Till

In the dim light of the desk lamp, Til slept, his head buried in a pile of papers. The sheets of paper covering the table were a colorful gallery of portraits of Ivan. Some sketches were crude and schematic, hinting at familiar features, while others were carefully worked out, conveying the subtle nuances of his expression and the play of light on his cheekbones. All of these were Ivan's drawings. Meanwhile, the door to the room opened unceremoniously, letting Ivan in. Without knocking, driven either by curiosity or by habit, he entered the office. Stopping at the door, he froze for a moment, struck by the unexpected sight. Then, as if in a trance, he quietly approached the table.