Boris recognized the woman by her face. He remembered having noticed her once before—he had even felt an urge to speak to her. She had been undeniably beautiful: a slender figure, long straight black hair, and a pale, delicate face.

But now, that beauty had been transformed into a horrifying sight that shocked and even frightened him. His mood soured instantly. He wanted to run, just to avoid seeing that ... horror.

He remembered her lively gait, the brisk click of her heels, the sway of her hips. That charm was gone. She moved slowly, painfully, supported by crutches. A dreadful, depressing sight. That misfortune should have struck anyone but her—it felt unbearably unfair.

He almost turned away, hoping to forget what he had seen, yet he could not. He kept watching, even though it made him queasy.

She was dressed elegantly: a green dress that accentuated her bust, waist, and hips, black tights, and ballet flats. And yet something was wrong with those once-beautiful legs. For some reason, they could no longer bear the weight of her body. They moved uncertainly, uncoordinated. Her ankles twisted unnaturally, as if sculpted from clay. Without the support of her crutches, she would have fallen immediately. There were no visible bandages—perhaps the problem lay in her spine, perhaps an injury had led to paralysis of her lower limbs. A dreadful sight!

What was surprising was that she did not use a wheelchair but struggled onward like this. Her arms were strong—probably honed in a gym—and managed to keep her moving.

She focused entirely on walking: straightening her back as she pushed on the crutches, advancing her weak legs, which touched the ground unnaturally, incapable of bearing her weight. A dreadful sight!

What if she fell? What if she injured herself further?

Boris stepped closer. He felt responsible for her safety. He wanted to shout:

“Girl, go home and lie down! Don’t risk it! Why are you doing this to yourself?”