"Hey! Stop right there! I won’t allow anyone to step onto my bus with filthy shoes" the bus driver shouts from beneath his slightly tobacco-stained mustache, his voice laced with both authority and irritation. His piercing eyes look steadily onto the young man in a military uniform as he attempts to board.
The soldier pauses mid-step, turning toward the driver with an unwavering gaze. Observing the man’s age and the air of experience etched into his face, he responds with quiet dignity, his voice imbued with the discipline of service:
"This is not mere dirt you see-it is soil."
With that, he pivots on his heel and steps back onto the pavement. The driver mutters something under his breath, but his words fade into the clamor of the lively streets. It doesn’t matter. The soldier has no interest in deciphering them.
Lowering himself onto the cold, unyielding iron bench at the bus stop, he casts a glance at his boots. They are, indeed, thickly caked with mud-a detail he had previously overlooked. With a measured movement, he reaches into the pocket of his uniform and retrieves a palm-sized knife encased in weathered leather. He unsheathes it with care, revealing the timeworn blade that has accompanied him like a silent guardian.
Using the blunt edge, he methodically scrapes away the dried clumps of earth clinging to the sides of his boots. This knife is no ordinary tool; it is the lone inheritance from his paternal grandfather, an heirloom passed down through generations, a silent witness to a century of unyielding resilience. His grandfather, in turn, had received it from his own father, and despite the relentless march of time, the blade has never dulled, its strength undiminished.
Davit rarely finds occasion to use it, but now, as he methodically clears the remnants of his journey from his boots, a memory surfaces-one indelibly etched in his mind. The first time he witnessed his grandfather wield the knife with purpose, a moment so striking it left an imprint upon his soul.
Grandpa Taron walks home with little Davit, their footsteps weaving through the towering high-rises that have swallowed the sky. They stroll and converse, the boy’s eager voice filling the spaces between the cold, unyielding facades.
There was a time when Taron himself would await these very walks with his own grandfather or father, his heart alight with anticipation. How blissful those days had been! But then, in place of these suffocating concrete monoliths, there had been sprawling orchards laden with fruit, their branches swaying under the weight of abundance. The earth had been alive beneath their feet, whispering its own stories-summer’s brittle grass crackling like embers, winter’s snow crunching in solemn rhythm. Now, all that remains is the hollow, impersonal tap of shoes against asphalt, and even in the depths of winter, the snow refuses to embrace this hardened, oil-soaked ground.
Grandpa Taron suddenly halts. Davit, sensing the pause, stops as well-he isn’t in any hurry to return home. Animatedly, he continues his tale, recounting with bright-eyed enthusiasm the latest cartoon he has seen. But after a few moments, he notices something amiss-his grandfather is silent.
Puzzled, Davit lifts his gaze and sees him standing motionless, his eyes locked onto the ground, glistening with unshed tears.
Then, without a word, Grandpa Taron grips Davit’s hand more firmly and strides forward with sudden urgency. He stops before a jagged crack in the pavement, releases the boy’s hand, and kneels. His breath trembles. A strangled sob escapes him as his calloused fingers reach into the fissure, clawing at the broken asphalt. He digs desperately, his movements feverish, prying apart the stone that has entombed something precious. After several strained attempts, he manages to dislodge a piece of the hardened earth.
And then, his voice, thick with sorrow, rises into the air:
"Oh, my precious child… my darling soul… you cannot fathom how my heart aches for you. Bless you, just hold on a little longer-I’m carving out a place for you, right here, where you belong."
Grandpa Taron sobs, his breath hitching as his trembling fingers-now raw and bloodied-continue their relentless work. Yet he does not stop. There is no complaint, no hesitation, no fear. With his head bowed over the fragile sprout, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his leather-cased knife, its timeworn handle warm in his grasp. With painstaking care, he begins loosening the soil, his silent tears seeping into the earth, nourishing it in ways unseen. And with each tear, the sprout stretches upward, as if drawing strength from sorrow itself.
For years, day after day, Grandpa Taron and Davit return to this sacred patch of earth, their devotion unwavering. They water the soil, loosen its embrace, and shield the sapling from harm. Seasons pass, and the fragile shoot matures, its roots burrowing deep, anchoring themselves into the land that once threatened to smother it. Time bestows its quiet blessings, and now, at long last, the tree stands tall-a defiant testament to resilience.
This spring, for the first time, the apple tree gathers the strength to bloom. Its branches, once bare and yearning, now burst forth in a cascade of white blossoms, their delicate perfume spilling into the air like whispered poetry. From a distance, the tree appears as an ethereal cloud adrift amidst the gray, lifeless buildings. Its branches stretch outward, pressing against windows that have remained sealed for years, longing to remind those within that life still stirs beyond the glass.
The blossoms surrender their petals to the tender caress of the breeze, making way for the promise of fruit. And as the apples begin to swell, the tree sings-each leaf, each ripening fruit, carrying forth the stories of the unseen toil below. The branches whisper of the roots, tireless and unseen, laboring in darkness, drawing life from the depths, offering every ounce of sweetness to the waiting fruit.
And to each growing apple, the tree imparts a quiet truth: within you lies a seed, a destiny-an untold possibility of becoming more. Yet one by one, the fruits are plucked, carried away with hopeful hands, taken with the promise of new beginnings. But the world is unkind to such dreams, and soil is scarce. Few will find the earth they need to take root, and fewer still will rise into the sky.
Yet the apple tree does not despair. It does not mourn the loss of its fruit, nor waver in its purpose. Year after year, it blossoms anew, its offering sweeter than the last. For hope is its nature, and giving is its purpose. And so, it bears fruit-again and again-undaunted, unwavering, unafraid.
Within every branch of the apple tree lies a chronicle of time-if you believe it to be mere wood, sever a branch and behold the countless layers woven within, imperceptible to the naked eye. Each ring is a testament, a fragment of the branch’s existence, a silent witness to the passing seasons. Every layer shelters the one before it, preserving its wisdom and warmth, while bestowing its essence upon the next. Through this unbroken lineage of resilience and quiet devotion, the tree grows, fortified by the ceaseless exchange of life.
The bark, gnarled and weatherworn, has never laid eyes upon the tireless toil of the roots beneath, just as the roots have never glimpsed the relentless battles waged above-the unforgiving winds, the scorching sun, the scars etched into every fiber of the bark’s being. Yet, sight is of no consequence. They are two halves of an indivisible whole, bound by an unspoken trust, laboring in harmony toward a singular purpose-to bear new fruit. Neither seeks recognition, neither falters in its duty. The roots toil in unseen depths, drawing sustenance from the earth’s core, while the bark stands as a steadfast sentinel against the chaos of the world. Each carries its burden in silence, each endures for the sake of the other.
The tree breathes, its silent pulse thrumming through the marrow of its being. It has a heart, a rhythm that hums with the cadence of life itself. Yet, in this modern age of steel and stone, in this city drowned in shades of gray, there is but one soul who can hear the whisper of its heartbeat-Grandpa Taron.
After years away from Thalas, Davit has returned. His first pilgrimage is to Grandpa Taron’s grave, where he carefully tends to the resting place, clearing away debris and pulling the overgrown weeds that dare to encroach upon the sacred soil. As he waters the trees standing sentinel beside the grave, his boots sink into the damp earth, collecting thick layers of mud. He barely notices.
Only when he steps back onto the pavement does he catch the sidelong glances of passersby-some fleeting, others lingering with thinly veiled disapproval. Those waiting at the nearby bus stop eye him with a mixture of curiosity and unease. Perhaps it is the sight of his mud-caked boots, or perhaps it is the solemn weight of his military uniform, the quiet gravity in his eyes. Either way, no one dares voice a word of reproach.
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He exhales, kneeling to scrape the mud from his boots. As he straightens, his gaze sweeps across his surroundings-everything is drenched in filth, a stark contrast to the disciplined order he has grown accustomed to.
"I've lost touch with city life," Davit muses, brushing the last remnants of dirt from his knife before returning it to its worn leather sheath. The blade, passed down through generations, has endured a century of history yet has never been tainted by blood.
The bus remains absent, and so Davit waits, his gaze shifting to the others gathered at the stop. It is a somber place. Most who stand here are mourners, departing from the cemetery with grief pressed into their shoulders like an invisible burden. The weight of loss lingers in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of rotting waste that drifts from the nearby factories, an unrelenting reminder of decay.
The crowd thickens, a silent signal that the bus must be approaching soon. But before it arrives, Davit’s attention is caught by a lone figure passing beyond the stop-a dark-haired woman, moving with effortless grace. Her every step is measured, deliberate, tracing invisible lines of elegance in the space around her. The way she carries herself, the way the folds of her attire shift with each movement, captivates him utterly.
For the first time since his return, the storm in his expression softens. His weary gaze follows her, entranced, as if compelled by some unseen force. He watches until she disappears from view, yet even in her absence, she lingers. Her presence is seared into his mind-not merely her beauty, but the quiet sophistication in her bearing, the way she seemed untouched by the bleakness of this place.
Davit knows, with the certainty of a man accustomed to fleeting moments, that he will never see her again. The thought is a bitter one, but he does not dwell on it. A few minutes later, the bus arrives, and he boards, his face once again shadowed by the same quiet sorrow that has accompanied him since his return.
Davit disembarks near the heart of Thalas, stepping into the sweltering embrace of the city’s central square. The air is thick with heat, yet the square remains teeming with life-people drift through the streets in light, flowing attire, their movements languid beneath the oppressive sun. Amidst them, Davit stands as an anomaly, his military uniform a stark contrast to the summer-clad throng. The heat does not trouble him; years of service have inured him to far harsher climates.
His gaze sweeps across the cityscape, and a quiet realization settles upon him-nothing has changed. The same gridlocked streets, the same ceaseless tide of automobiles, the same towering high-rises that loom over the city, casting long shadows over the pavement below. Thalas remains indifferent, its pulse unbroken by his absence.
He walks for what feels like an eternity, weaving through the familiar labyrinth of streets, before veering off the main road. Navigating a series of intersections, he finally steps into an enclosed courtyard. The world here is draped in muted shades of gray, a dreary oasis of concrete and stone. The only color-a meager stretch of artificial turf laid in the center, its synthetic green a poor imitation of life.
Davit treads slowly along the narrow strip of asphalt, an inexplicable weight settling over him. With each step, his heart pounds with increasing force, his breath deepens, and his legs grow heavy, as if the earth itself conspires to anchor him in place. Then, he sees it.
He falls to his knees.
Before him, pushing defiantly through a jagged crack in the asphalt, is a fragile green sprout-tenacious, unyielding, an ember of life in a desolate expanse of stone. His chest tightens. He leans forward, studying the tiny shoot, his voice barely a whisper.
"They won’t let you grow… yet still, you resist."
A shudder runs through him. At last, he understands. He understands what Grandpa Taron had felt that day, the silent, wordless reverence in the presence of something so small yet immeasurably resolute. He presses a hand to the ground, fingers grazing the rough, sun-scorched asphalt.
"Don’t worry… I’m here now."
With deliberate force, he pries at the broken pavement, tearing away jagged fragments to give the sprout room to breathe. Once satisfied, he rises to his feet, brushing the dust from his palms. His gaze lifts to the looming building across the courtyard. The windows stare back, uniform and indistinguishable from one another, faceless sentinels of a lifeless structure.
But Davit does not forget. He knows exactly which window was theirs-the only one that ever dared to open. The window from which Grandpa Taron once watched over the apple tree that had defied the asphalt.
He exhales, his resolve hardening like tempered steel.
"History repeats itself… but this time, I won’t let them take you.”
After Grandpa Taron’s passing, the family relocated to Neapolis, yet Davit’s heart had never truly left Thalas. A longing, deep and persistent, had always drawn him back to the city of his childhood. Now that he was here, he found himself reluctant to return home just yet. Instead, he chose to wander its streets a little longer, to retrace the footprints of his youth.
His steps carried him toward the outskirts of the city, to a secluded alleyway where he and his friends had once played, where laughter had once echoed between the walls like an unbroken melody.
Decades ago, Thalas had been a tranquil coastal town, a haven of unspoiled beauty where nature reigned undisturbed. The sea stretched endlessly on one side, while the other horizons were guarded by forested mountains, standing like sentinels against the sky. Life here had been simple, serene. But the quiet existence of Thalas was shattered when vast mineral deposits were unearthed in the surrounding lands. The discovery heralded an era of rapid expansion-factories rose like steel monoliths, industries flourished, and a relentless influx of people transformed the town into a sprawling metropolis of ten million souls.
Davit had never known the old Thalas, never breathed its pristine air or walked its untouched shores. He was born into the cacophony of the modern city, a Thalas swollen beyond recognition, but he carried within him the echoes of the past-his grandfather’s stories, whispered like folklore, preserving the memory of what once was.
After nearly two hours of walking, weariness gnawed at his limbs. A small fast-food place caught his eye, and he decided to stop for a meal. Stepping inside, he found the establishment nearly deserted, save for the indifferent presence of the staff. He placed his order and settled into a chair, his gaze drifting to the television mounted on the wall before him.
A concert was playing-a singer unfamiliar to him, crooning a song that carried neither meaning nor soul, an empty refrain adrift in the air. The music washed over him, forgettable and detached, until it was abruptly silenced.
The screen flickered. A breaking news banner slashed across the bottom.
BREAKING NEWS
"We interrupt our broadcast to bring you urgent news from Thalas. Gerard White, esteemed CEO of White Holdings and a well-known philanthropist, has been assassinated near the WhiteMining facility. White Holdings, a dominant force in the Cilician mining sector, stands as the region’s largest employer, wielding significant economic influence.
Details surrounding his death remain shrouded in uncertainty. Local authorities have sealed off the area and launched a full-scale investigation. Sources close to the inquiry report that officers were dispatched to the scene following an emergency call, though the circumstances leading to White’s demise remain undisclosed.
Renowned for his charitable endeavors, White was the founder of the White Foundation, a philanthropic initiative dedicated to providing educational scholarships for children of mining families. Over the past two decades, his company has played a pivotal role in shaping the economic landscape of the region.
Law enforcement officials have refrained from commenting on the specifics of the incident, citing the ongoing nature of the investigation.
Stay tuned as we continue to follow this developing story. Now, back to the studio."
Davit catches snippets of hushed conversation between the restaurant staff:
"White’s security was tighter than the president’s… How in the world did they manage to take him down?"
Davit remains unmoved by the breaking news. Unlike the others, he feels no intrigue, no shock-only indifference. As he eats, snippets of conversation drift past him, all centering on the assassination of Gerard White. The city hums with speculation, theories whispered between passersby, yet none of it stirs him.
Noticing that dusk has begun to settle over Thalas, Davit feels an undeniable pull toward the alley-an urge he can no longer resist. He rises from his seat, leaves the restaurant, and steps into the evening air.
As he ascends the familiar alleyway, memories of childhood flood his mind, each step echoing with the ghosts of the past. Suddenly, he sees her. A lone figure walking ahead. His breath catches in his throat.
"It can’t be... it’s her."
The realization strikes like lightning. He freezes, his pulse quickening, his face warming at the thought. This time, he cannot let her slip away. Determined, he quickens his pace, each step carrying the weight of certainty. But before he can take a second stride, he feels the first drops of rain land upon his skin.
Frowning, he glances down. Dark spots blossom across the pavement.
"But the sky was clear just moments ago," he muses.
Without warning, the drizzle transforms into a torrential downpour, sheets of rain cascading from above. The girl halts for a fraction of a second before spinning on her heel, dashing back down the alley. She rushes past him, her dark hair dampened by the deluge, her silhouette blurring against the silver rain.
Davit does not hesitate. He will not lose her again. With swift resolve, he pivots and sprints after her, the rain battering his uniform, his heart pounding louder than the storm itself.
