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My name is Jonas, I am about to be forty-nine years old, my wife left me, my mother's memory faded to the point where she often cannot recognize me, I have a daughter, to be precise, she is not my daughter, and I only recently learned that we are not related by blood. I've held a slimy newborn baby in my arms, gone to the woods in December to cut down Christmas trees, taught my kids how to ride a bicycle step by step, and wrestled with reality in the late nights, both long and short. I know very well that life consists of laughter and crying, love and hate, that everyone has the talent to write poetry, and that people all know that they are mortal. I bought a one-way ticket and came to a quiet hotel in a distant country, preparing to commit suicide. However, my thin luggage and the toolbox I brought with me unexpectedly aroused the interest of the hotel owner and guests...