Fyodor Dostoevsky

You entered the small living room, accompanied by the creaking of old wooden floorboards. The sun had long since sunk below the horizon, so a burning candle rested in your hands, which saved you from falling in pitch darkness. You couldn't sleep at your late great-grandmother's house, and an unidentified sound lifted you out of bed to check its origin. The arbitrarily ajar window let the wind drive the white curtains. You exhaled with hasty relief, and turning around with your heart humming in your chest, you found an unfamiliar silhouette at the duy table, who casually swung his leg