“Am I dreaming?” The soft whisper escaped his lips and resounded in the cold air. Receded, faded. The words blurred and vanished, interflowing with the silence. A moment later, left was only the memory of the once asked question, which never got an answer. Was he really dreaming? Even he himself couldn’t define. Days, nights, weeks, months. Now everything was a continuous and interminable line. A game, which everybody were forced to play. A process, which no one could prevent. Time. Neither time mattered for him. It only measured one’s life span.

 But what do you need a life for, when you have nobody to devote it to?

 His tired gaze fell on the fresh bouquet of flowers, which he had plucked this morning. How beautiful the white roses looked and the crimson tulips among them.

 Beautiful but dead.

 With every flower plucked, it was like he tore his own soul, stalk after stalk. But he had to. He had to sacrifice his soul. His eyelids grew heavier with every strike of the old clock. The even tapping of time was like a lullaby to his ears. Although, in his opinion, the clatter of the clock was like time was knocking on your doors and it was a matter of will until you open. Once you let it in, you can’t let it go. Years bury and trap you until you pass away under their heavy burden.

 Was he dreaming? Was this just a surrealistic dream, which he could not wake up from? As much as he hoped, he inwardly knew that the rough reality could hardly be labeled as a “dream”. Dreams were supposed to be something beautiful. Reality could never be compared with dreams because it has never been and never will be beautiful. Ever. And that’s what he repeated to himself. Never.

 Could he believe his own words and thoughts? “When one is in this kind of state,” they say, “one cannot think sober.” But for him, these were the purest and truest thoughts, which have ever crossed his mind.

 Today is a special day, he thought this morning, when he felt the first sunrays kiss his face. The light was sifting through the thin gap between the thick silk curtains, barely illuminating the small but cozy room. With pure white walls and simple furniture, the little lodging was like his heaven, where he could hide from reality. His own Paradise.

 But what do you need Paradise for, when you don’t have anybody to share it with?

 The boy stood on his legs, slightly staggering. He lightly shook his head and grabbed the bouquet. He fixed the worn-out red hat on his hat. Never has a day passed, when he didn’t wear that hat. It was his favourite.

  “Today is a special day.” He smiled, sad though, and went out.

 The chilly autumn air embraced him and he suddenly wished to come back to his warm heaven. But he had to. He had to do it. He knew that the weather was not the reason for the unpleasant burden on his chest. That day was special.

 He found himself on that narrow and picturesque lane. Surrounded on its both sides by withering trees, the small street was like an enchanted road, leading to his happiness. That was where he was going. To his happiness.

 …The girl’s cheeks tinted light rosy pink, right before she looked down, in attempt to hide them. She stretched her arms out and put a red knitted hat on his head. She smiled shyly as she felt his arms embrace her.

 How protected and secure she felt in that moment. How his heart beat as fast as hers. This was the real present to him. Not the hat, although he liked it so much, but this beautiful moment. To feel that somewhere was a heart which would beat alongside his. Somewhere…

 A deep sigh caressed his dry lips. He didn’t want to admit but he felt quite sad. The memory made his heartbeat speed up, reminding him that he was still alive; that he still wandered around the paths of reality with a white roses and red tulips bouquet in one hand. Th