The story began on a damp, rain-soaked night.

He stood by the window; nothing could be seen outside. The glass reflected mostly his own image, and a vague unrest breathing somewhere behind him.

 

For the last time, he looked at the photograph in his hand.

A half-alive smile. A cold, trembling light. A hidden anxiety — and a shadow that did not belong there.

He drew deeply on the cigarette at the corner of his lips. Smoke rose, yet the burning in his eyes did not fade; some tears have nothing to do with smoke.

Slowly, he walked toward the candleholder and carefully surrendered the edge of the photograph to the flame, making sure the fire would burn only the picture and its memories, not him. The flame was small, but he knew well how small things could reduce entire worlds to ash.

 

He watched it burn for a while. No haste. No hesitation.

His gaze wandered across the room as he took a deep breath.

 

He was tired of this place.

Of the endless grumbling of the fat kettle that had done nothing but sit on the fire.

Of the refrigerator’s murmur — a lawless club hiding the last pleasures before consumption, wearing a false innocence whenever its light came on.

Of the green, sprouting potatoes driven nearly mad, shouting at dull knives.

Of the rotten leftovers — like the cheese that was never chosen, its smell still wandering through the air.

And of the newly arrived, celebrated knives that made everything destined to be eaten tremble.

 

Suddenly, the refrigerator light flicked on.

He looked away.

 

His hand moved instinctively to his pocket — where the photograph no longer existed.

 

He inhaled deeply. This was no longer just a kitchen. Something in the air had decayed — something beyond food.

 

He extinguished the cigarette.

 

He was not a young scallion anymore: tall and green, with eyes permanently moist — no one knew whether by nature or by memory. The sharpness of his being hid quietly behind smoke, as if he wished to be felt less himself.

 

A faint metallic sound echoed from afar — something dragging across a cold surface.

 

A pale smile appeared.

He had found the answer — and that was the most dangerous part.

 

He was no longer looking for justice here.

 

The scent of wet soil slipped in from beneath the door, a smell long absent from this kitchen.

 

He picked up his coat.

For the last time, he did not look back.

 

In a rough voice, like a late-night podcast, he murmured:

 

“Some truths cannot survive beneath the light of a kitchen lamp.

They need soil.”

 

He stepped toward the door.

 

Perhaps, from now on, he should be called Detective Scallion.