The old man froze, the ladle stilled in his hands. Slowly he turned, and I saw pain run across his face—deep, old, but still alive.
"So it happened what everyone feared... Kriver even destroyed their ally, and what will happen to us?" he said quietly. "And you—what, the only one left? The last?"
"Not the last," I said, feeling my throat tighten. "Just... the one who must tell more to the Marshal. I'm very sorry for what happened to Dagla."
Hadji-Murat nodded, as if understanding without explanations. He approached, laid a warm hand on my shoulder.
"Grandson," he said with such tenderness that I almost cried. "And haven't you thought—maybe it's not about who you fight for, but what?"
"For what?" I echoed. "What to fight for in a world where beauty dies from cruelty, where kindness is considered weakness?"
The old man sat opposite, silent for a long time. Then pointed to the window, where in the last rays of sun, ears of grain gleamed gold:
"See the field? Every year it's sown anew. Every year—storm, hail, drought. Every year shoots push toward the light. Not because the world is kind. But because stubbornness lives in the grain."
He stood, brought a bowl of hot porridge, set it before me.
"Your Monalia, boy, it's like a grain too. Perished, but not all. Part of it lives in you, in your memory of beauty. And as long as you remember—it's not dead."
"But what can I do?" escaped me. "One person against a whole world of cruelty?"
Hadji-Murat smirked, wrinkles deepened:
"Who said you're alone? At the creak of the gate, half the village came out—to look at the stranger. And know what I saw in their eyes? Not anger, not fear. Hope."
I looked back. At the windows and in the ajar door, faces indeed flickered—not young, tired, but alive. All these people knew what loss was. All lost something in wars between empires. And still hoped.
"Monalia caused you pain," I said, rising. "We weren't saints. I... I ask forgiveness. For myself, for not helping when I could."
No one answered. Only faces changed, shoulders straightened. In the thick silence like fog, I felt something amazing—acceptance. And in the eyes of the tormented people flashed a spark. Not joy—far from it, like to the stars. But hope.
And hope, as it turned out, is contagious.