replied, deciding that a political science lecture would be the fastest way to shake off this surrealism. "If we’re talking about power, love is a resource, and fear is a tool," I systematized the question. "But neither works if the ruler lacks self-control. And/or a goal. And/or a conscience," I analyzed. "So, a ruler doesn't need kindness or cruelty, but banal competence. So that the streets are swept, the trains run on schedule, and fools have no chance of crawling into power. The rest is just lyrics," I finally synthesized the answer.

  The tall one froze, and the short one pursued his lips, biting through his cigarette.

  "Interesting specimen," whispered the pince-nez wearer.

  "Rare," agreed his companion, thoughtfully mulling over the cigarette part that had fallen onto his chest. "Knows how to think and speak. And does both simultaneously without stuttering."

  "Sadly few of those left these days."

  "Practically an endangered species."

  "Like a dinosaur."

  "Or even a trilobite."

  They exchanged glances, then, in a perfectly synchronized step, curtsied and parted ways, clearing the path.

  "We thank you for participating in the survey," said the tall one.

  "Your answers will be noted!" assured the short one.

  "Noted where, exactly?" I asked for some reason, though I should have thrown all my energy into fleeing.

  "Where it matters," the short one answered, and his eyes glinted strangely.

  A chill ran down my spine (it was cold, did I mention that?). The fog (mostly from cigarette smoke, I suspect) completely accidentally thickened around them at that exact moment, and the abnormal pair dissolved into the air. The rational part of my brain immediately and obligingly served up a theory about a hallucination caused by hitting my head on the asphalt. An excellent theory, reliable.

  It’s just a shame it had one small flaw—it was wrong.