He was gently putting a wig on me — long, old-fashioned, faded by time. On my chest he laid a strange, yellowed dress. It looked at least forty years old. With trembling hands he smoothed the folds, as if dressing a doll.

— What are you doing?! My God, you’re insane! — I screamed, trying to get up. — Take that off me right now!

He jerked back, shaking his head in fear, and stammered:

— No! I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… I didn’t want to frighten you! You… you look so much like Marta… my wife… She died twenty years ago. I… I miss her so much… Sometimes I think that if I wait long enough, if I arrange her dress properly, if I watch you breathe… she’ll come back.

He spoke while trembling all over, and in his eyes there was something that made my skin crawl — not malice, but complete emptiness, madness, loneliness.

I stepped back toward the door, and only then did I notice an old photograph on the nightstand. In the picture was a young woman… and she really did look like me.

— Please — he whispered, still sitting on the floor beside the bed. — Just let me watch. I won’t touch you. I won’t hurt you. Just watch.

And then I understood: I was living with a man driven mad by his own grief.