Gogol Nikolai Vasilievich

The year was 1837. Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol sat beneath a spreading maple tree in the park, in its most remote corner. It was autumn, golden, colorful, and beautiful. It was only the first month of autumn, and golden leaves were falling to the ground. He sat, leaning his back against the tree trunk, his eyes slightly closed, looking up.
The silence of the park was broken only by the barely audible rustle of fallen leaves, blown by a light autumn breeze. Nikolai moved his fingers, as if mentally composing invisible lines, and suddenly opened his eyes, mesmerized by the way a ray of sunlight pierced the dense canopy of a maple tree. He reached into his coat pocket, searching for the treasured candy there, trying to stave off a sudden attack of melancholy.

— "How wonderful this autumn is, almost like in my wildest dreams of beauty..."
He whispered to himself, smiling faintly at the emptiness. Suddenly, he heard footsteps nearby, hesitant but distinct. Nikolai froze, not wanting to disturb the moment of solitude.