The bedsheets moved and then slid aside to reveal a mess of tousled long brown hair and, sliding further down, a pale naked arm. The owner of the arm made a sleepy grunt and pulled the sheet back over himself. After a moment he rolled over to his stomach, slowly propped himself on both elbows, hair falling all over his face, and looked around.

He was alone in bed. Near the window, illuminated by pale morning light filtered through thin curtains, a tall wiry man was sitting naked at the piano, fingering the keys lightly in order not to make a sound. Once in a while he would write something down in the score while humming very quietly. After a short moment he glanced in the direction of the bed; his face showed surprise when he realised his companion was awake.

“Ah, sorry, Naisa, did I wake you up?”

“I woke myself up.” Naisa sat up, wrapping bedsheets tightly over his arms and surveying the other man from behind the curtain of his hair. “Aren’t you cold?”



Hayser lazily glanced around the room full of happy, partying people. His eye fell on a mirror and he grimaced when he saw a dark, tired face. He was only in his thirties, but sometimes he looked over forty – it was mostly the tired look in his puffy eyes, and the dark shadows underneath, that somehow seemed to enhance the small wrinkles. He thought he looked just as out of place as he felt: a tired old man among people having fun.