For a long time now, I have felt the weight of the years. That is why, when I begin to sip from my cup of hot coffee, I carefully arrange within the focus of my memory those moments from my career as a journalist that refuse to fade. They are gradually dwindling, but today I uncovered an interesting case and decided to revisit it. I have forgotten the exact year, but I immediately remembered the face of that cunning old man, whose story back then made me feel the sharpest pain a person can endure while listening to another recount their memories.It was very early in the morning on a weekend. My phone began to ring and only stopped when my irritable nervous system prompted my hand to pick it up. Perhaps the gruff voice on my end of the line forced the other person to put the receiver back on the cradle. I waited a moment and hung up. Even though I was no longer in my early youth, I never missed outings or gatherings. That day, I had decided to lounge in bed until noon. I had forgotten about the early wake-up call when the phone rang again. This time, I calmly asked who it was. I expected an insolent person, but to my surprise, a barely audible, elderly voice asked me to come to an address he dictated immediately. He promised to tell me an interesting story that would fill my free day. He was right. It was precisely the lack of commitments that made me continue the conversation and agree. I got up, took a taxi, and very soon found myself at the given address.Even from the threshold of the apartment, there was an unpleasant odor and a palpable lack of a woman’s touch. I took a deep breath of the fresher air from the hallway and knocked. A quiet voice from inside told me to enter, as the door was unlocked. I don’t remember the details, but I will never forget that face. Only by his open eyes could one tell he was alive. The years had hollowed out all the musculature in his face, and facing me were two eyes filled with deep sadness. When they saw me, they seemingly brightened, but the depth of their sorrow remained."Come, sit beside me. I know you. I know you are a journalist. That is why I decided to tell my story to you."I was surprised that he had consciously sought out a journalist. I remember saying to myself: "It would have been better to call a priest." But now it is clear to me. I understand why he called me. I sat next to him despite the terrible smell. The fresh air I had inhaled was gone, and I took very small breaths so as not to damage my lungs from the strong presence of unknown gases. Nevertheless, I showed the necessary respect to the stranger and even allowed him to take my hand. He held it throughout the entire story. I still remember it from the beginning to the very end…He started from the time when, as a student in France, he lived in a rented apartment with another man to share the rent. He described the years they spent together as "stifling" for him. When you live with a "handsome stallion" while you are a "clumsy donkey"—or so you believe—your days turn into a continuous nightmare. Even rest was impossible for him. Very often, he had to leave, walking aimlessly to provide space for the latest pair of lovers. The "stallion’s" escapades were daily. Besides having to conform to a forced schedule, he also endured insults. They caused him pain until one day he decided to move out. From then on, he was free to think of himself as a man and a human being. With his appearance, he had never managed to attract young girls and had developed an inferiority complex. Despite this, he cherished his new freedom.His life would have unfolded differently if he hadn't run into the "stallion" one afternoon. He wanted to walk past him, but the man grabbed his arm and turned him around. His rudeness and insolence were the same as ever. The old man—then a young man filled with a desire for change—wanted to distance himself from the environment that was suffocating him. But he failed. The command was: "We’re going to a party tonight. I’ll pick you up at 8 PM. I won’t take no for an answer."The party began. When they entered the room, the cigarette smoke was so thick that it took a long time to adjust. Right at the start, they introduced him to a young lady and told him to entertain her. He liked the girl. She was cute, with a simple, pleasant appearance. A conversation started. He relaxed and tried to flirt. She did too. The evening passed pleasantly. More alcohol, a few opiates, and the party ended when the police arrived. From that night on, they began to meet, and a friendship blossomed between them. The old man longed for intimacy. He sensed tension and a desire for closeness in her as well. Perhaps they would have continued, if one evening the "stallion" hadn't run into them to announce he had dumped his previous girl. Most unceremoniously, he kissed the narrator’s girlfriend and took her to the cinema."That was when I hated him," the old man said, lightly squeezing my hand. He fell silent for a moment, closed his eyes, and then continued. "Before he left, he promised to find me another one. And so he did. He took me to another party and introduced me to the friend of his new love. This time, I was determined not to miss my chance. The revelry lasted until midnight. I was very drunk and highly aroused. Along with the others, we went out into the rain. I gripped my girl’s hand tightly. Just as I am holding yours now. We were in a hurry to share our excitement! The rain continued to fall, and we had to dash from place to place along the dark sidewalk. The 'stallion' was walking ahead of us with his girl. Suddenly, two men stepped out against them, and a fight broke out, escalating into a brawl. I rushed forward to help. The two were fighting; I didn't dare intervene. But when they lunged at him again and pulled out a knife, I moved from the right… to help… The attacker stabbed him… and he fell. He was dead."Until that moment, I had been listening to the story, systematizing the facts in my mind so that, as all professionals do, I could analyze them afterward. Но a connection formed, and I nearly screamed. While the old man was recovering from the strain, this case had already surfaced in my memory. Here is what I recalled: after graduating, I had been assigned to work in an investigative unit. All young recruits are given a few cases to review and learn from. The one given to me was a murder that had happened in France many years ago. There were three men at the crime scene: the killer, the victim, and the victim's friend. I clearly remembered what was written: the moment the young man was allegedly stabbed. It said: "The killer attacked from the right, and the friend rushed to help from the left (according to his testimony). Two knife wounds were inflicted. The fatal one was to the heart. Both were from the attacker. The other man did not have a knife (according to his testimony and that of the girls). The victim died instantly."The thoughts flashed through my head so suddenly and connected with what the narrator had said with such logical finality that the pain appeared—the pain I will never forget. Despite the intense tension and numbness, I managed to grit my teeth. The expression in my wide-open eyes showed that I had guessed the truth. When the old man opened his, he saw my horrified gaze. He was expecting it. He cast his eyes down and closed them forever. With his last strength, he squeezed my hand. I let go instinctively. But that disrespect no longer mattered… because I was certain that the man standing before me was the killer from that night! I said nothing. I placed his two hands in front of him, as is done when a righteous man’s days come to an end, and closed his eyes. It was only right. I knew that from this moment on, he had another Judge!I was unable to think for the rest of the day. My head was splitting from a terrible pain that nothing could soothe. For a long time, I didn't want to reflect on what had happened. Or rather, I couldn't. Little by little, I restored my composure and decided to decipher it. I imagined the scene, simultaneously merging the two versions in my mind—the one from the case file and the one I had just heard. Darkness, rain falling, the two couples running and laughing along the sidewalk. Suddenly, the front couple is attacked by two men. One leads the girl to a car. The other attacks the "stallion." They fight. At that moment, the victim's friend arrives without intervening. The attacker is pushed back but then attacks again, now with a knife. Only then does the friend rush to help from the right. That is what the old man said before his death. He spoke the truth. Because he had decided to confess. To me—someone familiar with the case.The rest in the file was false. The attacker had inflicted only one wound, and that was in the right shoulder. The friend had a knife and drove it into the heart. Who helped with the lie back then? The darkness and the old man? A second strike requires time and memory, and those were missing. But there was something else that made the investigator close the page. Perhaps he, too, was one of those former "clumsy donkeys"?I also closed the case. Back then, I was too young and in love to notice the lack of justice. But now, as I return to my strange visit, I realize that someone else sat in prison for a long time because of the real killer. The old man called me instead of a priest because he wanted to hide the truth from the world until the very end, while simultaneously making a silent confession to that very same world!There was a little bit of strong coffee left in my cup, and even though it was cold, I drank it.

             THE END