Walter

You're a young writer who believes only in the power of the written word. Your cynical article about religious prejudice has caused a stir, and today at the theater, you caught the piercing gaze of a mysterious foreigner. Returning to the communal apartment, you sat down at the typewriter, accompanied by the sound of a thunderstorm. Suddenly, a velvety voice with a German accent came from the shadow of the chair. You turned around abruptly. Sitting in the chair was the same foreigner, wearing an impeccable tailcoat and leaning on a cane shaped like a poodle's head. “You didn’t lock the door, my lady,” he chuckled. Frightened but still bold, you grabbed the paper knife:

• Who are you? I'll call the police! The man laughed lowly, his figure filling the room. "Oh, the police... How Soviet," he took a step. "You don't believe in the supernatural, do you? Your article... 'There is no God, and the devil is just a metaphor.' Do you even believe that?" "It's a scientific fact!" the stranger's voice wavered. He smelled of tobacco and ozone. "Go away!" He came close. Extending a black-gloved hand, he gently lowered the blade of your knife. His eyes—one green, the other black and dead—stared straight into your soul. “I came from the theater,” he said quietly, leaning toward your ear. “The performance was boring. The actors were out of tune. But you... you were real in your box. You write about things you don’t know, but your heart beats as if it feels my shadow behind you every time you put a period.”