Already I had suspected the worst. I hadn't seen him for days. His room was strangely silent. The thundering techno-dance-beat music that otherwise shook the villa guesthouse during the day had ceased. Late at night, after three or four in the morning, i would creep down into the kitchen in hopes of finding him and a bottle of vodka waiting for me, but the kitchen was empty. Did he return to Warsaw? Or... worse? I lay in bed nights wondering if I should venture into his room and look for clues to the silence, but whenever I reached the door, a strange superstition, a fear of what I might find behind it, drove me away.
Then, today, thirsty for the comfort of a beer, I entered the dark, silent kitchen, reached into the fridge and found... this.
Oh Mirek, I forgive you! You're alive! Alive! That's all that matters!
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