I found it with ease. All it took was to turn my back to the forest, standing on a meadow that slid gently down the hillside and disappeared, almost imperceptibly, into the river. The spot I chose was lush with thick, vibrant grass. Carefully, I parted the swollen blades with the tip of my shoe, then planted myself firmly, spreading my feet slightly for balance, pressing the soles deep into the soft soil.

It was still early. The sun peeked out from behind the trees, and I felt its warm touch between my shoulder blades. Layers of mist hung in the air—transparent enough not to disturb the delicate structure of the space, yet distinct enough to give it the texture of a damp watercolor. I noticed droplets of water clinging to the neatly pressed fabric of my trousers. I brushed them off absentmindedly and wiped my face with wet fingers. The briefcase weighed heavily in my other hand, so I swung it and flung it over my left shoulder with a flourish. After a short flight, it landed in the nearby undergrowth with a sharp rustle, and moments later, everything fell silent again. I straightened my tie, drew a deep breath through my open mouth, and raised my head.

The view stretched lazily before me.

I gazed without moving my eyes, absorbing the scene that lay steadfast at the foot of the hill. The longer I looked, the more intently my eyes dug into it, until the contours blurred and the shapes dissolved.

It quickly became aware of me. At first, it seemed entirely indifferent to my presence, but soon it stopped waiting—moving toward me, reaching closer and with growing certainty, until it began to flow straight at me. I wavered slightly when it finally passed through my body, and, encountering no further obstacle in its path, continued on toward the dense wall of forest, where it melted into the thick line of trees.

I stood still, allowing it to flow freely. The flaps of my coat rippled and gathered, and I couldn’t tell whether the wind from the river was lifting them or if it was the sight intensifying. Time passed, and though I was aware of its passing, I felt no trace of fatigue. The sun touched the back of my head, and yet I still felt no stiffness in my tense muscles nor numbness in my legs. On the contrary, I was feeling better and better. When the last remnants of mist gathered, briefly obscuring the view, I looked down at the ground, which now brought me great satisfaction as it supported me. My shoes sank into the earth halfway to their height, and I felt a pleasant coolness on my ankles. Carefully, I balanced my body and lifted my right foot to peek under the sole. From its leather surface, tiny, translucent roots were pushing through. Twisting threads, though still trembling from piercing the thick sole, were already firming up, anticipating the secure embrace of the earth. Quickly, I placed my foot back, trying to land exactly in the same spot from which I had just lifted it. The delicate tendrils had surely found their place within the hill’s interior, and through my curiosity, they would have to toil again. I promised myself I would not, under any circumstances, peek under the sole of my other shoe.

The view once again captured my attention. It absorbed me completely, but I was also aware of other events—I could smell the meadow, the scents of herbs and flowers stirred by the sun, I heard the rustling of the grass, the buzzing of insects, and from above, from beneath the brim of my hat, came the faint ringing of a lark. As I listened more closely, I also recognized the calls of other birds. I spread my arms wide, in case they wanted to perch, tired from their flight.

"Nice view, isn't it?"

A man was standing right next to me. I didn't turn my head, but I saw him clearly out of the corner of my eye. He was about my age, of similar height, and like me, dressed in a long, light coat. If he had been wearing a cap instead of a hat, we would have been almost a perfect reflection of each other.

I slowly lowered my arms and slipped them into my pockets. Just a moment ago, I hadn’t even remembered I had hands, let alone that I had pockets. I glanced reluctantly at the stranger. The man was staring straight ahead, through his slightly half-closed eyelids. He must have come from the other side of the hill, from the direction of the town, but it still struck me as strange that I hadn't noticed or heard him. Apparently, he had approached in such a way as to avoid drawing my attention.

"Yes, quite pleasant," I finally replied, making a conscious effort to ensure my tone clearly conveyed that I wanted to be alone and had no interest in idle chatter. I even considered excusing myself by claiming a lack of time, slipping away on urgent business behind the forest, then returning unnoticed. But then I thought of the delicate roots. Perhaps the cool tone of my voice and the distinct reticence I had already prepared within myself would be enough to rid me of this unwelcome company.

The stranger, however, still stood silently, showing no signs of leaving. Anticipating further questions, I mentally selected a few options for curt replies and gruff mutterings, but as the man remained in polite silence, I began to feel growing embarrassment. Should I let him stand there beside me, or simply rid myself of his uncomfortable presence without hesitation? "Get out of here, you beast," for example? Or perhaps, "Please leave me alone, I am suffering right now"? And what if he, too, is a lover of the view? Maybe he had just learned of its existence and came from afar to indulge in it? Perhaps he's my kindred spirit, blood of my blood, coat of my coat... He’ll stand for a moment, gaze for a while, and then leave. But what if he doesn’t? What if he, too, begins to feel at ease, if he finds the solid ground beneath his feet and the soothing view calming? Perhaps it would be better to continue the conversation, so I could bring it to an end more quickly and force the intruder to leave.

"You can look and look, endlessly," I said, a bit more gently, glancing at my watch. "Before you know it, time passes. The shadows in the town are probably getting longer."

"Exactly," he said, also glancing at his watch. "You stand here, looking, and before you know it, night is probably not far off, just behind the forest."

"I appreciate your efforts, but really, you don't need to entertain me with conversation, and you may even leave, right this moment, without so much as a farewell. I assure you, I won't hold it against you. It would be wise to hurry, as the sun is setting more quickly. The hill is uneven, and it's easy to trip over a stone or a molehill in the deepening twilight."

I looked ahead again, feigning indifference, but I was waiting to see what he would do. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he was constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He kept lifting first his right, then his left shoe just above the ground, moving his foot. He tried very hard to hide it, but his swaying shoulders gave him away. He swallowed – too quickly, as if it were more than just a simple gulp.

"I live nearby and know the area like the back of my hand, so I'll manage just fine. But you're not from around here. I know that for sure." He looked at me, briefly focusing on my shoes. "You could trip in the dark, hurt yourself, or, God forbid, break a leg. Please, come with me. I'll help you find a room – comfortable and affordable, with breakfast included in the rent. Of course, I'll do it entirely selflessly. Just for the pleasure of seeing your satisfaction."

He fell silent, looking at me expectantly.

"– I can't allow anything bad to happen to you here," he added slowly. "As you rightly pointed out, the meadow is uneven, and it's easy to trip, and no one would hear your calls for help from behind that hill... I wouldn't want anyone to think badly of our town. Besides..."

He paused, leaning closer. I felt him brush against the hem of my coat.

"I heard there's a rabid dog on the outskirts," he lowered his voice, and for added effect, he briefly turned his head, glancing furtively over his shoulder. "It's very fast and strong. Completely invisible in the dark."

"Who did you hear that from?" I asked calmly, giving a pointed look at his feet, which he was moving nervously. He seemed flustered.

"From people," he answered quickly. "People were talking. Apparently, last night, it bit the pharmacist. It attacked his throat and bit through his windpipe."

The man rubbed his face with his hand, watching my face. I heard the crunch of his stubble under his long fingers.

Oto tłumaczenie: "The pharmacist liked to stroll by the river in the evenings. Oh, over there, around the bend," he extended his hand toward the flowing view. It seemed to me that the image shuddered and swayed, like the surface of gently flowing water, touched by an careless dragonfly. "I often saw him walking along the shore. He would repeat aloud the most beautiful exceptions from the pharmacopoeia. 'Take two ounces of bezoar, the stone from the entrails of an Afghan goat, grind it into powder, and place it in a graphite retort...' When they found him this morning, he was lying with his head in the water, merging with the river."

"That's quite understandable," I interrupted him. "After all, even a human, a noble and rational being by nature, can go mad and not only without reason leap at someone's throat, but wipe out an entire town when the mood strikes. So what's so surprising about an ordinary dog?"

He looked at me, and I curled my lip in a smile, exposing my teeth. He slowly stepped back, as if unwillingly.

(…)