For two years we (I, the middle and younger brothers) were raised in a shelter. The pedagogical staff was very competently selected, all the educators and babysitters were kind, fair and never oppressed the students. This is what I now understand, and then... One day my younger brother fell sick with watermelon and he was placed in an isolator, he was 5 years old and I was 15. Every evening, before the draw, I went to him to read fairy tales or tell fictional stories with a good fair end, sometimes trying to teach him to write his name. He could not understand that the letters should be in one line and wrote them differently throughout the sheet. The letter "B" in the middle, the letter "i" in the upper left corner, the letter "t" in the bottom right, and the letter "I" in general on the whole sheet and looked like this: "R", but it turned out to be flat, accurate and very beautiful! Every time I sang him before I left, he fell asleep, I kissed him and left. That evening I closed the door of the insulator and went as usual to my group, along the way I remembered not taking my pen and returned. Quietly, trying not to make a noise, I opened the door and went to the table, took the pen and leaned to him to kiss again, and his cheek was wet from tears, he lay and silently cried, so as not to annoy me before leaving. I hugged him and cried, of helplessness, of the fact that nothing can be changed, of the fact that I can't protect him from being lonely in this damn isolator and have to leave him alone in a dark little room. 22 years have passed since then, but every time I recall that moment, my heart is shrinking from pain and I don’t know if he was crying every night when I left because he never asked me to sit down again, always slept or pretended to be asleep. I love you brother.