David sat at his old wooden desk, buried under books, many of them smelling of dust and time. His apartment, once neat and orderly, now resembled an alchemist's library: stacks of medieval texts, printed-out scientific papers on parallel universes, yellowed pages of stories about witches and their rituals.
He turned another heavy tome, his fingers sliding over the fragile paper, eyes scanning the lines for anything that might explain his and Sophie's displacements. The deeper he went into these texts, the clearer it became: he wasn't afraid.
He wished he could be. Any sane person in his place should have been paralyzed with terror at the thought that their passion, their intimacy, was tearing through the fabric of reality, pulling them into alien worlds. But fear never came. Instead, a strange, almost boyish excitement spread through his chest.
He lifted his gaze from the book and looked at Sophie sitting curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea in her hands. Her tousled hair fell over her shoulders, and even in this quiet moment, her eyes burned with the same fire that had turned his life upside down.
She looked like Margarita from Bulgakov's novel—elusive, magical, a woman who by her very existence broke every law of the ordinary.
David leaned back in his chair, a faint smile touching his lips. Suddenly he understood: the real nightmare hadn't been this otherworldly mystery but the dull, vile routine he had lived before her. Years of drifting cowardly with the current, hiding behind lectures, articles, the monotony of daily life.
Life was short, and he had spent half of it afraid to step off the beaten path. And now? Now every day was an adventure, a wild, unreal flash of color—all because of her.
"Baby," he called softly. She looked up, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "I'm digging through all of this," he nodded at the books, "searching for answers. Medieval stories about witches, theories about parallel universes… and you know, I'm not afraid. I thought I should be, but… I can't."
She set her cup on the table and came to him, her movements light, almost like a dance. She stopped beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, and he felt the warmth of her fingers through his shirt.
"What are you still afraid of?" she asked, kissing his cheek.
He turned to her, his hand covering hers.
"Of what came before you," he admitted quietly. "That life where there was nothing but gray. Where I just… existed. And with you…" he paused, searching for the words, "with you every day feels like a leap into the unknown. And I don't want it to end."
Sophie smiled, her eyes glittering with something wild, almost magical.
"You think I'm a witch?" she asked. "Like Margarita, flying on a broomstick, wrecking Latunsky's apartment?"
Miller laughed, his hand sliding around her waist, drawing her closer.
"If you're a witch, then I'm ready to be your Master. Or Woland. Or even Behemoth. Anyone at all—so long as it's with you."