The beginning of an ordinary, unremarkable day. When the sun began to rise, marking the early morning. The light from the sun fell on a window that stood out among the many other houses in England. It penetrated through the transparent glass into one of the bedrooms. On the bedside table, next to a neatly folded pair of thin-framed glasses and a simple book, lay a phone that came to life, emitting its usual loud melody. It sounded exactly as an alarm clock should sound: loud enough to wake its owner.
Someone stirred under the white blanket. A man's hand reached for the phone, found it blindly, and with one movement habitually turned off the sound, restoring the morning silence to the room. Before getting up, he allowed himself to lie in bed for about 3-5 minutes, as usual, staring at the ceiling, turning his head slightly, as if looking for something. Sighing, he sat on the edge of the bed and felt for his glasses. Putting them on, he blinked several times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the clarity. When the world came into focus, he saw a comfortably furnished room decorated in beige tones. By modern standards, the interior of the room would be considered a little old-fashioned, but the man himself was quite happy with it. He straightened his shoulders and pulled on his dark green slippers.
With the start of a new day, the man performed his morning ritual, which he had been following for years. It began with a light warm-up, which included gentle head turns, shoulder stretches, two awkward bends, and the obligatory crack in his lower back, a kind of signal that the warm-up was over. Then he went to the bathroom. There, he brushed his teeth and took care of his face in absolute silence. He couldn't stand brushing his teeth to music, unlike his daughter, who managed to dance with a toothbrush in her mouth. Youth, what can you say. He could only shake his head. Fortunately, he got up earlier and didn't have to watch the morning dances to the unbearable "boom-boom-boom" in the bathroom, which even made the cup in the kitchen shake. After finishing getting ready and refreshing his face with cool water — not too cold, but invigorating enough to wake him up completely — he glanced in the mirror. Staring back at him was an elderly man with black hair and barely noticeable gray, and the first signs of wrinkles on his face.
"You're getting old, Iniesta," the man muttered listlessly to himself before drying his face with a towel and leaving the bathroom.
He slowly made his way to the kitchen along his usual route, scanning the hallway, his eyes searching for something only he could see, but finding nothing, he simply exhaled calmly.
However, as he passed the bedroom door with a round sign hanging on it with the word "Sophie" written in colorful letters, he stopped.
His daughter came out of her bedroom wearing a T-shirt with a character from an Asian game printed on it — about which Iniesta knew little — and baggy pants with messy hair — or rather a nest on her head — and a face that reflected her longing for bed. Her flip-flops made a characteristic "flip-flop" sound as she slowly made her way down the hallway, her gait more reminiscent of a sluggish zombie than the lively young girl he was used to seeing in the mornings.
"Good morning," she croaked, without even opening her eyes properly, and continued her slow march to the bathroom.
Iniesta followed her with his eyes, sighed heavily, and shook his head. Most likely, she had been on her phone until two in the morning, watching videos or typing messages in messengers. By the way, she had five apps. He couldn't understand how young people could have several messaging apps at once. And even more so, staying up late at night, only to get up in the morning and curse the sun for conscientiously fulfilling its duty: to appear every morning. She could have shown up two hours later.
"And this is called 'youth'..." he muttered under his breath. "Why torture your body like that?"
He shook his head, but a warm smile played at the corners of his eyes — the kind that only appeared when he saw someone close and dear to him. The kind that remained from his former family life, when there were three of them in the kitchen in the morning — and they always woke up on time.
The man turned and walked on to the kitchen, where coffee and toast were waiting for him.
He slowly entered the kitchen and began to prepare breakfast for both of them. His daughter, who had probably woken up earlier than usual, would not even be in the mood to fry herself an egg with her favorite tomatoes. At most, she would take some cereal and pour milk on it. Putting two sliced rolls of bread in the toaster, turning on the stove, and putting the kettle on to boil, he set about performing the miracles of fatherly cooking. He poured a little sunflower oil into the frying pan, swirling it around so that the thin oil covered the entire surface before putting it on the heat. Meanwhile, while the pan was heating up, he took a couple of tomatoes and cut them into small pieces, put them in a saucepan, and quickly closed the lid. Inesto watched through the transparent lid as the oil around the tomatoes began to sizzle softly, splashing on the lid. A few minutes later, when the sizzling stopped, he cracked a couple of eggs and added them on top, sprinkling a little salt and stirring them together. The resulting dish should be medium rare. A happy medium, like loving his daughter.
When the kettle boiled, Iniesta did not make one mug of coffee as usual. Instead, he took out a second one, slightly chipped at the edge, with the inscription "Lo mejor del mundo: papá" — an old gift that he had carefully kept, even though they rarely drank from it. And he brewed another mug of coffee for his daughter. A mug of invigorating coffee would certainly not hurt her.
While the coffee was brewing, the toaster emitted its usual "ding!" — a signal that two golden brown slices were ready. He deftly removed them without burning himself and placed them on his plate. Then he put them on the table next to his mug of coffee. When everything was ready, he took a step back and looked at it all, like a conductor assessing the instruments before a concert: Toast? Check. Eggs? In place, with tomatoes — just how she likes them. Coffee? Can't do without it. Daughter? He heard the girl's shuffling footsteps approaching. Then, as if waiting for something, he began to examine the kitchen itself, listening to the sounds around him.
Nodding with satisfaction, the man began to eat breakfast. He carefully spread butter on the toast and began to eat, washing it down with coffee. A few moments later, the girl appeared, looking a little livelier. She sat down at the table and looked at the mug, seeing coffee instead of her usual black tea. She glanced at her father.
"It won't hurt you," he replied to her silent question.
"Thank you."
He saw her start to add sugar. She had always had a sweet tooth and didn't like bitter coffee. She took a sip, grimaced, and added more sugar. Inesto just shook his head.
"Listen, Sophie. If you had gone to bed earlier, I wouldn't have made you coffee," he gently reproached her.
The girl just mumbled something indistinct, which was her usual way of reluctantly admitting that someone was right. She took another tentative sip, tasted it, and nodded approvingly. Apparently, the balance between sweet and bitter had finally been achieved.
"Now you can drink it," she said quietly. Then she took her phone out of her pocket, placed it in front of her, tapped it several times, and turned on a video on an app called YouTube.
Iniesta just shook his head.
"What is it this time?" he asked, more out of politeness than genuine interest.
"They're reviewing a horror game," Sophie yawned. "A new video came out yesterday, and I didn't have time to watch it. Now I'm catching up," she said, without taking her eyes off the screen of her smartphone.
The man shook his head again.
"I hope you don't take that habit with you. You'll have enough sleepless nights at university as it is."
Sophie grimaced, took another sip of coffee, and placed the mug on the table with a soft thud.
"Please don't remind me, Dad..." she muttered lazily. Now she was eating with much less appetite.
It wasn't going to be easy for her, they both knew that. Studying was one of Sophie's least favorite activities. But even so, she managed to graduate from high school with honors, which allowed her to get into college. A pretty prestigious one, at that. Inesto was proud of his daughter, but he couldn't help feeling that nagging sense of separation. Soon she would be leaving — to another city, far from home. He looked at her, now almost an adult, and suddenly caught himself thinking — how did his parents feel when he left in the same way, full of naive enthusiasm, self-confidence, and a strange feeling of freedom that made his head spin? He suddenly became curious to know if his parents had felt the same way. He remembered that day well:
a heavy suitcase, new shoes given to him by his parents, and a rare but still working mechanical watch. His father tried awkwardly to joke to lighten the sad atmosphere. And his mother hugged him more than necessary.
"Don't forget to eat properly. Don't forget about hygiene. And write to us, okay?" said his mother, looking at him with a sad smile.
"If you have money problems, you can always sell the watch for a lot of money," said his father.
He didn't understand them then. It seemed to him that they were exaggerating. What's the big deal? He's not going to the end of the world.
On the contrary, it was only for a few years of study, with the possibility of coming home in the summer. But they looked at him as if they were saying goodbye forever. Now, looking at Sophie, he truly understood for the first time how they had felt.
And as if gathering his thoughts, he asked:
"When are you leaving?"
"The day after tomorrow, in the morning," she said sadly.
"I have tomorrow off," he said a little more cheerfully, trying to sound warm. "So we can spend the day together. As a farewell, so to speak."
He leaned forward and said to her with a half-smile.
"Let's order pizza and watch your, um... what was it called?" He squinted, trying to remember the strange, flowery, unique name of the Asian cartoon.
"Anime, Dad," she reminded him with a smile.
"Right! Anime!" He snapped his fingers. "We'll watch what you like, have a marathon."
Sophie hesitated a little at his words.
"Um... Dad, I'm grateful, of course, but I don't think 'High School of the Dead', 'High School of the Dead', or, say, 'Crazy Azar' would be suitable for you," she said awkwardly.
Iniesta folded his arms seriously in front of him.
"I'm ready for specific humor and an unconventional approach to the plot. You can consider me emotionally prepared for what will be happening on the screen. And considering the titles, I think the options you suggested could be quite interesting."
Sophie bit her lip, as if struggling between laughter and awkwardness.
"Believe me, Dad, what you're going to see will be way more... abnormal than you expect," she said with a smile. "I think I could find some anime just for you. I already have a few in mind that you might like."
Iñesto had no choice but to nod.
"I'll trust your choice."
When breakfast was over, Sophie finished her coffee, stood up, and stretched her whole body, exhaling quietly with a satisfied "mmm." For a second, Inesto saw before him not a young woman, but the little girl who, every morning after a good breakfast, would copy her mother, stretching with a smile in exactly the same way. It had become a habit of hers since the days when her mother was still with them. Iniesta looked at her with warmth and a slight sadness, not breaking the silence. Without saying a word, she put her dirty dishes in the sink, washed them, and put them in the rack. Then she left the hallway and headed to her room to finish packing her suitcase. Now he was alone.
He was supposed to finish breakfast in complete silence, but... suddenly he heard a notification sound like a phone, sounding so clear and so close as if he were wearing headphones. But Iniesta did not look back, did not check his phone for notifications, only sighing quietly as if he knew what he would see. And indeed, an almost translucent panel, the color of the blue sky, appeared before his eyes. It was like a hologram from a science fiction movie. It flickered in front of his face, hanging in the air. And inside it was written:
[Waiting for streamer user. To activate, say "Accept."]
Iniesta sighed quietly.
"And I was hoping I was rid of you." Finishing his coffee gloomily, he got up and put his dishes in the sink. Then he opened the top cabinet and took out a package of pills. Taking out the plastic, half-empty capsule, he pressed one and took out a pill. He glanced at it briefly before throwing it into his mouth and washing it down with water.
Taking a sip, the man looked at the hallucination again and, as before, decided to ignore it, distracting himself with his daily routine. He immediately began washing the dishes, moving automatically, allowing his thoughts to sift through the events in his memory, replaying in his head the moment when it first appeared before him.
That day was nothing special. Just a simple evening of rest after a tiring day at work. He came home from work as usual. He changed into comfortable clothes. As usual, he poured himself a cup of relaxing tea, turned on his phone for another movie session, and it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary was going to happen. But suddenly he heard a sound suspiciously similar to a notification, but definitely not from his phone, and immediately this affliction appeared before him. He almost fell off his chair in surprise, but managed to hold on. At first, he thought that what was happening was a banal dream, that maybe he had fallen asleep at the table, but this thought was refuted. He himself realized that what was happening was real, too real to be a dream. Then he thought that he was imagining it, that maybe his nerves had suddenly given way. He warned his daughter by sending her a message. He immediately went to see the doctors. They listened to him politely and explained the cause of his illness.
"Most likely," said one of them, leafing through his medical history, "it's caused by overwork. It happens at your age." Stress, insomnia, even light from screens can trigger visual hallucinations. It's not dangerous. But still..." Then they prescribed him pills — mild tranquilizers and light antipsychotics — and he even bought some sedatives himself, just in case. Hell knows what could happen to him.
When he returned home, his daughter bombarded him with questions as soon as she met him at the door. He felt something tighten inside him. Seeing how much he had made her worry about him. She was about to leave anyway, and was probably already worried. And he... with his illness, only made it worse.
Since then, he tried to stick to his medication schedule and put as little strain on himself as possible. Sometimes he thought the hallucination had gone away, but then it would reappear, destroying his hopes. It made him less and less confident that he would ever be cured. And so two weeks passed, and Iniesta no longer hoped that "it" would go away. The hallucination — or whatever it was — had become almost familiar. He still tried not to interact with it, and even avoided looking at it unnecessarily. It had become a kind of routine. When it didn't appear, he asked himself, "Well? Where is it?" He waited expectantly for it to appear, his eyes darting back and forth, only to be disappointed again when it did appear. And so it went, round and round.
He didn't want to admit it to himself, but gradually he got used to it. Like getting used to an unbearable neighbor. At least this floating square did not cause any inconvenience, it just appeared out of nowhere and floated somewhere nearby, not forcing him to do strange things, not trying to contact him, and even more so, not tormenting his mind, not causing a bout of schizophrenia. He was even grateful for that to some extent. He had read various articles related to hallucinations, and what he had read made him feel anxious. So compared to the stories he had encountered in medical journals and forums, his case was almost ideal.
He wiped his hands on a towel and put the last plate in the dishwasher. His gaze slid to the side — and, of course, the square was still there. It hovered quietly to the side, as if waiting.
Iniesto snorted and shook his head:
"Well, stand there if you must."
He turned and headed for his bedroom.
In the past, he would have considered himself crazy...
Entering the room, Inesto opened the closet, carefully took out an ironed shirt and a gray vest. Following them were dark trousers and an old but beloved jacket. The hat was already lying on the dresser, waiting for its moment. Getting dressed didn't take long. First, the shirt — slowly, methodically buttoning it from top to bottom. Then the vest. He adjusted the collar and smoothed the fabric. Then the trousers, belt, and jacket. Everything fit perfectly, as it should for a man accustomed to order. He was one of those who believed that your appearance should first and foremost appeal to you.
Finally, he took his hat and put it on his head. The mirror reflected the stern silhouette of a grown man, no longer young, but still fit, with a proud posture. He froze for a second, staring at his reflection.
"Well, Iniesta. Forward, to the postal front," he muttered under his breath and smiled wearily.
Before leaving, he glanced into the hallway once more to check: keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Handkerchiefs? Three, as always: one for his nose, one for his face, and finally, a third one in case someone else needed it. This little set had already become a joke in the family.
Finally, he put on his shoes, threw on a light coat, and left the house, carefully closing the door behind him. Outside, he was greeted by fresh morning air and a light fog creeping across the asphalt.
The workday was beginning.
And somewhere nearby, as always, a blue rectangular screen floated, hanging to the side like an invisible companion.
Iniesta wasn't even surprised.
"It's like walking a dog," he muttered without turning around.
And he walked to the bus stop.