In the Morning Hour

Chapter IV - The Tower - Epilogue

In the months that followed, Maxim's life was full of unforeseen events and, inherently, took on a turn that most suited the consequences of his actions.

Soon after he was fired, Maxim applied for countless low-income jobs as well as part-time jobs. The impressive accolade that could serve as a matter of praise consisted of, among others: supermarket cashier, chore boy, mall Santa, babysitter, waiter, call center operator, factory worker, preschool teacher, taxi driver, online streamer, bartender, mechanic, and last but not least, funeral attendant.

Being his whole life a lazy corporatist, however, vastly limited the amount of skills he possessed. A clumsy, bachelor, adult man would be, with difficulty, hired or desired to begin with. Maxim did try his luck in a variety of areas, but, at last, he had to face the repercussions of not cultivating abilities of his own. Not one of his occupations was maintained for more than a couple of weeks. While wishing to keep up with life and its subsequent challenges, relying on money and connections to fix a light bulb or use a hammer, for example, is a subject of ridicule. In short, he wasn't qualified to meet the employers' expectations, hardly even featuring basic skills, and was, one way or another, dismissed by everyone.

At first, there was only a slight decrease in the quality of life. But as months passed, forced by a lack of income and highly demanding bills, he sold his car. By the time one year had passed, he had devoted most of his savings to different noble causes like charities and providing for the destitute. Not before long, he himself was thrown out of his own house and gave up the majority of his belongings. With only some basic clothing and a half-empty suitcase, he roamed multiple addresses. Addresses belonging to old acquaintances, ex-colleagues, distant cousins, and what not, begging and kissing the ground to be offered a place to sleep. His cries were pointless, for nobody would take in a scoundrel who, not long before, would have been too full of himself and proud to acknowledge their presence on the street. We're talking about the same person who used to talk only about himself when invited to birthday parties, after all. There was no reason to believe pleas of remorse and guilt. Those can't excuse past behaviors.

"Serves him just right." cried one.

"Why don't you buy yourself a brand new mansion?" Inquired another.

But no one would swallow their pride so as to miss such a chance of payback. In every instance, he would be met with a closed door or laughter of ridicule. Some places would deliberately release their dogs and watch behind the window as the funny man trips over his steps and falls in the mud. By the end of that year, Maxim was a homeless man.

...

Two years later.

On a breezy afternoon in autumn, a certain man exited a public bathroom and glanced over the crowded street. His yawns were exaggerated. This chill yet sunny weather evoked some sort of melancholy. The man was obviously affected by the currents of air that were making his spine shiver uncontrollably.

This person was of average height. His long, dark hair was unkempt and full of oil. A peculiar sparkle could be seen in his narrow eyes, which, despite being full of dust and swollen, were not devoid of life. Below those eyes, a reddish, ill-shaped nose was so out of proportion compared to the rest of the face. Even more below a shoulder-length thick beard was showcased. He wore an old, ragged, pearled suit made of dark blue cotton. This suit was padded with linen that lacked any aesthetic norms. His right shoe missed a considerable amount of its front side. Two toes came out of the shoe. It was clear that the man wasn't wearing socks.

On the street full of busy people, the man stood out from the crowd like a wolf among sheep. The peculiar man was no stranger to this street, for he used to frequent the same spots like supermarkets, parking lots, or restaurants' entrances on a regular basis. Such places were popular among beggars and street performers, especially because of the abundance of people roaming this street.

The peculiar man dressed in a torn-out suit was no stranger to this street because he, too, was a beggar. His name is Maxim, a thirty-eight-year-old man who lives and sleeps around the Green Park and earns his living in the aforementioned spots. Fellow beggars heard a rumor that claims that he used to be a well-respected corporatist who went mad one day and sold his existence away and donated all of his fortune to charities and such. It was not a rarity for Maxim to be pursued by other beggars who questioned him all day long.

His usual answer goes something like, "What once happened is no more, and what happens now goes on."

Today, of course, was no different from any other day of the year. Maxim made his way around the mass of lifeless individuals and took a seat on his portable fishing chair. If one would require a face-to-face meeting with Maxim at any time of the week, this is the spot you'd have to search for. The inevitable course of his life brought him to such a place. 14 hours a day, he would sit in a chair in front of the most exquisite restaurants and play a detuned violin with great pathos.

He wouldn't earn much, just enough to live on and, at times, buy himself some spare parts for his instrument. Compared to other street performers or beggars, he could be considered successful. The way he pours his entire being into the music, the stressful expression he makes when switching tempos, and the melancholic pieces he reconstructs (That more or less have a pleasant sound) cause one to can't help but want to lend a helping hand to such a misunderstood romantic yet unfortunate artist. Or at least that's the strong impression one would have while hearing him play.

Now Maxim was preparing to play Paganini's composition 'Moses-Fantasie." Admittedly, pieces akin to Paganini's music were of a challenging level for an amateur like him, yet after multiple trial and errors, he would manage to play them right, even if just once.

As he was giving his best and approaching an intense segment, people would throw coins and small bills in passing. He tended to nod slightly to everyone who would do so, so as to show his gratitude. But just for a moment, he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a glimpse of a familiar face. The familiar face had thrown a great sum in and passed by as Maxim nodded in reflex. As soon as he had made the connection, he unwillingly missed a note and scratched the cords in an unpleasant manner.

In his sight was a short, aged man with clear signs of baldness and a large forehead. His expression was deep, and his smile, kind. While it is true he wore a beard and large attire while crawling, he gave off a healthy and well-kept vibe. On each of his sides, there was a young, but not childish, kid holding his hand—a blonde girl on the left and a light brown-haired boy on the right. It was a well-known face to Maxim!

"Wait a second!" Maxim shouted at the top of his lungs. "What's your name?" He followed him with a glance.

The man turned around with a confused look in his eyes. But after two seconds of analyzing with intent, his expression softened as he revealed a warm smile. "Isak. And you?"

"Maxim..." He couldn't bring himself to utter more.

Isak's smile grew even wider. "Oh yeah...

"I remember you."