Every morning for Viktor was like the one before. After a quick breakfast, he called his publisher and listened to excessively enthusiastic news about how well his books were selling, statistics on paid downloads of electronic versions, and dubious speculation about readers' renewed interest in printed words. Then the writer lay around on the couch for a while, flipping through channels aimlessly with the remote control. He approached the bookshelves filled with classics, spent a long time examining the spines, but still couldn't decide what he might reread. Throughout the day, he didn't even touch his laptop, where the plot of "his" new story was probably already developing rapidly. In the end, Viktor came up with nothing better than to get dressed and take another walk through the forest toward the riverbank.
The day turned out unusually warm for autumn. The sun was noticeably warming. The river sparkled brightly, beckoning as if inviting him to dive into its depths. Carefully approaching the bank, trying not to slip down the muddy slope, the writer dipped his hand into the water. It was icy, clear, and completely empty. In summer, life teemed here: small fish darted inside, plump frogs splashed from the bank into the reeds, dragonflies flew above the water, but now not a single water strider could be seen. Life was falling asleep, sensing the approach of cold weather.
Viktor walked over to the bench where he had sat yesterday and only now noticed how thickly the entire area around it was covered with a carpet of yellow fallen leaves. He took a few steps across this fluffy, rustling blanket and suddenly, obeying some childish impulse, lay down on it, spreading his arms wide, and closed his eyes. Fragmentary memories of childhood, of summer days spent by this river, flashed through his mind, and suddenly an image of the girl from yesterday with the camera appeared.
"Are you feeling unwell?" a pleasant female voice suddenly sounded from above.
The writer opened his eyes and saw the very girl he had been thinking about just moments ago. She looked exactly as she had yesterday: fiery red hair, slightly disheveled, wearing an absurd orange scarf. Her face was slightly agitated, and her greenish eyes stared directly at Viktor.
"No, I'm fine," replied the writer, and noticing the camera around the girl's neck, added, "but please don't take pictures."
"Why did you assume I would photograph you?"
"Well, you seem to be a photographer."
"Yes... But I don't photograph people."
"Why not?"
"Well... It doesn't matter," the girl hesitated slightly, then suddenly asked, "May I sit next to you?"
"Please... If you think it's appropriate," answered the writer and even shifted slightly closer.
"Well, you do think so," Natalia lay down in the leaves just twenty centimeters away from Viktor. "Hmm... This really is an interesting angle."
"I see that you're hard to put in an awkward position..." remarked the writer, watching as the girl photographed upward from below the orange treetops framing a small patch of blue sky.
"Yes, I'm quite comfortable," she replied without looking away from the process. "Considering that for the past couple of days I've been sleeping in pretty much the same conditions."
"You don't have a home?"
"No, I do have a home. It just doesn't have heating..." The girl tilted her head to the side and looked at Viktor. "By the way, are you by any chance an engineer?"
"No, I'm a writer," he replied, still gazing upward at the treetops.
"Oh... I recognized you... You're the writer... The very one..."
"Yes, I'm that very writer."
"That's a pity..."
"It's unusual to hear that," Viktor finally looked at the girl. "Usually readers immediately want an autograph or a selfie."
"Well, I'm not a reader. I don't read you."
"That's disappointing."
"Don't worry, lately I haven't been reading anyone—not just you, but other writers either."
"That's somewhat comforting. So, what's wrong with your heating?"
"Something's wrong with the boiler... But do you, as a writer, understand anything about that?"
"Not much. But enough to keep the heating working in my house," Viktor turned away again.
"I think that's enough. Don't you want to help me?"
"Are you sure you shouldn't look for a real professional?"
"Au-uu-u! Professional!" the girl cried out mockingly loudly, then turned back to Viktor. "It seems there aren't any nearby. I'll have to resort to your unskilled help after all."
"All right," replied the writer, getting up from the ground and brushing off the leaves. "But you might regret this..."
"I don't doubt it for a second. Let's go!"
The two walked along the path through the autumn forest and soon disappeared behind the trees.