This story began on the night train Moscow - St. Petersburg. The unnamed narrator was returning home from a work trip and was about to indulge in his favorite ritual: a leisurely reading over a glass of whiskey in a restaurant car while the train serenely flies through the darkness, like an interstellar cruiser. However, this time his peace was disturbed by a random fellow traveler Viktor Adamov, a retired lieutenant colonel of the criminal investigation department. The interlocutor came across an extremely interesting one: word for word, glass for glass, and now the conversation took a slightly unexpected turn. Adamov makes the narrator question the veracity of his memories. What if subjective memory is as abstraction as faith? What do we mean when we say, "I remember"? In support of his theory about the paradox of memory, Adamov tells an unusual story that originates in Leningrad on August 13, 1984. And where can a good story begin? This time - with murder...