It's Wednesday, three in the afternoon, and she's already had a conference, four meetings, and only the calendar itself knows how many short phone calls. ‘’I'm also wearing heels, stupid!‘’ she scolds herself in her mind. The girl runs away from the crowd for a minute and hides in a wall niche.

 ‘That's it, emergency service, key seven.’

 — Grandma, I'm going to your garden.

— I'm always waiting for you, you know that.

Not today, but the date is set. In this garden, in a bouquet of tea pink roses, and violets that her grandmother puts out in pots, Kira has spent all the neurotic days of the last three years.

It is the garden of her childhood, just like in her childhood photo. Here she is sitting in a cotton dress, her hands the size of those roses, the paint on the bench barely faded, and the skin on her knees as well.

And now. A business suit! Heels! Hair combed in the French manner. The bench is already white, grandma is painting it.

— You know, grandma, this is the most tender place in the world.

— I know, my dear. So tender are you.