A Prologue

He entered the pub and found what he was looking for. Noise, the clamor of dozens of drunken people trying to forget their bad day at work or their argument with their spouse. Some guys were at the bar, chests puffed out and backs straight, hoping to order a good cider. They were already anticipating the morning after, when they would boast about it to their friends. A quiet music played from one corner of the pub, its volume excessively high to drown out everything else. There was no place more chaotic in the entire universe. Perfect.

He walked slowly and heavily toward the center of the room, took a chair and settled into it with studied slowness. He didn't seem fatigued or in distress. Every move he made seemed calculated, as if he needed to understand exactly which muscles to use before making the slightest movement. His long, dark hair hung loose and framed a young face with a scruffy, carelessly trimmed beard, judging by the small, still-unhealed cuts under his chin, which seemed to have been cut shortly before. His whole appearance was that of a young man, but his eyes betrayed him. Green as night grass: at first glance, they could appear dark and dull, dark and indefinite, but once your gaze adjusted, you could see their hidden brightness, that green they could have been if you had looked at them at another moment, in another time. They weren't the eyes of someone who had seen a lot. They were the eyes of someone who had seen everything; you could feel it, and you could sense what that meant. They were eyes that drew attention, that made him stand out in a crowd. That evening, it was the bartender who noticed him, and for a single moment, she seemed drawn into that dark and sad abyss. But, like anyone with a functioning brain, she also noticed that these weren't the eyes of someone who wanted to be disturbed, so focused and intent on scanning the tables, an obvious sign of restlessness in the midst of a crowd. Yet, he knew that it was the crowd he was seeking, so even though he wasn't comfortable, he felt like he was in the right place.

Always with his peculiar movements, he opened the bag he had slung over his shoulder and examined its contents. It wasn't in his nature to rummage haphazardly inside something. He identified his target, understood the movement he needed to make to grab it, and instructed his arm to do it. He pulled out a white laptop with care, making sure to cushion the impact when he placed it on the table. The light from the screen suddenly illuminated his face. He glanced around, perhaps fearing that someone might want to see what was in front of him. Then, his gaze focused on the computer, and all his attention was now directed toward that laptop. He inhaled as if he were about to hold his breath for the next few minutes: he sampled all the air entering his lungs, seemed to reflect for a few seconds before deciding it was enough, and exhaled. He closed his eyes.

Meanwhile, the bartender, who had been observing him from a distance while serving beers to her customers, was puzzled. The man smiled, but even this seemed not to be genuine in the least, as if the facial muscles were responding to his will. It was an incredibly joyful and peaceful smile. It conveyed happiness, yes, but what disturbed the woman behind the counter was that he seemed to be aware of it, almost as if it were a move he had tried several times before and was now dusting off after a while. He was the most interesting person she had ever seen in her entire life. Not the most fascinating, certainly not the strangest, but yes, undoubtedly the most interesting. And as all these thoughts crossed the bartender's mind, and probably those of every other person who had casually crossed that gaze that evening, something clicked in him. Every expression vanished from his face. Apparently, he was no longer paying attention to the movements of his muscles, and his face became a blank slate. For a brief moment, the woman had the sensation that the man, motionless and lifeless, was so absorbed in his thoughts that he would forget to breathe. Was his skin becoming too pale, perhaps? For a moment, she had the strange instinct to rush to his aid, not even knowing why or how. But just as she was about to get his attention, something stopped her: the man's hands moved. He began to write.