Stay With Me at Least Like That.

Marcus slammed the door of the study and sat down at his desk, his fingers were tapping rhythmically on the surface of the desk, his gaze was directed out the window, his thoughts were in parallel space.

Over the past week, the man thought he would go crazy with the uncertainties and doubts that arose in his head.

An unexpected appearance of Nick, whom the man knew nothing about, on the whole left the main events in the same perspective as he had planned, but small details were knocked out of the picture, like white strokes on a dark canvas.

From a distance it would be imperceptible, but if you look closely, these white spots would have drawn all the attention at them.

Marcus got up from the table and went to the shelf with documents, the touch screen flashed on the protective glass, the man touched the panel with his hand, the glass clicked and opened. He pushed several folders away, entered the code on the next panel, and after a short pause, part of the wall moved, opening the passage to the secret vault.

With each man's step down the stairs, rows of lamps automatically lit up, illuminating the space with bright light. Multiple shelves with documents occupied almost the entire area of a large room.

Marcus walked over to one of the shelves and picked up a thin folder dated a week earlier. Quickly reading through its contents and putting it in its place, he repeated the same action with several other folders on this shelf.

"Damn, nothing." In all Amelia's diaries, various variants of events were described, but in none of these variants was there a mention of Nick. What kind of person was he? Either Amelia did not see the guy in her visions, which was hardly possible, given her abilities. Or... she deliberately hid this information from him.

"God, what do you want from me, silly woman?!" Marcus threw the last of the diaries to the floor and ran his hands through his hair. What he did not like was mysteries.

If he did not know about something in advance, this made the man insecure. Too much was at stake, and ignorance of even a small element could be fatal. All his plans, everything that he had been preparing for decades, could collapse like a house of cards from a light blow of the wind.

Marcus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Everything is under control and is going according to plan.

The man went to the very end of the room and stopped in front of another door. On the combination lock, he entered the number 280498, and after confirming the password he went inside.

A high ceiling, pastel-colored walls and warm yellow light filled the room with home comfort, a faint smell of paint could be felt in the air.

There was a white table against the far wall, a white vase stood on it, in which white calla lilies were arranged in a beautiful bouquet. There was a lot of white in this room. Perhaps it was the only room in this building in which warmth and light were felt.

Marcus ran his fingertips across the delicate flower petals. The edges of the buds were already a little wilted, they had been in the vase for more than a week, he did not go here all this time and did not change the water. The man stroked the flowers, mentally apologizing for his carelessness.

From a desk drawer he took out a small cardboard box and opened it, inside there were some photos of different sizes and formats. Marcus began to sort through them, carefully looking at each.

He saw any of them more than one hundred times, but each time he told himself that this was the first time.

His eyes settled on a small picture, the size of a palm, the man smiled and a small chuckle flew off his lips, "God, you got a silly face here," he commented on a photograph of a young girl stuffing herself with an ice cream.

Marcus put this picture aside, and put the others back on the table, and then sat on a chair in the center of the room. In front of him was an easel with a clean canvas, several palettes and a glass with brushes of different sizes.

The man attached a photograph to the lower edge of the canvas, picked up a brush, dipped it in paint and touched it with a white canvas.

A few hours later, Marcus put the brush in its place and looked at his work with a smile. The picture he painted from the photograph turned out to be much more beautiful than its original source. Any stranger would freeze in admiration, the girl in the picture looked so realistic.

Anyone but not Marcus.

A smile faded from his face as the man's fingers touched his still wet paint. The surface of the canvas was cold. No matter how lively the girl seemed, with a touch it became clear that this was an illusion. Her ruddy skin and clear eyes were just soulless strokes of paint on the canvas, devoid of the heat of the human body.

All this was only self-deception.

But at the moment, even that was enough for Marcus.

The man got up from his chair and lay on the sofa, his gaze focused on the picture. The girl from the canvas was looking at him as if alive. Her eyes were narrowed from the bright sun, her hair was disheveled, a straw hat was on her head, and in her hand, she was holding a large cone with several balls of ice cream.

So beautiful.

"Stay with me a little bit. At least like that," the man whispered, knowing that he would not receive an answer to his request, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

. . .