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Cover designer https://chat.qwen.ai
© Maxim Sofin, 2025
© https://chat.qwen.ai, cover design, 2025
ISBN 978-5-0068-7443-5
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
«The Man Who Listened» or «Nobody Men»
Genre:
Literary drama with elements of psychological thriller and spiritual awakening. The book combines depth, realism, and warm empathy – it doesn’t provide ready-made solutions, but helps to see.
Main idea:
In a world where men increasingly remain silent, hide their vulnerabilities, and feel lonely even in relationships, a man appears who is able to listen without judgment. His name is Alexander. He is not a therapist. Not a coach. Just – Nobody Men, the Nobody Man.
But when his help starts changing too many lives, someone decides: such people are dangerous to the system.
But everything ends well!
Contents:
Chapter I. The Little Shop by the Lamp Post
Part 1. The Message That Came Too Early
Part 2. The City That Didn’t Sleep, But Was Silent
Part 3. Artem, Who Tried Not to Fall
Part 4. Where the Voice Breaks
Part 5. When Silence Speaks First
Part 6. The Man Who Heard Deeper
Part 7. The Trace That Shouldn’t Have Been Left
Part 8. Those Who Know How to Listen to Silence
Part 9. Alexander’s Apartment
Chapter II. The City Listens Differently
Part 1. The Morning That Didn’t Return the Same
Part 2. A Crack in the Familiar World
1. In the Metro Lobby
2. The Office
3. The Leaf
Part 3. The First Ripples on the Water
Part 4. The Rustle of an Invisible Net
Part 5. The Shadow That Loves Noise
1. Alpha in the Shadow
2. Strategy
3. The First Strike
4. Alexander Notices
5. Skolkov’s Memories
Chapter III. Women by the Little Shop
Part 1. The First
1. The Second, Third, Tenth
Part II. Denis in Fury
Chapter IV. The Accusation
Part 1. Planted Evidence
1. A Knock at the Door
2. At the Police Station
3. A Shadow from the Past
Chapter V. Madrid. The Scar That Never Healed
Part 1. Prison. Night. Cell No. 14
1. Flashback: Madrid, 2018. Psychological Support Center
2. Prison. Morning. Interrogation
3. A Call from the Past
4. The Decision
Chapter VI. Shadows in Berlin
Part 1. Loft in Kreuzberg. Night.
Chapter VII. The Circus
Part 1. Still the Same Hustle
1. Morning. Minibus with Tinted Windows
2. Hell
3. The Wave
4. One Voice
5. In the Hall
Chapter VIII. The Silence That Presses Down
Part 1. Cell. Night. Knocking on the Pipe
1. Denis’s Memories. Moscow, 2013
2. The Cell
3. Morning
Chapter IX. The Bracelet
Part 1. Prison. The Last Day Before Trial
1. Vision. Denis. Night in Berlin
2. Court. Room No. 3
3. The Reading
4. The Counterblow
5. Freedom
6. The Decision
Chapter X. The Nameless Little Shop
Part 1. The Same Park. The Same Lamp Post.
1. Artem and She
2. Denis
Part 2. A New Little Shop
1. Alexander’s Last Diary Entry
Chapter XI. Tokyo. Spring. A Year Later
Part 1. Ueno Park. Morning.
1. On the Bench
2. A Note in Alexander’s Notebook (Somewhere in Buenos Aires)
Chapter XII. Berlin. Winter. The Cold Train Station
Part 1. Night. Hauptbahnhof, 04:13
Part 2. Echo
Part 3. An Entry in the Notebook
Chapter XIII. Marseille. Ceux qui restent (Those Who Remain)
Part 1. Vieux-Port, 21:03
Part 2. A Story That Was Never Told
Part 3. Morning at the Port
Part 4. An Entry in the Notebook (in French, marked «Marseille, mer et mémoire»)
Chapter XIV. Cairo. (The First Letter)
Part 1. A Street in Al-Darasa, Midnight
1. Light in the Darkness
2. Searching for Light
3. A Meeting Under the Moon
4. Morning of a New Day
5. An Entry in the Notebook
Chapter XV. São Paulo. O primeiro passo (The First Step)
Part 1. Favela da Rocinha, 17:22
Part 2. Alex at a Bar at the Foot of the Favela
Part 3. A Meeting Without Weapons
Part 4. The First Step
Part 5. An Entry in the Notebook (marked «São Paulo, bajo la lluvia»)
Chapter XVI. Paris. The Truth That Kills
Part 1. Rue des Écoles 22 (Street of Schools 22)
Part 2. Luxembourg Garden. A Bench Under a Chestnut Tree
Part 3. A Letter That Doesn’t Exist
Part 4. An Entry in the Notebook (in French)
Chapter XVII. Marbella. Retorno (Return)
Part 1. The Port Again. But Not the Same Bench
Part 2. Barrio Viejo – The Old Quarter
Part 3. A Conversation Without Masks
Part 4. A Gift
Part 5. An Entry in the Notebook
Chapter XVIII. New York. The Art of Listening
Part 1. Central Park, Bethesda Terrace, 7:03 AM
Part 2. A Note
Part 3. An Entry in the Notebook
Chapter I. The Little Shop by the Lamp Post
Part 1. The Entry That Came Too Early
An entry from Alexander’s diary.
Undated.
«There are people who only hear thunder after the lightning. Others – after the silence.
And there are those who hear the storm when there’s not a single cloud in the sky.
Sometimes I feel like I sense someone else’s pain before they even acknowledge it themselves.
Not because I’m special. But because once I didn’t hear my own.
Today I’ll go to the lamp post again.
I don’t know why – I just have a feeling that someone is already on their way there…
And this time – they won’t be coming for advice. They’ll be coming for the right to say out loud what they’ve been afraid to hear from themselves all their life.»
Part 2. The City That Didn’t Sleep, But Was Silent
The night in this city never truly turned dark – as if someone were pressing their palms against the firmament, not letting it extinguish the last remnants of light. In the distance, a lone trolleybus hummed as it passed through an empty street, and the sound resembled the deep exhale of a weary person who had once again agreed to live through another day.
The courtyards were asleep. But the windows were not.
Many of them glowed with a dim, yellow light – the kind under which no one reads or rests. They simply try not to think.
The air was thick and damp, like before rain – but there was no rain, nor was it expected. People passing by occasionally caught themselves having a strange feeling: as if the night were waiting for something. As if time had slightly slowed down, like an elevator between floors, hesitating to move on.
In the square, not far from the old librarian’s plaza, stood a lamp post – tall, old-fashioned, casting a soft, almost warm light. It burned as if it remembered someone by name. Underneath it was a grey, slightly cracked bench, on which someone had once scratched:
«This is where those who can no longer stay silent sit».
The inscription had nearly worn away, but in the darkness it could still be read – if you knew it was there.
Some said the lamp flickered when someone approached with a heavy heart.
Others said it was just faulty wiring.
And the most honest ones admitted they wanted to believe the first explanation.
That night, the wind didn’t sway the branches, the leaves didn’t rustle, not even the dogs barked. It seemed as if the city itself had held its breath, waiting for two people who didn’t yet know that this night each of them would become a turning point in the other’s life.
Alexander appeared in the square the way one does when they’re not coming for the first time. Without hesitation. Without inner dialogue. As if he were continuing a sentence he’d begun yesterday.
He didn’t look like a wanderer, a saviour, or anything «special». Medium-length hair, slightly dishevelled, with light stubble and a touch of grey, wearing stylish glasses. A dark turtleneck. A leather jacket with worn elbows. Around his neck – a thin chain with a pendant: a heart broken in half, yet mended – not neatly, but as if it had been pieced together in the dark, by touch.
Under his arm – a battered diary in a brown cover, and in his hand – a thermos. His other hand rested on his knee, phone face-down. He wasn’t waiting. He was simply there. His gaze was a bit tired, yet it seemed to see through the layer where people hide behind «I’m fine».
Alexander sat on the bench and inhaled the cool air, listening – not to the city’s sounds, but to what lay between them.
He knew for certain: Someone would come today.
Part 3. Artem, Who Tried Not to Fall
Artem walked quickly, almost abruptly, as if he were late for somewhere he hadn’t wanted to go to for a long time. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders raised, the collar of his jacket pulled up higher than the weather required. People walk like that not because of the cold – they walk like that trying to hold themselves together inside, to avoid falling apart.
Outwardly, he looked like an ordinary man in his early thirties. But if someone had looked more closely, they would have noticed: he wasn’t just walking – he was holding himself upright. Like someone who had carried an inner burden for too long without sharing even a gram of it, and now his body was beginning to betray him. His shirt hung untucked from under his jacket, his shoes were covered in mud, his gaze was that of someone who hadn’t slept for three days. In his hand, he held a crumpled photograph.
He hadn’t intended to turn into this square. He hadn’t planned to go for a walk at all.
He had only left the house so that later he could tell himself:
«I went out. I tried. I’m trying to live».
And yet, his steps had somehow changed direction on their own. As if his feet remembered a path he had never known.
Artem saw the lamp post from a distance – a warm circle of light in the damp night, almost like an invitation. He wanted to walk past it. Because if he sat down even for a minute, he might not be able to get up again. Not because he was tired – but because everything he had been holding in would come pouring out.
But he still approached.
Alexander noticed him before Artem even stepped into the circle of light. Something about his gait – that inner tightness of the shoulders and the silent hold on – felt painfully familiar.
Artem stopped by the bench, as if unsure whether he had the right to simply sit down next to a man who… looked calm. People who had held on for too long, like him, usually avoided those whose eyes held quiet. In that quiet, you might accidentally hear yourself.
– Is this seat free? – he asked, and his voice sounded as if the question wasn’t really about the space, but about the possibility of feeling, just somewhere, that he wasn’t superfluous.
Alexander looked at him gently and gave a slight nod, as if he had known him for many years.
– For those who are tired – always. Sit down.
On a normal evening, Artem would have smirked or made a joke.
But now he had no jokes left, no shields.
He sat – not right next to Alexander, but a little apart. Just in case he needed to leave quickly before he fell apart.
For several seconds, they sat in silence. Not awkwardly – just as two people who hadn’t yet begun to speak, but already sensed that this conversation wouldn’t be one of those that could be held superficially.
Alexander didn’t ask, «What happened?»
He simply poured warm tea from his thermos into the lid-cup and placed it on the bench between them.
– In case your hands are cold, – he said.
Artem glanced briefly. His hands were indeed trembling – but not from the cold.
– Thank you, – he exhaled, and it was the first word he had spoken all day without forcing himself.
– Are you… the one? – his voice broke.
Alexander didn’t stand up. Didn’t smile. He just nodded, barely perceptibly.
– They told me… you help men. With women. With… this.
– I don’t help, – Alexander said quietly. – I listen. And you decide what to do next.
Silence. Only the wind rustled the fallen leaves. Somewhere far away, neon lights flickered – the sign of a coffee shop, casting a soft turquoise glow through the maple branches onto the pavement.
– She left, – Artem finally exhaled. – She said: «You don’t hear me». I… I did everything. Flowers. Gifts. Even cooked dinner myself. And she said: «You don’t hear me». As if I were deaf.
Alexander remained silent. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t nod with feigned understanding. He simply looked out over the river – as if the answer were floating there.
– I don’t understand, – Artem clutched the photograph until it creaked. – What else could I have done?
Alexander wasn’t looking directly at him. He was looking ahead, as if giving Artem the right to be there without feeling eyes on his cracks.
The silence was one in which a person begins to hear themselves – and that is the most frightening place to find oneself in at night.
Artem ran his hands over his face, pausing them over his eyes as if trying to wipe away fatigue, but his fingers encountered something that couldn’t be erased.
Then Alexander turned. His eyes were warm, but without pity. Only attention.
– Did you ask her what she wanted to hear?
– Well… no. I thought… if I did everything right, she would understand on her own.
– And did you ask yourself what you wanted to say to her?
Artem blinked. For the first time in three days – not in pain, but in confusion.
– I… don’t know.
Alexander opened his diary. He didn’t write anything. He simply ran his finger over the blank page.
– Most men think that love is an action. But in reality… it’s attention. Words are secondary. But if you can’t hear yourself, you won’t hear her either.
He closed the diary.
– Come back tomorrow. Or don’t come. But if you do come – don’t bring answers. Bring a question.
Artem stood up. He didn’t tear the photograph. He simply placed it on the bench – between them.
– What’s your name?
– Alexander. But here, they call me… by another name.
– What name?
For the first time, Alexander smiled slightly – with the corners of his eyes, not his lips.
– Nobody Men.
– You know… – Artem said, his voice suddenly hoarse, and sat back down on the bench. – Sometimes it feels like I’m living someone else’s life. As if…
He fell silent, because if he continued, he would go deeper than he had planned.
Alexander didn’t utter a word, but his silence wasn’t empty – it was permission.
And that was enough for something inside Artem to stir for the first time in a long while – not toward collapse, but toward truth.
Part 4. Where the Voice Breaks
Artem stared at his hands for a long time, as if trying to understand whether they belonged to him – or to the person he had become «out of necessity».
– It’s like… – he took a breath, – I’ve spent my whole life trying to meet someone else’s expectations. And if I suddenly stop, they’ll… stop seeing me as normal. As right.
He gave a brief, joyless chuckle.
– Funny, right?
Alexander shook his head slightly.
– No. It’s not funny at all.
Artem had seemed to expect someone to laugh at him. Or to hear the usual: «You’re overcomplicating things». But instead, he encountered seriousness – one that held no judgment.
That seriousness became the crack through which the first honest word escaped.
– I… don’t know who I am if I don’t hold on, – he spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. – Do you understand? If I stop being who everyone expects me to be – who will be left?
Alexander lowered his shoulders slightly, as if softening the space around them.
– Are you afraid of being yourself and discovering that it’s not enough?
Artem clenched his fists. The accuracy was too sharp – as if someone had seen a note hidden deep, deep inside him.
He wanted to reply with «no», «nonsense», «I’m just tired», but something broke loose inside him. Barely audible, but honest:
– Yes.
Alexander didn’t seem pleased by his accuracy – he wasn’t winning an argument.
He didn’t even turn fully toward Artem. He stayed beside him, looking ahead – like someone who knows: it’s hardest to speak when someone is watching you.
– What you just said – to many, it sounds like weakness, – Alexander said calmly. – But in truth… only someone who has been strong for too long speaks like that.
These words weren’t «support» in the usual sense. They didn’t soothe – they saw. And when you are seen, the walls you’ve grown accustomed to begin to fall.
Artem let out a short breath – and in that exhale was not air, but a piece of weight.
– I… – he paused, searching for words that wouldn’t tear his throat, – I think I haven’t heard myself in… a year? Two?
He rubbed his temple with his palm.
– Sometimes I just want to disappear. Not die – no. Just… for everyone to finally leave me alone. Even for a while.
Alexander turned his head just slightly, to listen more closely.
– To disappear not from life… but from expectations?
Artem closed his eyes. His eyelids trembled.
– Yes, – he managed weakly. – Exactly.
Within the circle of the lamp’s light, everything seemed quieter. The air felt thicker.
Not mystically, not supernaturally – just as it happens when a person speaks what they’ve been hiding even from themselves.
Alexander closed his eyes for a moment, as if responding from somewhere deep within – as if these words held something familiar to him too.
He placed the thermos beside them, slightly closer to Artem, and said quietly:
– You don’t have to be strong right now. Not here.
Not «hold on».
Not «it’ll pass».
Not «others have it worse».
But permission.
The very permission Artem had never asked for – and had never received from anyone.
This phrase didn’t strike with pain – but with a release, through which the pain could finally come out.
Artem ran his hands over his face. He tried to simply breathe in – and couldn’t.
But for the first time, this «can’t» didn’t scare him.
Alexander added no more words.
Sometimes silence is the only honest language.
Part 5. When Silence Speaks First
They sat in silence. But it wasn’t the kind of silence that presses down and forces you to search for words.
It was the silence in which «you can finally hear yourself».
The lamp above them flickered slightly – as if someone had passed a hand over the glass. Not a bulb flickering, not a power surge. More like the light itself had leaned in to listen.
Artem lifted his head.
– Did you see that?
Alexander gave a barely perceptible smile at the corner of his eye.
– Sometimes light responds to truth.
A pause.
– Or we just want to believe it does.
He said it without mystical implication – as if both versions were equal, and each was allowed to exist.
Artem let his gaze wander around.
The square was empty. No passers-by, no dogs, no rustling sounds – as if the city had been put on pause. Only this circle of warm light where they sat felt real. Everything else seemed drawn in charcoal on grey paper.
– It feels like… – Artem spoke slowly, listening to his own words, – that I’m here for a reason. As if someone… nudged me.
He chuckled, as if trying to brush it off – but couldn’t.
– Absurd, of course.
Alexander didn’t dismantle the feeling with logic. He spoke very quietly, as if sharing not an opinion but an experience:
– Sometimes we’re led to places we couldn’t bring ourselves to on our own.
A breeze passed through the treetops – just once, like a sigh. Then it fell still again.
Artem clenched his fingers. Something stirred in his chest – not anxiety, not relief. More like… recognition. As if he had been here before. Not in this park – but in this state. On the edge of an honesty that isn’t usually shown.
And then, quite suddenly, a question repeated inside him. Strange, yet clear.
– What if I’ve really… been living someone else’s life all this time? – the words came out almost with certainty.
Alexander looked at Artem – no longer as a listener, but as someone who knew the weight of that question.
And at that moment, the light flickered again. Subtly. Almost imperceptibly. But in rhythm with the words.
For a second, Artem felt as if the space around them had drawn half a step closer – as if the square itself were listening too.
Alexander wasn’t surprised. He simply said:
– If you’ve finally heard yourself and are asking this question consciously, then part of you already knows the answer.
Artem swallowed. The answer was indeed very close – and that was precisely why it was frightening.
– And what… – he hesitated, – what do I do if the answer is «yes»?
Alexander took a slow breath. And for the first time, his voice carried not instruction, but a personal, lived truth:
– Then you’ll have to start living the one that’s real.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
– And a real life never begins without losses.
The words hung between them – warm, yet heavy.
Like a truth you don’t seek, but find.
The lamp no longer flickered. It burned steadily, as if holding the boundaries of this conversation – so the world wouldn’t intrude.
Part 6. The Man Who Heard Deeper
Artem stared at the ground as if he might find instructions there – a checklist of steps for what to do next:
– Acknowledge.
– Accept.
– Change your life.
But inside, there were no bullet points. Only fear. And a strange, almost childlike feeling… as if there was an adult nearby who could be trusted with the most fragile things.
He cautiously looked at Alexander – and for the first time, tried to see him, not just listen.
Alexander sat calmly, as if he carried no trace of hurry – not only physically, but inwardly. His shoulders were slightly lowered, palms open, breath steady. Not a «technique», not a trick – pure naturalness. Not performed, but simply being.
But there was something more.
Sometimes you meet people who don’t listen to the words – they listen to what the person says beneath the words.
Alexander listened that way – as if he heard not with his ears, but with something deeper.
And that made it feel a little… strange.
How many stories has he already heard?
Why does he sit here?
Who does he give all this to – and what remains for him?
Suddenly, Artem caught himself asking a question he hadn’t even meant to voice:
– Why do you… do this?
Immediately, he regretted saying it.
– Sorry, that probably sounds silly…
Alexander looked at him calmly – but for a moment, something flickered in his gaze… was it weariness? Or ancientness? No. Not old age. More like the mark of a long journey.
– It’s not silly, – he replied. – It’s honest.
Artem felt something stir inside – as if the phrase had reached a place usually kept hidden from others.
Alexander turned his gaze aside. His voice grew quieter – not mysterious, but deeply personal, almost confessional:
– Once, I thought I could save people. That if I saw their pain, I had to take it away.
He paused.
– Then I realized: you can’t save anyone. You can only be there when a person decides to save themselves.
Artem listened with bated breath. There was no moralizing or “wisdom” ready for one social network in these words. They sounded like… something lived through to its very edge.