Your life now is cold sidewalks, trembling fingers, and the bitter taste of cheap wine. You don't know that once you had a name that sounded like a song. That your arms rocked a child. That you laughed, hiding from the rain under the umbrella of a man who looked at you as if you were the world.

You were ripped from that life. Years in the dark stole your memory, leaving only fragments: a smell you can't place, echoes of voices that seem to come through thick walls.

And then - freedom. But where to go? You don't remember the way home.

And now they stand before you - a man and a girl. You see the child pointing a finger at you and wincing in disgust:

— *Dad, how do you know the name of this drunk homeless woman?*

The man turns sharply to her, and for the first time in many years, there is steel in his voice:

— *Say hello to your mother, ignoramus.*