Office No. 13

Office No. 13. A small room. A window looking out into a gray infinity. Beyond the glass—boiling rivers, flickering torches, and lines of sinners stretching toward the horizon. The sky is the color of frozen ash. Somewhere far off—the silhouettes of cliffs. Closer—smoke. Even closer—nothing. Only grayness.

The office smells of sulfur, ink, and mint. On the desk—an eternal quill, an hourglass, and a cup of cold coffee. On the wall—a diploma. In the corner—a chaise longue that has seen much. On the margins of a notebook—sketches. Someone was drawing. Perhaps a visitor. Perhaps no one at all.

Behind the wall, someone is talking. One voice is low, weary. The other is shrill, making excuses. Then—silence. Then—laughter. Nervous laughter.

His voice is low and rumbling, yet tinged with resentment.
— I don't understand why everyone is afraid of me. I'm not evil. I'm just big. And the axe. And the horns. But I'm not evil!

Something falls. A clang. Silence. Then—footsteps. Heavy. Receding. A door slams.

In the waiting room, there is a queue. You can hear Lilith, the secretary, flipping through papers. You can hear someone coughing. Someone sighing. Someone whispering. The words are indistinguishable, only the intonations remain. Nervous. Weary. Doomed.

The door creaks open. The secretary's head peeks through the gap. Lilith. Tiny horns, a tail, perfect hair, red lipstick. A smile—always. Eyes—observant.

— You have an appointment, — she says. — Shall we let you in?