After the tour of the workshop, the friends went back up to the living room. The dark floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the twinkling lights of Washington, and the room was steeped in soft twilight, disturbed only by the warm light of a table lamp. John, opening a small bar above the fireplace, took out an unopened bottle and poured whiskey into their glasses, the amber liquid splashing, casting glints on the polished wooden table. Lewis sank into a deep armchair, upholstered in soft fabric, which slightly creaked under his weight. John took the neighboring armchair, and silence enveloped them, like a thick curtain, cutting them off from the noise of the outside world. The air carried a faint aroma of coffee, mixed with the smell of old leather and electronics, reminding that even in rest, John's house remained his working sanctuary.
"Listen," Lewis began, leaning back in the armchair and feeling the soft upholstery embrace his tired back. His voice was hoarse, as if saturated with the smoke of distant deserts. "I just remembered. So, in the mountains, there's this one place… A small village, where time seems to have stopped. The villagers practically don't interact with the outside world, and there are very few tourists there. Exactly what we need."
John set his glass down, and the glass quietly clinked against the table. He looked at his friend, his blue eyes narrowing, trying to grasp the essence of the proposal. Outside the window, the wind gently stirred the tree branches, and their shadows glided across the glass.
"You serious? That would suit me," he asked, his voice sounding even, but with a note of curiosity breaking through his usual restraint. Lewis nodded, rubbing the edge of the glass with his fingers, still holding the warmth of his palm.
"Yes, seriously. I was there a couple of years ago, when I was doing one of my editorial assignments," Lewis continued, his gaze drifting into the void, as if he already saw the snow-covered mountain peaks before him.
"It's almost an ideal place to forget, without thinking about the outside world. No phones, no internet, almost no traces of civilization. The people there live at their own pace and don't strive for technology. Not like here."
His words hung in the air, mingling with the muffled hum of the air conditioner. John thoughtfully ran his hand over his stubble, feeling its slight roughness. Outside the window, the light of a passing car's headlights flashed, briefly illuminating the room with a sharp white beam.
"Sounds attractive. But won't it be hard to get to such a place?" John asked, leaning slightly closer to his friend. His voice was businesslike, but it carried interest, as if he was already mapping out the route in his mind.
"Yes, getting there will be very difficult, but that's exactly what gives this place its special value," Lewis replied, his eyes gleaming in the twilight, reflecting the lamp's light.
"They don't want to be disturbed, and I don't think there are many tourists there. That kind of option is exactly what we need."
He took a sip of whiskey, feeling the burning taste spread across his tongue, and set the glass on the table with a light tap.
The living room seemed to him an island of calm: soft light, the creak of floorboards underfoot, the distant city noise muffled by thick glass. John, still pondering, nodded, his fingers tapping on the armrest of the chair, betraying inner excitement.
"Okay. But I think if we're heading to such a forgotten place, we'll need to prepare thoroughly. Wait, I'll try to map out our route," he said, standing up from the chair.
His steps echoed on the wooden floor as he headed to the table where the laptop lay.
John opened the laptop, and the bluish light of the screen illuminated his face, highlighting the wrinkles of fatigue. Lewis, continuing to speak, noticed that his friend, though holding up well, still looked subdued after the death of his beloved fiancée, even seeming a bit aged, and Lewis's voice softened.
"This place became for me a kind of utopia—a refuge from the noise and bustle of the world we're used to living in," he said, looking at the twinkling city outside the window.
"If you want, I can contact my people in Tibet. They're always ready to help people like us."
John ran his fingers over the keyboard, and the quiet clacking of keys mingled with the crackling of logs in the fireplace, which he now rarely lit. He nodded affirmatively, not taking his eyes off the screen.
"Okay, let's do it. I've always wanted to visit such places, and you're right, I need a rest," he replied, his voice now sounding confident, with a slight note of anticipation. Lewis smiled, feeling how the idea of the trip invigorated his friend and seemed to come alive in this room, amid the smell of whiskey and the hum of technology.
They agreed that Lewis wouldn't go home but would stay overnight here, and the next morning they would start preparing immediately.
Lewis would take on organizing contacts with his people in Tibet, and his fingers were already mentally flipping through a notebook full of numbers from different corners of the world.
John would handle the equipment, his mind already compiling lists of necessities: from satellite phones and electronic maps to warm clothing. It would be a trip to a place where time had stopped, and a good opportunity to rest.
"Well then, brother, shall we start our journey?" Lewis asked with a smile, raising his glass. His voice was warm, and it carried sincere hope.
"Yes," John replied, looking up from the screen and meeting his friend's gaze. "Let's start."
They clinked glasses, and the ring of glass echoed in the silence of the living room, as if underscoring the start of something new and good. Outside the window, Washington continued its life, but for them, it was already becoming distant, like the stars twinkling somewhere high above the mountains of Tibet.