Outside the entrance door, which you have just entered, the rain is gloomily drumming on the umbrellas of rare passersby, and the wind roughly tears off the yellowed leaves from the trees, taking them away and throwing them on the ground. Just like many destinies and lives were thrown and broken in the fall of 1917 in Russia.
You climb up the crumbling stairs, and the only noise — the noise of your steps — echoes along the entrance, betraying your presence. Now you have a door in front of you, dimly lit by the timidly quivering fire of a match. But what is this door? Why are you here? Who are you anyway? Do you remember? No?