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The gun is made, days of work done. You curl up on the sofa, and shut your eyes in slumber.

You dream of when you were young, when you got into the gunsmithing program under a teacher's recommendation with your excellent grades.

In school, everyone regards you as the best, but no one ever considers that you will become the best gunsmith among your peers after graduation.

In class, your magister tells you: 'Paganini, if only you were Sankta. You would understand even better what I talk about.'

A classmate tells you: 'Paganini—Oh, I forgot you're not a Sankta. It's fine, I'll just repeat it.'

You don't know how to respond, and can only smile in return, then look down at the scattered parts on the table. Your magister once said assembling a gun is a profound language of its own, and perhaps you may not comprehend what these Sanktas are talking about, but you understand these parts.