The Deer Who Became a Lion

After a while, Mark Tempe walked alone along the rails, silent as if he had realized that there was no point in talking to the beings of God. His snow-white suit, shirt, and hat stood out against the dark tracks and the gloomy gray landscape, creating the impression that Mark was not walking on earth, but was passing into another world where pain and suffering did not exist. It seemed that he was surrounded by whiteness - from his clothes to his face, and even his fair hair, tousled by the wind, gave the impression of gray hair, although in fact this was not so.

On his nose glittered a pince-nez that he could barely feel, as if it were part of his face. Although his gaze was directed forward, it seemed as if he saw nothing, moving blindly, like a man who had lost the ability to perceive the world around him. He walked as if by inertia, not realizing what he had left behind, as if he had forgotten everything that had happened up to that moment. His legs carried him forward, as if he could not stop, not knowing where exactly he was going. Everything in his behavior indicated that he was lost not only externally, but also internally, unable to find a point of support, but at the same time continuing to walk for the sake of some inner goal that he had set for himself.

He held his left hand over his heart, and it seemed he held it there unconsciously, as if that place of fear and pain demanded his attention. He moved as if he wanted to drown out something inside himself - something painful, heavy, unbearable. His steps were nervous, and each one echoed in his chest like an echo of something lost. The ground beneath his feet, the rails stretching into the distance, had no meaning for him - he walked as if he were an automatic being, continuing to move forward, with each step further and further from the place where it all once began.

Through a cloud of fog, around which a single vortex swirled, Mark approached the station, his steps more confident, but still painful. He looked at the old building, its shadows and haze somehow weighed him down. The station was already in shadow, the light was fading, and with each step he felt more and more burdened. The passage was full, the noise of people merged into a muddy hum that rose and fell like waves on the sea.

He entered the dark corridor that led to the platforms where the trains waited. People rustled, talked, some glided past, some stood lost in thought. Passengers, workers, they were all there, tired, exhausted, like him, but it was not the crowd that caught his attention, but the figures standing a little further away. The gendarmes. They patrolled the station, elusive shadows in grey uniforms, sabres dangling from their hips, a reminder of the power that was present in every corner of this world.

Mark felt himself growing uncomfortable. Not so much from their threat as from the way this military discipline was violating his last attempts to maintain some inner freedom. He turned away, trying not to meet their eyes, not to think about how they stood there like stone guardians, blocking him from the rest of the world.

He kept walking, as if he didn't see anyone, but he could still feel those heavy gazes filtering through the gloomy light of the passage. The station, its walls and columns, seemed as dark and cold as the thoughts that swirled in Mark's head. This place, like so many others in his life, was not a place to rest. Here he could only continue to move forward, into the unknown, surrounded by those who did not ask questions, but knew how to create fear.

He passed by, and only one of the gendarmes glanced at him briefly. It was a glance that could have been ignored, but Mark felt his body tense. Forgetting his aching chest and his heavy thoughts, he quickened his pace, hurrying towards the train to leave this gloomy place as quickly as possible.

The station was noisy and bustling, filled with the hum of people and the clatter of iron. Workers darted like shadows between loads, unloading boxes and sacks onto wagons, endlessly carrying heavy objects. The air was heavy with the smell of coal and sweat. Mark paused in the shadow of a corner, feeling his body stick to the cold brick wall of the warehouse behind him. His back was pressed against the rough concrete, and he held his breath, watching the scene carefully.

On the right hand side were the railway tracks, along which the carriages stretched, but Mark could not allow himself to go there until he was sure that the gendarmes had passed. His gaze slid across the station, following their movements, and he knew that if they saw him, he would not leave without consequences. The noise was unbearable, but now, at this moment, Mark was ready for action. He felt his heart growing heavier with each beat, as if reminding him that time was not endless, and his chances were diminishing with each moment.

When the gendarmes finally passed by, their figures disappearing around the corner, Mark allowed himself a short breath, but still did not move. He looked around, checking that the way was clear, and in his head it was as if an inner voice was saying to him: "Run before it's too late."

Without looking back, he abruptly jumped out of hiding, jumping over a couple of boxes, and quickly headed for the tracks. His legs took him at full speed, and his heart began to beat even faster, as if each step was his last. He heard two engineers arguing with each other on the next track, their voices sounding somehow inappropriately loud among the general commotion, but Mark paid no attention to them. Without slowing his steps, he approached one of the cars standing on the tracks and looked around, trying not to give himself away.

Taking a look at the situation, he made a decision - he needed to get to the other side, to where the train was standing, where the prisoners were being loaded. The commotion around him did not give him time to think. He jumped onto the tracks, but quickly realized that the only way to get through unnoticed was to use what was right in front of him: a car with a low platform.