The year is 1912, a heavy snow has fallen over the small city of Prague. A small meeting of writers and scholars gathered in a cozy apartment to socialize in a humble literary club.

”Passion is my passion, I fear. My heart is scalding for even the warmest of hands.” the girl casually mentions in conversation.

Later into the night, Kafka passes her a note.

”I’d rather be burned by your passion than never feel its warmth.”