The Bad Father

Mark walked down the cobbled street of Cambridge, his boots making a faint thud on the stones, and the ringing laughter of children that had filled the air of the fair just a short time ago continued to ring in his ears. It was like a spark in the pitch darkness, but Mark knew that it could not illuminate everything around him. It was just a small ray of light in the depths of despair in which society was drowning.

He frowned slightly, looking up at the sky, which was beginning to be covered with gray clouds. Around every turn of the street, Mark saw the familiar facades of houses - graceful columns, strict windows with flowers on the windowsills. Against this background, he thought about how these facades were like a screen for the deep cracks that were tearing society apart from within.

"Too little time, too much darkness," he thought, remembering the faces of the people at the fair: smiling children, young workers, elderly veterans dreaming of a better life. Their eyes were full of hope, but also fear. Mark couldn't help but notice the fear hidden behind the smiles.

He paused for a moment as he passed the window of a bookstore. The window displayed volumes of philosophy, romantic novels, and biographies of famous politicians. One of them, embossed in gold, bore the name of a man whose presence Mark could hardly bear. It was a treatise by one Joan Hart, entitled On the Purity of Democracy and the Dirt of Communism. Mark clenched his fists at the sight of the title, but quickly regained his composure. "Not now," he thought, turning away from the window and continuing on his way.

Mark slowed down, his attention drawn to an unusual scene: on the porch of one of the old shops stood a rare gramophone, from which music poured. The melody was barely perceptible against the background of the city noise - like a light haze in the bustle. He stopped, listened, and soon recognized it: it was a fragment from Gustav Mahler's Third Symphony, "Lustig im Tempo und keck im Ausdruck" performed by the BBC Orchestra under the baton of Sir Adrian Boult, which seemed to permeate the air with its special, unique sound.

The cheerful, playful notes of the female choir, full of life and enthusiasm, intertwined with the gentle rustle of the wind, and the sounds of passing cars, in turn, seemed to dissolve in this harmony, creating a unique musical landscape that could not leave anyone indifferent. At that moment, Mark felt his heart fill with a warm, almost forgotten feeling - as if the music that burst out of this ancient time machine opened some long-forgotten door in him.

This melody, light and joyful, like children's laughter at a fair, played on the edge of memories, as if inviting him to a land of bright moments, where everything is possible, where hope reigns. It carried a special message - a reminder that even in the most difficult, even in the harshest circumstances, music can be the spark that warms the soul. No matter how hard and difficult it is at times, it is these moments, filled with light and joy, that can restore strength and remind that life, despite all its difficulties, is still beautiful.

"It's a wonderful thing, isn't it?" his thoughts were interrupted by the salesman standing at the door of the shop, laying out old records on the counter.

Mark flinched, as if from a sharp light, and, a little confused, turned his gaze to the man. He was standing outside, on a hot sunny street, and despite the fact that it was midday, there was still a light, cheerful bustle in the air. The seller looked quite calm, immersed in his business.

"Yes, indeed," said Mark, turning away from the music and slowing his pace a little. "It's a very beautiful thing."

He glanced again at the antique gramophone that stood on the shop's porch, but it was only a fleeting reaction. In fact, his attention had already returned to the thoughts that had been engulfing him for the last few minutes. The music coming from the gramophone was familiar and warm, but at that moment it seemed part of something past, something that no longer mattered.

"We recently came across some really rare records," the seller continued, almost with pride, "including Mahler recordings. This is a real treasure for true connoisseurs, because you won't find such rarities anywhere else. If you want, I can show you - no problem! And, of course, if you like something, I'll even give you a discount to make it even nicer."

Mark paused for a moment, lost in his thoughts. He could almost physically feel how the old vinyl records, neatly laid out in front of him, would look in his apartment, a small but cozy one that he rented within walking distance of the train depot. Life in this place had its own special, noisy rhythm: every day, the rumble of trains came from the window, their low, metallic screech, not the most melodic, but still making you think of the past, of a time when the world seemed slower and simpler. In this atmosphere, it seemed that there was still something alive here, as if the railroad itself carried memories and stories.

But these were only fleeting, random thoughts, like one of those thoughts that flash by without having time to penetrate deeply into consciousness. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to dwell too much on the past, had not allowed himself to be nostalgic. How many times in his life had he put off buying things that were connected to memories, things that only reminded him of the days when everything was different? Records, old books, unused collectibles - all of this now seemed like something superfluous, something that did not fit into his current reality.

Mark realized that his life had changed, had become more practical, focused on the present. He had things to do, important issues that needed to be addressed here and now. He no longer felt the need to collect as he had before - he no longer invested the same meaning in those things that had seemed so significant in his youth. He had left them in the past, as something that no longer had any relevance to his current life.