David's grandfather’s room.

  The recollection emerges vividly. He had been sixteen when he last saw a carpet like this, its elaborate motifs woven into the very fabric of his childhood. He remembers the muffled clatter of something falling, followed by a familiar voice, grumbling in frustration.

  Davit had pushed open the door to find his grandfather, Taron, hunched over, muttering under his breath. A toppled flower pot lay at his feet, rich soil spilling onto the cherished old carpet.

  "Now how am I supposed to clean this mess?"

  A bemused smile had crept onto young Davit’s face. "Grandpa, don’t worry. They have cleaning services for this now. They can get rid of anything."

  Taron had scoffed, shaking his head. "And what would you youngsters do without all these newfangled conveniences, hm?"

  Even then, Davit had been amused by his grandfather’s stubborn refusal to embrace modernity, his dialect thick with nostalgia, his complaints laced with affection.

  That same day, he had watched his grandfather prepare to leave the house, two heavy buckets of water clutched in his hands. Without hesitation, Davit had stepped forward.

  "Grandpa, let me help.”

  "Listen here, youngster. These old bones still know their way around work just fine."

  Davit couldn’t suppress his amusement at his grandfather’s familiar scolding. Grandpa Taron rarely spoke in formal Armenian, favoring the thick, comforting dialect of their homeland. Davit also knew better than to argue-reasoning with Grandpa Taron was as futile as trying to move a mountain. Age had not diminished the old man’s vigor; no matter the task, he was never idle, always brimming with purpose.

  With a knowing smile, Davit grabbed the shovel and followed after him.

  "I'm coming too!"

  Little Areg’s voice rang out behind them. The boy bounded forward, his tiny toy shovel over his shoulder-a miniature replica which was made by Grandpa Taron himself.

  They stepped outside into the yard. Unlike the uniform, sterile courtyards of the city, this one held a unique charm. In its center stood an old apple tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit, bowing under their own abundance.

  Areg sprinted ahead, his small legs propelling him toward the tree. With a determined leap, he grabbed onto a low-hanging apple, plucking it free. The force of his tug sent a tremor through the branches, and several more apples tumbled to the ground.

  Grandpa Taron reached the tree just as Areg sank his teeth into the fruit with evident delight. The old man watched his grandson for a moment before nodding toward the fallen apples.

  "When you're done munching, gather those fallen ones up. We’ll take them home."

  With practiced care, Grandpa Taron knelt by the tree, loosening the soil with his weathered hands before gently pouring water at its base. Meanwhile, Areg clung to Davit's leg, tugging insistently.

  "Fight me" he demanded. Davit laughed and indulged the little one, playfully wrestling him to the ground. Their laughter echoed through the yard, a sound as pure as the rustling leaves above them.

  Grandpa Taron, hunched over the earth, remained silent as he emptied the last of the water onto the soil. A distant look clouded his aged eyes. In his mind, he was no longer in this small courtyard but back in his youth, running freely through vast orchards, their branches thick with life.

  Once, he had been like his grandchildren-carefree, unburdened, blissfully unaware of time’s relentless march.

  A single tear welled in the corner of his eye, slipping down his weathered cheek before slipping into the mix of water.

  That fateful evening would forever remain etched in Davit’s memory-the day that heralded his misfortune and marked the abrupt end of his childhood. It was on this very night that his life veered onto an irreversible path, forcing him to step into the burdens of adulthood far too soon.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  As dusk settled over the household, his father, Vahan, returned home. Syune, his mother, had already concluded her evening ritual in the kitchen, the aroma of freshly prepared dishes lingering in the air. She called out for her sons to gather at the table.

  Areg, ever the spirited child, rushed toward the dining room, his eyes eagerly scanning the table, assessing whether the spread suited his tastes. But before he could make a choice, his mother’s voice rang out once more:

  “Areg, go and fetch your grandfather for dinner.”

  Without lifting his gaze from the table, the boy protested, “ But Mom, I’m not hungry.”

  Her tone sharpened. “I said, go call your grandfather.”

  Recognizing the finality in her voice, Areg scurried out of the room.

  Moments later, Vahan and Davit entered, engaged in an animated conversation. Davit was passionately recounting something, his gestures lively, his words tumbling over one another. Vahan, however, abruptly halted the discussion, his gaze sweeping the room.

  “Where’s Areg?”

  “He went to get his grandfather,” Syune replied, settling beside her husband.

  Soon enough, Areg reappeared, sprinting in as was his habit, and plopped himself down beside Davit. Not long after, Grandpa Taron entered with his usual measured steps.

  Vahan straightened and greeted him. “Good evening, Father.”

  The old man, as was his custom, chose not to acknowledge his son’s greeting. He merely took his seat at the head of the table, and without another word, they commenced their meal.

  The unspoken tension between father and son loomed heavily over the dinner. Vahan, a man of influence, held a prominent position and maintained close ties with the mayor-a fact that had long been the source of contention between him and his father. Grandpa Taron disapproved of the company his son kept, believing him entangled with the wrong people. Were it not for Syune’s unwavering presence and wisdom, their estrangement might have escalated into something irreparable. She had spent years diffusing conflicts before they could ignite, ensuring that peace, however tenuous, endured within the walls of their home.

  Vahan’s mother had passed away long ago, succumbing to illness, and since then, Grandpa Taron had never sought to remarry. His grief had settled into his bones, making him a man of few words, his silence often speaking louder than any argument.

  The room remained hushed, save for the occasional clink of utensils against porcelain, when suddenly, a firm knock echoed through the house.

  Syune glanced up in surprise. “Who could that be at this hour? We’re not expecting anyone, are we?”

  Vahan rose from his seat and made his way toward the door. Moments later, he reappeared.

  “Come in, Roman Borisich. You honor our home with your presence.”

  Stepping inside:

  “Good evening, everyone.”

  Syune and her sons greeted their guest in unison. Rising from her seat, Syune moved swiftly toward the cupboard, retrieving a fresh plate. Meanwhile, Vahan gestured toward an empty chair.

  “Please, Roman Borisich, have a seat.”

  The man settling himself directly across from Grandpa Taron, who remained impassive, his gaze fixed upon his meal.

  Roman Borisich, with an air of casual familiarity, leaned forward slightly. “Grandpa Taron, I must commend you-I saw you tending to the apple tree earlier. A noble effort, indeed.”

  The old man, unperturbed, continued eating in stoic silence. An awkward stillness hung over the table. Sensing the need to defuse the moment, Vahan forced a genial tone.

  “Yes, Roman Borisich, it is a fortunate tree-the last standing in all of Thalas.”

  Roman Borisich exhaled a long, deliberate sigh. “Regrettably so. But we must take action. We need to restore what was lost. I’ve decided to install a proper water system near the tree. That way, you won’t have to exhaust yourself hauling buckets back and forth.”

  At this, Grandpa Taron finally raised his head. His voice, though quiet, carried an unmistakable firmness.

  “It’s no burden to me.”

  Without another word, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Leaving his meal unfinished, he strode toward his room, muttering that he had lost his appetite.

  Roman Borisich chuckled, shaking his head as he watched the old man depart. “Ah, I have great admiration for Grandpa Taron. A relic of the old world-unyielding, proud. Nearing eighty, yet he refuses to acknowledge the passage of time.”

  His laughter lingered in the air long after his departure.

  As the door closed behind their guest, Vahan could barely restrain his anger, his fingers curled into tight fists. When Grandpa Taron reemerged, his tone was clipped and resolute.

  “If that man sets foot in this house again, I will be the one to leave.”

  Vahan, his frustration spilling over, demanded, “Father, what has he done to you? What is it about him that you despise so much?”

  The old man’s expression did not waver. “I have said what I needed to say.” With that, he turned and disappeared into his room.

  Syune spent a long time soothing her husband, assuring him that such a visit was unlikely to be repeated. Yet, deep within, unease gnawed at her. Roman Borisich had not come merely to discuss an apple tree-of that, she was certain.

  Davit was wrenched from the depths of his memories by a slight movement. He blinked, focusing on the present. The girl had stirred. As he rose to his feet, he found himself staring into a pair of wide, terrified eyes. She clutched the threadbare blanket to her chest, her entire frame taut with fear.