Chapter IV. A tape that can only be rewound once When Leila first saw the shop, it seemed to her that it was a mirage. Everything was too ordinary: the supermarket, the laundry room, the travel agency sign with peeling letters. And suddenly – "Marcel's Shop", as if interspersed with someone else's century. But not the old one, no. Rather, timeless. Leila was thirty-six. Behind her are performances that didn't happen, roles that went to others, and the pain she learned to hide behind stage lights. Now she was teaching acting to teenagers, although she hardly believed in her own acting. Neither in the theater, nor in life. She entered without purpose. I just… wanted to hide from the city, the people, and myself. Inside, it smelled of old paper and tart wood. And – lada- nome? Or the rain? The mixing of odors, as well as objects, defied logic. There were toys, masks, rolled-up maps, jars of feathers, and untitled books. And – silence, so deep, as if the shop itself was breathing, but not making any noise. Marcel appeared, as always, silently. "You're looking for something you don't remember," he said, without asking for a name. – Can you guess? She chuckled. – I just know how to see the shadow that a person hides in himself. He handed her a small coil–an old magnetic tape, tightly wound, without a signature. "Is this a movie?" Leila was surprised. "It's you,– he replied. At home, she hesitated to listen for a long time. She didn't have a smartphone, and she thought it was just as well. But the next day, passing by the store, I saw Marcel again – now he was standing at the door with a suitcase and holding an old portable player in his hands. He held it out silently. And disappeared inside. At night, after making tea, she turned on the device. First, silence. Then a faint crack. And… a voice. Child. Her own. "I'm going to be an actress. I want people to feel. Even if it hurts, I still want to." The girl's voice. Sure. Whole. Without fear. Layla froze. And then the voice changed: fragments of rehearsals, laughter backstage, whispers on recordings, audio recordings that she probably once kept for herself. At a time when I still believed in my dream. Into something more. With every passing minute, something that had not been felt for a long time stirred in her chest: thirst, anger, courage. There were no tragedies on the tape – only the life she gave as a pledge of reality. Where they pay for convenience with memory. And at the end, a quiet whisper. "You still can. If you're not afraid to hear yourself. But you can only rewind once." She realized that if she turned it off now, everything would remain as it was. If he clicks "rewind", he won't come back. The tape will give her the opportunity to live one day from the past to the present. Not as a reminder, but as a chance. Layla pressed it. She woke up in the dressing room, smelling of powder and dust. In two minutes, there's a scene. People. Poster: "One-man show. Leila O." My heart was beating like it hadn't for a long time. Not with anxiety, but with a living thrill. Like before jumping into the water from a height. She went out. And she played. Not the way they teach. It was as if she had finally remembered who she was. Not for the sake of the audience. For the sake of the one who recorded the voice on tape. When the curtain came down, she knew she would never return to the institution where she was hiding. Tomorrow will be difficult. But she's back on stage. And in the morning, her apartment is back. The player was silent. The tape is jammed. She pulled it out and saw that instead of a ribbon, there was a cloth inside. A narrow, faded flap. Like out of a suit. It had embroidery on it: "One chance to hear yourself is already a lot. The second one is impossible. Don't lose the first one." Leila came to the alley. There was no shop. Instead, Count–fithi says, "The theater begins with the one who dares." She smiled. She turned around. And she went. Around her neck is a pendant made of old magnetic tape. Empty. But – full of meaning.

Chapter V. The key that doesn't open the door Alexey came to the city for three days. Business trip. Numbers, conversations, courtesy on duty. The hotel is odorless, with windows facing the courtyard. It was all right. But it's kind of inanimate. Just like him. In the evening, returning from an endless dinner with partners, he turned into an alley, trying to take a shortcut. The lights were flashing like in an old movie. Suddenly, my gaze caught on a neon sign: "Marcel's Shop." For some reason, I wanted to come in. Without a goal. Just… to check that the shops that smell of time still exist. Marcel was standing behind the counter, as if he already knew who was coming in. He looked at Alexey not with interest, but as if he had known him for a long time. "We've lost something important," he said. "But you don't know what it is." Alexey was not surprised. He didn't even ask again. He just nodded. – It feels like this every day. Everything seems to be in place, but as if something is missing. – Because a loss is not always a loss. Sometimes it's a rejection. He went behind the screen and returned with a small wooden box. He handed it to Alexei. There was an antique key inside. Heavy, with a twisted pattern. And no locks. – What does it reveal? Alexey asked. –Everything that you once locked yourself,– Marsel replied calmly. "Just once." And not any door. Just the one you don't want to look into the most. The key was on the bedside table at the hotel. Alexey looked at him as if he were a thing from a dream. At night he dreamed of a corridor. Long. Hundreds of doors. And only one is black, with a tiny keyhole. He inserted the key and woke up. My heart was pounding. He looked at his watch–3:17. This is not the time for decisions. But he got up, got dressed, and went out. I don't know where I'm going. A city at night is a city without masks. Empty, honest, like a mirror. Alexey walked through the streets, remembering. My native home. The sister I haven't spoken to in fifteen years. The girl he was in love with at university and never told. The book I wanted to write. The one who once believed that life should be real, not comfortable. He came to the river. Bridge. Somewhere below there is dark water that does not reflect the sky. Alexey took out the key. He brought it to his chest. He closed his eyes. And I saw myself standing outside the hospital room. A sister crying in the hallway. My father is on the machines. The last day. Then he chose to leave – for an important meeting, which he did not even remember afterwards. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't stay. He didn't support it. He had forgotten that day. Consciously. Built a wall. The key in my hand opened this memory. Painfully. But… for real. In the morning, he found his sister's number. He entered it, not believing that he would press "call". And yet, he pressed it. Beeps. Silence. Then the voice. Doubt. Weeping. Silence. And finally: – Alyosha? – hello. Sorry. I… wasn't the brother you deserved. "Do you think I was a good sister?" We just had to… get back. At least once. He wanted the key back. But there was no shop. The alley was empty, with graffiti: "Some doors can't be opened twice. But you don't have to. " He put the key in his pocket. And suddenly I realized: it's not about the castle. It's about the courage to look inside. A month later, he returned to the city. Not on a business trip. With my sister. They were walking and laughing, just like they used to when they were kids. He showed her the alley where the shop was. "Do you think he's a wizard?" "What is it?" she asked. "I think he just remembers that we forgot."

Chapter VI. A mirror for those who look too far away. The morning turned gray, as did the week, month, and year. Svetlana walked down the street with the air of a man who has not been waiting for a turn for a long time. There was coffee from the vending machine in his hands, and eternal skepticism in his eyes. She worked in a bank, where every day was an exact replica of the past. Endless reports, colleagues always discussing promotions, and a boss who didn't know her name. She had a cat and silence. Sometimes books. Sometimes there were memories that weren't enough to really feel. She decided to take a different route that morning, just to prove to herself that she could. And I came across it: "Marcel's Shop." The sign was burned into the dark wood. Everything and nothing is in the window: dolls, feathers, clocks, music boxes. Everything seemed to be calling, but it didn't promise. She came in. The bell didn't ring. But the air had changed, as if she had left the usual passage of time behind the door. Marcel was sitting behind the counter, surrounded by notes and ink. He smiled slightly, with his eyes. "You've been gone a long time,– he said. "Do we… know each other?" – Svetlana was confused. – The soul does not know by name. He took out a small round mirror from the drawer. Rimless. The glass was slightly cloudy, as if it were storing not a reflection, but a memory. – This mirror does not show the face. Just the things you avoid the most. – Is it scary? – Is it honest. And the truth scares only those who have forgotten how to breathe freely. Svetlana took the mirror home, not understanding why. I put it on the table, ran off to work, and came back. Everything is as usual. But at night, having woken up from a causeless alarm, she came up and took a look. I expected anything. But not that. She was in the mirror. Younger. Funny haircut, ripped jeans, brushes, paints. Sparkling eyes. The one who dreamed of becoming an artist. The one who drew not for likes, but to avoid suffocation. And next to it is an easel. Light in the window. And the voice is hers, but alive.: "You promised. To myself. That you'll never turn gray. Whatever you choose, even if it's scary." The next morning, she took out the old canvases. I dusted off the paint box. She sat down. His hand was shaking. The fear was almost physical. Not the fear of failure, but the fear of memory. That one day she chose convenience. And she closed herself. But when the brush touched the canvas, she felt that something was wrong. Not all. But it's a start. In the following days, she painted at night. In the afternoon – the bank. Courtesy, schedules, reports. And at night, the color. Svetlana felt alive for the first time in a long time. She posted one of the works on an old blog. Without a signature. Without hope. A day later, a comment: "You haven't exhibited before? This style seems to bring dreams to life." Then – a letter from the gallery. Small, but real. An invitation to participate in a collective exhibition. Not a promise of fame. But it's a confession. That night, the mirror suddenly dimmed. The reflection disappeared. An inscription appeared on the glass, as if scratched by the light.: "When you see yourself, you don't need a reflection anymore." Svetlana went back to the alley. There was no shop. Just an old poster, as if it had been painted by hand.: "Marcel's shop. It is closed until someone appears who is not looking, but is ready to accept." She smiled. And there's a mirror in my pocket. It's empty. But it keeps the light.

Chapter VII. The book you don't need to read Yuri always believed that he was not one of those who believed in miracles. Thoughtful and a little tired, he preferred not to expect, but to analyze. Every thing, every person. Everything around him was like a riddle that he was going to solve without relying on chance. He was a writer. But not famous. Rather, almost no one. He had a couple of books, several articles and unsuccessful projects to his credit. His works did not become bestsellers. And he had no audience. He was an author for a few, and that suited him–to some extent. He wasn't overly ambitious, although sometimes he wanted to feel that his words could possibly affect someone's life. But it was too high for his usual stories. That evening, walking through the city center, he saw the "Mar-Sela Shop" again. I've already passed by it several times, but I've never entered it. Today, something made him stop. He went inside. Marcel, as always, was sitting behind the counter, looking at some old book with no author's name on the cover. The faint scent of wood, dust, and strange herbs hung in the air. –Hello,– Yuri said, feeling that this place was somehow affecting him. As if it didn't just exist, but distorted time and space. –Good evening," Marcel replied. –Were you looking for me, Yuri?" Or did you just decide that you had to enter? –I… don't know what I'm looking for." Yuri felt strangely uncomfortable. – And you probably don't know what this place is either. "You're right,– Marcel said. – I do not know what this place is. But I know that this place knows everyone who comes to it. It knows what you need, even if you don't know it yourself. Yuri didn't say anything, but he felt a certain relief. No routine questions, no strict rituals. He just happened to be here. Marcel handed him the book. It was exactly the same as the one he had just held in his hands. – This is for you. You will find it interesting. The old man's voice sounded calm, but with some secret depth. "Don't read it. Just take it and open it when you feel ready. Yuri took the book. She was light, despite her size. Nothing on the cover. Emptiness. He could put it on a shelf and forget about it. But there was something about her presence that was not the same as usual. – Why not read it? "What is it?" he asked, already preparing for another riddle. – Because the book will find you when you are ready to understand it. First you will open it, and then you will understand what you need to do with it. But don't read it first," Marcel said, and his look was such that Yuri didn't ask any more questions. He left with a book in his hands. The book was light, and the more Yuri held it, the more he felt that something was hiding inside. He was walking home, but it was a long way to get home. Various thoughts were spinning in his head, but none could overshadow the feeling he was experiencing while holding this book. It seemed like she was just waiting. When he came home, he immediately put the book on the table. He knew that he would open it when he was ready. But the fact that the book appeared in his life felt like a sign. Maybe he's been alone too long. Maybe it's just time for something new. A few days later, sitting at the table and looking out the window, Yuri suddenly felt ready. I didn't know how or why, but I intuitively knew that I needed to open the book. He unfolded it, and… there was nothing. The pages were white. But as soon as he touched the first page, the letters began to appear, one after the other, without any hint of printed text. They began to form into lines. "Everything you're going through right now is just the beginning. But don't think you're trapped. Your life is not a prison, but a freedom that will be opened when you realize that everything you have been looking for is already inside you." Yuri read it several times. He stood up because he couldn't believe it. He thought it was some kind of trick. But the book was real. Every time he tried to make sense of what was written, the text became clearer. He continued reading. Each page became more and more real, almost vital. Every word seemed to awaken a part of his soul. All those moments that he had avoided, all the pain and all the regrets, he could now see for real. And finally, he realized: the book is not about how to succeed or become great. It was about how to stop hiding. Yuri read all night. The pages filled with text, and he became increasingly aware that the book did not provide answers, it showed the way. She doesn't tell you what to do, she just tells you what to do with yourself. The next morning, when he finished reading, the book was empty. He tried to open it again, but there was nothing on the pages. She disappeared. One inscription remained in place of its pages: "Now you know what to do. But it's up to you to decide." Yuri put the book on the table and realized that his life had changed. Not because of any external influence. Not because he found the answers. But because he realized that he was a part of what he was looking for. Yuri returned to his work, but now his letters sounded different. He didn't write for recognition, he didn't write for success. He wrote in order to be honest with himself. He no longer expected life to change on its own. He knew that now he wouldn't just wait. He will act. One day, a couple of months later, he returned to the "Mar-sel's Shop" again. Marcel wasn't there, just a shelf of books. But on one of the books he noticed the same empty cover. Yuri picked it up and left without hesitation.