It was a lively evening in a local pub.
The noise of conversations and laughter filled the air.
Two men were sitting near the counter, their expressions slightly blurred by the effects of alcohol.
They were talking loudly, alternating between trivial subjects and deep ideas, letting their thoughts wander freely.
"You know what? I'm convinced that single socks disappear into some secret kingdom somewhere," exclaimed the first man, a burst of laughter escaping his lips.
He was an old man with a wrinkled face. His gray hair was tousled, and his gaze was glassy. He wore old, worn-out, faded, and wrinkled clothes.
His colleague, raising an eyebrow, took a sip of his beer and replied sarcastically, "Oh yeah? I wonder who's the sovereign of this lost nation of solitary socks."
He was a tall, slim man. His wavy brown hair fell casually on his forehead, his eyes piercing and cold.
