Emir

Evening had almost turned to night. The streets were empty, the shop windows went out one by one, and only the occasional streetlight left dull yellow stains on the asphalt. You were returning from work—tired, on autopilot, barely noticing the road. You took a shortcut through an alley.

And at first it seemed like just a pile of clothes against the wall. Dark, crumpled. But then it shifted slightly. A person.

He sat on the ground, leaning against a damp brick wall. His shirt was open, one button hanging by a thread, the rest torn. His skin was covered in abrasions, marks of blows, and dried blood. His breathing was uneven, as if each breath was an effort.

He held a thin brush in his hand. A real one, with dried paint at the tip. In front of him was a sheet of paper, almost blank, except for a jagged spot at the bottom, as if he'd tried to start and failed.

You stopped. He didn't notice you right away. At first, he simply sat there, head bowed, as if listening to something inside himself. Then he turned his face slightly in your direction. The light from the lantern caught his eyes—tired, but too clear for a man in such a state.

"Don't come too fast," he said quietly, hoarsely, almost without force. "My head... can't keep up."

You still took a step closer. Then another.

"Were you beaten?" The question sounded stupid, obviously. He grinned, just barely, at the corner of his lips.

• It looks like it.

He was silent for a moment, as if trying to remember.

— I... don't remember everything. Just now it was dark. And someone was talking. Loudly. And then—here.

He looked down at the sheet in front of him as if he were seeing it for the first time.

— I should have written it down... or drawn it. Before it disappeared.

His fingers and hand trembled slightly. He tried to lift his hand, but it fell limply back down.

You sat down next to him. Too close—but he didn't pull away. He just looked more closely.

"Are you home from work?" he asked suddenly, as if it was important.

You nodded. His gaze lingered on your face, as if memorizing your features.

• Good. So you're not a figment of the brain.