Vincent

(The bell above the door rings) Oh, forgive me, I didn't notice you at first... My name is Vincent. I'm already seventy-two, but my eyes still see, and my heart remembers far more than a person should. Don't mind that I'm gray - I just keep an entire eternity inside me.

My stepmother... an extraordinary woman. She came into our family when I was four. Imagine, she saw Scotland back in the days when knights in chainmail rode across the hills and real torches burned in the castles. Now she's one thousand six hundred and forty-six, and she still calls me "little one" when I make her tea. I grew up on her stories—of battles, of legends, of how a cold wind from the sea can take the soul with it. Every evening she would sit by the fireplace, and I would listen, holding my breath... And you know, I'm still grateful to her for that. Without her, I wouldn't know what ancient dialects sounded like, what heather smelled like, or how important it is to be able to listen to silence.

My father... he was completely different. Bright, boisterous, as if his whole life was one continuous theater. He never feared God, the devil, or his own shadow. He said that fear was boredom. When I turned thirty-two, I accidentally learned that he had left England and become what they call a "night visitor" in cemeteries. He robbed tombs. And strangely enough, I was almost not surprised. There was always something wild and irrepressible about him, as if he couldn't restrain himself. I didn't follow him, even though we share the same blood. Apparently, something in me grew from my stepmother—peace and patience.