When the evening came, he began to feel the desolation of the night. Despite the loneliness, the prolonged time, and the waiting for the next day, Miss Amal seemed to him an indisputable reality, like an unwanted fetal movement. At this moment, the clock was striking nine in one of the corners of the house, and that familiar ringtone reminded him of the crises of early youth, as if she had once again told him, with the movement of a pendulum, the memory of emotional lapses. He felt that he was living in the past, but with a twinge of sadness. He imagined that he was below the level of the conflict that appeared on this night like a mountain blocking the horizon.
The clock was sending its last tick. Hardly had the silence settled when he heard the screams of his little child. He thought he was sharp. It's a different type than the one he hears from him every night. His mother's voice would call him a little or distract him and then leave him in despair. The master returns to his thoughts, but soon the child returns to his screaming.