As he finished the book that had been the longest in his life, Percival wrote the last sentence and with his hand up, he closed his eyes and felt the moment as great as victory itself. He felt victorious. His heart was beating too fast. Because this feeling was stronger than falling in love. This feeling was stronger and more important than love. When he opened his eyes, he looked out the window, at the people passing by and at the sea that glistened far away and then, he looked at his papers. He had finished another of his books. But this book was different from the others. For each page held only one name - Adelard. Yes, he did write a book about him. It was his biography. From his childhood to his betrayal. All these three years he had worked on only one book. Every day of those three years he studied the town, the people and the history. He listened to people talk, he asked them about Adelard. He went to the library and read a lot. But he only had time at night. And so, for all

"Why did you kill Celeste?" "I didn't kill her." "But you had the gun in your hands." "Yes. But I didn't kill her." "Monsieur Jean, do you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?" "I'm sorry, but I have to go. I don't have time to be here with you." "You can't avoid what has happened and continues to happen. If you're playing, that's enough. Don't take up my time." Jean, feeling the pain in his hands, looked at his palms, which were covered in blood. He remembered nothing, he knew nothing. And with each second, it was hard for him to know who he was. With every second, he was losing himself. And as he lost himself, he became smaller. His shoulders slumped and he simply began to sink into the iron chair, which seemed like ice. "Jean, you killed Celeste, and also wounded your friend. Also, you forged his signature on all the documents. You stole everything from him. I knew there

Time passed quickly as Adelard watched his son run through the places where he himself had once run and played as well. He saw himself in him and the happiness was too strong to remember all the pain and anger. No, his heart had always remained pure, without resentment or hatred. And it was his strength that created wings on his back that could never break. A heart without resentment is wings. When evening finally came, Adelard entered the house and stopped in front of a picture of his parents. "Mom, Dad, thank you," he whispered and heard Percival's voice, "How do I look?" He was wearing a new white suit that perfectly described his new start in life. It was perfect to be true. But people brought the truth with them and when everyone he knew was gathered in the house, Adelard walked up to Percival and said to him alone, "White suits you very well." Then, returning his gaze and attention to his guests, who stood with sad faces, Adelard said lou