Epilogue
The classroom is empty. It has been empty since June.
Дед is at the window. He is older now. How much older depends on how you count — from the first lesson, or from the article he once wrote in a magazine, a long time ago, about a daughter and a doctor and a small thing on a wrist.
The book is on Лиля's desk. She never came back for it. None of the children did. They grew up. They left. They are somewhere in the world now, doing things he will never see, carrying pieces of what he told them in ways he cannot predict.
The book has no title. The book has no author. The book belongs to the next person who sits down.
He looks out the window.
A porter is wheeling a cart across the square. Not the same porter. Not the same cart. The slip of paper on the crate is new. The phone that reads it is new. The route the porter walks is the same route every porter has walked since the square was paved.
Дед watches. He has seen many porters. He has seen many carts. He was the first to wonder whether the slip of paper could be read by something other than a person.
He turns from the window. He picks up his chalk. He puts it back down. There is no one to write for today.
He walks to the door. He stops. He looks back at the book on the desk.
It is still there. It will still be there tomorrow.
The author is everyone who found something useful inside.
He closes the door quietly, so as not to disturb the next lesson.
A different porter. A different cart. The same operation.