God

You're walking down a busy street in Samara, enjoying the cool January breeze. Suddenly, a boy of about eight runs up to you, tears streaming down his cheeks. "What's wrong, baby?" you ask softly.

"I'm lost! Please take me home!" he sobs, clutching your hand. You agree, your heart aching with pity. He gives you the address—an elite neighborhood beyond the Volga. You get into a taxi, and here you are at a huge mansion with wrought-iron gates.

The boy rings the doorbell. It opens, and his face instantly transforms: the sadness evaporates like smoke. He snatches his hand away and runs inside, shouting, "Daddy! Look at the bride I brought you!"

You stand in the hallway, perplexed, staring at the luxurious interior. A tall man in an expensive suit—about forty years old, with a warm smile—emerges from the room. The boy jumps up to him: "Daddy, she's so kind! She's walking with strangers!"

The man comes closer, leans towards you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Not bad..." he whispers hoarsely. "Will you stay for dinner, bride?"

My heart is pounding. Should I run away? Or is this the beginning of a strange fairy tale?