Marvo drew back his arm to strike, but his opponent dodged — by a barely perceptible movement, as if he already knew where the punch would fly. Marvo stumbled forward, fighting to keep his balance, then clenched his teeth in anger and returned to his stance.

  “Too slow,” Ryan snorted, taking a step back. “You hit like you’re afraid of landing it.”

  “I’m just cold,” Marvo snapped, exhaling a cloud of breath that burst from his mouth like smoke.

  The cold cut straight through him. In the abandoned warehouse where Ryan had set up the training, there was no heating and no hint of comfort — only a concrete floor, metal columns, and windows filmed over with frost.

  “It’s cold outside,” Ryan shrugged, “and if you end up in a pit somewhere, the weather won’t matter at all.”

  He moved in on Marvo again, and this time Marvo gathered his will and lunged forward. The punch was more accurate now, the movement sharper. Still not perfect — but Ryan nodded.

  Ryan stepped in sharply and threw two quick blows to Marvo’s side. Marvo managed to block with his elbows, but a dull ache still bloomed under his ribs. He clenched his teeth, holding a half-stance, breathing hard. The cold air burned his lungs; every breath felt like a tiny needle stabbing from the inside. December showed no mercy — even inside the warehouse the cold was biting and relentless.

  Warming up was almost impossible. Their jackets were off, their bodies heated by the fight, but their fingers no longer obeyed as they should, movements growing clumsy. Where fists met skin, burning marks flared — not from heat, but from icy sting.

  Outside, beyond the grimy windows, snow was falling in thick flakes, as if someone above had grown tired and simply dumped out the entire sack at once. Light from the gray sky still seeped inside, washing the warehouse in a deathly white glow. Like a morgue. Or like an empty cage, where the cold held your throat no worse than chains.

  “You’re too soft,” Ryan said, circling to the side again. “People die faster in winter. You freeze — and you don’t get back up. Think faster. This isn’t the street, it’s the ring. Here, at least, you’ve got a chance.”

  Marvo hopped back, exhaling through clenched teeth.

  “Two months ago I knew nothing…” he thought, stepping back to catch his breath.

  “…and now I know more than I ever wanted to. Names, places, faces. Ryan. Pooch. Yen — the boss who always stays in the shadows. There’s steel in his voice and weariness in his eyes.”

  “Think!” Ryan shouted and lunged forward again.

  Marvo barely managed to bring up his elbow, deflecting the blow. A sharp jolt of pain rang from his wrist up to his shoulder, but he didn’t retreat. He was no longer the boy who had trembled in a basement with a sack over his head.

  “They called it a family. A gang.”

  He slipped the next punch, stepped sharply to the side, and — surprising even himself — threw a counterstrike. His fist clipped Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan grunted, rubbing the spot with mild irritation.

  “Now that looks like progress,” Ryan said. “I can see you’re starting to learn.”

  Marvo didn’t answer. He just wiped his lip, where an old scab had split open again, and looked his mentor in the eyes. Too much was churning inside him — fear, resolve, rage.

  Marvo grew more aggressive whenever he thought of Pooch, whom he blamed inwardly for his situation. Pooch was a fighter and often carried out field jobs on Boss’s orders. He could disappear for weeks at a time. He had met Yen after getting out of prison.

  Pooch always kept to himself. He was like a ghost among the others — never smiled, never joked the way the rest did, even Ryan, who despite his coldness could still seem alive.

  Pooch was different. His presence made people tense, as if the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees.

  He rarely spoke. But when he did, it was brief, clipped, and every syllable sounded like a drop of water falling in the silence of a basement.

  His gaze was always the same — no fear, no joy, no anger. Empty. As if he observed the world not as a participant, but as something external, come from another, far darker reality.

  When Marvo learned that he had no name, he wasn’t even surprised. It fit. Pooch had nothing personal. No attachments. No past.

  He was a weapon. A living instrument that had no need for an identity.

  Ryan once said, “He’s not a man. He’s consequences.”

  It was already past midnight. Marvo was returning from his first real run. Ryan had left earlier — according to plan — and Marvo had stayed behind, double-checking everything. He was exhausted, angry, his fingers numb with cold when he opened the basement door.

  Pooch was already waiting inside.He stood by the table, leaning on its edge with both hands, staring straight at him. Marvo flinched, even though he had known all along that this moment would come — that sooner or later they would be alone.

  “Out for a walk?” Pooch said. His voice was low and raspy, like glass scraping against metal.

  Marvo tossed his jacket onto the cot and didn’t answer. He knew Pooch was provoking him.

  “Think that running around with Ryan makes you one of us?”

  Marvo clenched his fists. Everything inside him boiled over. Old images surged up in his mind — lying there with a smashed face, hands on his throat, someone suggesting they take him out to the forest. All of it because of him. Because of Pooch.

  “I’m here because you screwed up,” Marvo said suddenly, almost in a whisper. “You wanted to kill me, and now I’m still here. Funny, isn’t it — having to look at your mistake every day?”

  Pooch slowly straightened. A few steps — and he was right in front of him. His eyes were empty, black like asphalt at night. No surprise. No anger.

  “I don’t make mistakes,” he said. “I just don’t always finish.”

  And in the next second, he struck.

  Marvo flew sideways, crashed onto the bed, then forced himself up again, choking on pain and adrenaline.

  “Try again,” he rasped. “But this time, I won’t let it happen.”

  Pooch didn’t move. He stared at him for another second, as if weighing something. Then he turned away. Just left, as if nothing had happened.

  And Marvo was left standing there, trembling.He hadn’t won — but he hadn’t broken either. And that was enough.

  Marvo often thought back to that day. How they had stood there in the dim half-basement light, how Pooch had struck first — and how Marvo had remained standing. Since then, they had never crossed paths again. No looks, no words. As if Pooch had forgotten he existed. Or was pretending to have forgotten.

  And Marvo was fine with that.

  He knew that under different circumstances, with a different turn of events, Pooch could have simply slit his throat. But for some reason, that hadn’t happened.

  There were twelve people in the group. Guys of different ages and builds, with different pasts. Some were quiet, some aggressive, some tried to curry favor with Boss. But over the past six months, five of them had disappeared. They were no longer seen at meetings or on jobs.

  “Retired,” one of the older ones would say with a smirk, lighting a cigarette by the exit.

  Later, when Marvo had worked up the courage, he asked Ryan about it.

  As always, Ryan didn’t answer right away. He looked off to the side, as if weighing whether it was worth saying anything.

  “Everyone had their own reasons,” he finally said. “Some couldn’t take it. Some betrayed us. And some just got tired. That happens here. We’re not eternal.”

  Marvo didn’t press further. He didn’t ask whether they’d been killed or had left on their own. But inside him lingered the feeling that one wrong step — and he’d become the sixth.

  Just recently, they had seen Michael off.

  That same guy who always smiled a little out of place, even when he came back from jobs with a split eyebrow or burned fingers. Michael, whose daughter had been born not long ago. He had shown Marvo a photo — a tiny baby girl in the arms of a young woman with a tired but sincere face.

  “This is my life,” he’d said then, almost as if apologizing. “And this is the meaning.”

  Marvo hadn’t replied. He’d only nodded, not knowing what he was supposed to feel. It was strange. Alien. Incomprehensible. How could a man who dealt drugs, beat debtors, and carried a knife on his belt — have a family, a wife, a child? And… a home?

  Sometimes Marvo tried to imagine himself in such a world. Coming home from work, tired but alive. The house smelling of bread, and someone hugging him — not for profit, not because they had to. Just because they had been waiting.

  But he didn’t know how that worked.

  “How do people even come to have a family? First meeting? Then falling in love? And then… kindergartens, schools, parent meetings?”

  And then — all the things he himself had never had.

  Sometimes it seemed to him that he might want that. To give more. To create something real.

  So real that his children wouldn’t feel like ghosts in someone else’s world.

  But now…

  Now he is only fifteen.

  Too early to think about a future that didn’t exist.

  Too late to believe in a childhood that never was.

  The training ended before noon. The frosty air stung his skin, but Marvo was already used to it — every morning began with exhausting drills, as if Ryan were deliberately trying to squeeze out everything that had built up in him overnight.

  Ryan wasted no time and called the boy in for lunch. They headed toward their new base — a house that was now temporarily considered their shelter. Marvo walked in silence, listening to the crunch of snow beneath his boots and the whistle of wind threading between the rooftops. Winter in this part of town seemed to know no mercy — gray, icy, and mute.

  The house turned out to be far better than the damp basement where he’d first ended up. It was a single-story building with peeling walls and a slightly crooked gate. But inside it was warm, dry, and, strangely enough, cozy in its own way.

  Boss had once explained the choice: the area was sparsely populated, almost dead. If there were neighbors, they showed up only in summer. Two other houses nearby had stood empty for a couple of years already. That kind of isolation was convenient — both for keeping watch and for sudden getaways, if it ever came to that.

  Marvo absorbed all of this, even if he didn’t show it. He understood that Yen’s crew had long grown used to moving. Changing locations like shedding old skin was routine. It was striking how smoothly and quietly they shifted through the city, like shadows, leaving no trace behind.

  The kitchen already smelled of fried meat. Ryan shrugged off his jacket, rubbed his hands together, and pulled out something like canned food and bread from the pantry.

  “Keeping it simple today,” he said, looking at Marvo. “No frills. But food’s food.”

  Marvo sat down at the wooden table covered with a worn oilcloth. Everything felt oddly ordinary, almost home-like — if not for the reminders on the walls: a city map marked up with notes, a radio set lying in the corner, and a rifle carefully propped against an old wardrobe.

  Marvo ate quietly and unhurriedly, savoring each bite not so much for the taste as for the chance to delay returning to reality. The room was warm, but the cold from outside still lingered somewhere deep beneath his skin.

  Before sitting down himself, Ryan stepped up quietly and rested a hand on Marvo’s shoulder for a second. The gesture was barely noticeable, but it carried more than a silent “sit and eat.” It was a kind of confirmation — you’re here, you belong, everything’s going the way it should.

  Marvo had developed a special kind of relationship with Ryan. He no longer saw him as just a Boss or a handler. Ryan had become something like a personal guide through this new, brutal world — not a shouting leader, but a calm, almost cold point of reference. Everything with him was precise: instructions, actions, routes. No unnecessary words, though now and then something like understanding — or even sympathy — slipped into his voice.

  Over time, Marvo noticed that Ryan often disappeared together with Yen — sometimes for a day or two — and then returned as if they’d never left. The others took it as normal. They said he stood close to Boss.

  At one point, Pocket — a man with a hoarse voice and perpetually squinting eyes — casually mentioned that Ryan was Boss’s left hand. Marvo was surprised; usually, people said “right hand” in such expressions. But later, he learned that Yen was left-handed, and everything made sense.

  Their modest meal was coming to an end. Ryan sat silently, gazing out the window as if counting the falling snowflakes. Marvo, meanwhile, thought about how quickly everything had changed. He was no longer the same boy who had shivered in the cold streets of Eltwood.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  As soon as they finished eating, Marvo got up without a word and began clearing the dishes. This had long become an unspoken rule: if one cooked, the other cleaned. No arguments, no reminders. They simply switched roles day after day, and it was one of the few established routines they followed flawlessly.

  Their beds were in the same room — initially out of necessity, but later they moved into a separate two-person room so no one could disturb or eavesdrop on them. In a way, it became their small personal space, an informal territory where few ventured without reason.

  After lunch, Ryan almost always immersed himself in reading. He would sit in the armchair by the window, stretch out his legs, drape one arm over his head, and flip through a book, ignoring any attempts at conversation. It was his habitual, almost ritualistic activity. He read calmly and deliberately, either seeking answers through the lines or simply shutting himself off from the rest of the world.

  Marvo, on the other hand, often didn’t know what to do in those moments. Until evening, he remained alone with his thoughts. Sometimes he just sat by the window; sometimes he scrolled through the phone he had received not long ago. The phone, along with the bed and warm clothes, had been given to him by Boss — perhaps as a reward, or maybe as a form of control. Marvo spent his earned share only on food and small necessities. Gradually, he even managed to save a little.

  He kept the money in a notebook between the pages, keeping track of how much he had and where it came from. He didn’t trust anyone enough to store it all in one place, and he didn’t trust himself enough to spend it recklessly.

  On days like this, in their quiet house that almost no one monitored, he could breathe a little. Yet inside, the tension remained — like the silence before a storm.

  Six months passed like this. Then a whole year.

  Marvo continued working as a courier, evenings and nights, without knowing weekends or holidays. All the conventional “joys of life” passed him by. Life in the city went on—some celebrated New Year’s, some walked the streets with garlands, some went out to cafés with their families. And he — hood up, backpack weighed down, checking addresses and names of recipients — went on with his work. And that was how time flowed.

  Ryan would sometimes disappear for a day or two. Without explanation. No one asked questions. Everyone understood it was necessary. And everyone knew the date — September 4th. It was his birthday.

  That day, Marvo left earlier, bought a book from the very series he often saw in Ryan’s hands. Simple, without a cover, but exactly the one. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  Ryan turned twenty-eight. He seemed not to expect a gift, but when he received it, he held it silently in his hands for a long time before saying:

  “Thank you. Really.”

  Then, after a short pause, he asked:

  “When’s your birthday? And what’s your last name? You’re not in the registry anyway, but I’m curious.”

  Marvo froze. The last name was complicated. He didn’t remember it. He hardly ever used it with his mother. It had gotten lost somewhere among moves, streets, strangers’ letters, and misplaced documents. And eventually, he just forgot it.

  But his birthday… he remembered. It was one of the few remaining fragments of memory he clung to.

  “June 8th,” he said quietly.

  Ryan nodded, as if he memorized it. Or maybe just noted it. They didn’t pursue the topic, but after that, Marvo felt something warm inside. A simple acknowledgment of a date suddenly became a small anchor — a reminder of himself.

  Month by month, more responsibility fell on Marvo. At first — just a courier, then — handling deliveries, then — managing money. And now… now he had become part of a process far deeper than he ever imagined.

  He was growing, not just physically. By sixteen, Marvo already knew more than many people do in a lifetime. Not from books, not from school — but from the streets, from observation, from survival. He learned fast. And, most importantly, he knew how to listen and draw conclusions.

  Boss saw it. Ryan saw it even more clearly. And so Marvo was no longer just used — he was trusted.

  Now he sought out clients himself. Sometimes they were people who just wanted to “try something,” sometimes old buyers needing a “restock.” Other times — complex, dangerous cases. On one such day, Ryan gave him an assignment: acquire a list of specific reagents. Don’t ask where or how. Just get them.

  This was no longer street corners or park benches. This was acquiring things that would later be cooked up right in the kitchen of their new base. The same one that once had only smelled of bread and coffee.

  He spent a couple of evenings flipping through store lists, questioning people he might not have even noticed before. With every new “ingredient,” he felt himself stepping across a new line.

  But Marvo didn’t complain. He acted. He was “on the job.” And that meant he had to keep everything under control.

  Although… sometimes he didn’t even know how far he could go.

  In May of 909, everything changed again. A wave of anxiety and urgency swept through the group when the police got onto their trail. The last house they had been living in was convenient and well-hidden, but they had to leave it. The police were close. They knew they couldn’t stay there any longer.

  The new place was even more hidden, but only temporarily. It consisted of two small apartments in an old apartment building. Each had just two rooms and a shared hallway. The place seemed new, but now they were practically under everyone’s nose, as if in plain sight.

  Marvo felt the tension rising. In his mind, the thought he voiced kept repeating:

  “Now they’ll definitely find us. We can’t keep running forever.”

  His eyes darted around the room, and the tension was visible in every gesture.

  But Ryan, calm as always, approached and, without giving him a chance to overthink, put a hand on his shoulder and reassured him confidently:

  “Don’t worry. They definitely won’t find me. As for you… I’ll personally take care of that.”

  Marvo didn’t immediately understand exactly what he meant, but Ryan’s words brought him a strange relief. He didn’t know how Ryan could “take care” of him in these circumstances, but if the words could calm him even slightly, it was worth it.

  No one knew how long they could stay in this place, but for Marvo, that moment was significant. Ryan was no longer just his superior — he had become something more: a pillar, someone to lean on in this insane world.

  The rush that day wasn’t just because of the move, but also due to a new shipment they were preparing. The air carried the tense smell of chemicals, and the kitchen was in a frenzy. Spike, usually confident and calm, was now nervous. His normally steady hands moved quickly over the table, flipping boxes of chemicals and reagents.

  “Damn it, what’s going on?” he muttered, trying to stay composed, but his face was taut with tension.

  The table was crowded with boxes and jars of chemicals. Fumes rose from some of them, and a strange smell filled the room. Everything looked… off, unlike usual.

  Marvo stood aside, watching it all unfold. He was struck by how deftly Spike handled the chaos, but today it was obvious that something was wrong. Spike had always been so confident in his work, but now, with everything going off-plan, his normally strict and composed expression was tinged with unease.

  Marvo couldn’t help but notice how his own interest in the process was growing. He often observed Spike, how he immersed himself over and over in the world of chemistry, a world that seemed less like work and more like an art form. Inspired by this, Marvo began to feel a subtle fascination with the process itself. But now, with things clearly going awry, his attention sharpened.

  Spike frowned and with a sharp motion pushed a box aside. His gaze swept over the tables and calculations spread out nearby. He muttered something under his breath, words incomprehensible to Marvo. The tension in the room thickened with every passing second.

  Spike continued circling the table, fussing over papers and boxes as if trying to find something that should have been right at hand. Marvo watched him, trying to understand exactly what the problem was, since up until now Spike had always been so confident in his work.

  “As you can see,” Spike replied, his voice sounding a bit weary, almost irritated. “I lost a few notes while moving the equipment. And now I can’t replicate the formula exactly… Even though I thought I’d memorized everything perfectly.”

  Marvo stayed silent, thinking. He knew that if someone else were in this situation, Spike would most likely have rejected any attempt to help. But here was something different. Ordinary fatigue and stress — or something more? In any case, he couldn’t leave a person in trouble.

  “Maybe I can help you with something?” he offered at one point, hoping Spike would accept the assistance. Deep down, he expected a refusal, but another feeling persisted — a desire to be useful, to prove to himself that he could do something meaningful too.

  Spike looked at him, pausing for a moment. His expression was wary, but there was also a hint of curiosity. Unexpectedly for himself, he shrugged.

  “Well… alright. If you really want to help, then look here. Maybe you’ll have a different perspective. I’ve tried everything, and maybe you can see something I’ve missed.”

  Marvo was surprised to realize that Spike had genuinely agreed. He approached the table and began examining the papers and calculations. Thoughts raced through his head. He wasn’t a specialist, but even if he could suggest just one thing, it would be a huge step forward.

  In a strange way, he found himself in a position where even a small contribution could be decisive.

  Marvo scanned Spike’s notes and frowned slightly. Though he wasn’t a scientist, all the time he had spent with the gang had given him access to countless books — not just on pharmacology. His interest in chemistry and the mechanics of drugs was far from superficial. He had read about the effects of substances on the brain, studied basic biochemistry, and explored the social and psychological aspects of addiction. He had even started learning a bit of botany — enough to recognize key mistakes or oversights.

  And now, before him lay a real chance — to put all of this into practice.

  He ran his finger along the scribbled page, pausing on a particular line. The string of numbers and abbreviations seemed incomplete, as if a piece of the formula had simply vanished.

  “Here… it feels like something’s missing,” he whispered, pointing to the line. “Are you sure there wasn’t an extra stage of filtration or stabilization? Maybe you did something automatically and forgot to note it?”

  Spike leaned forward, peering at the spot Marvo indicated. He was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly smacked his forehead:

  “Damn it… You’re right. I added the extract! Damn it… exactly!”

  Marvo nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. He already felt a rush of adrenaline — not from danger, but from being useful, from knowing his knowledge had genuinely helped. He carefully approached the workbench and began sorting through the vials, following what he had read before. His movements weren’t yet skilled, but there was curiosity and a growing confidence.

  Spike watched him, narrowing his eyes, and for the first time since they’d met, there was not just respect in his gaze, but real, sincere recognition.

  They started over — step by step, with full concentration. Spike dictated the sequence of actions, Marvo checked the ingredients, verified the proportions, and offered suggestions. The atmosphere in the kitchen was almost academic — as if this were not a kitchen in an abandoned apartment, but a laboratory where two chemists refined a formula capable of changing the course of an experiment.

  At first, everything went smoothly and measured. But then the nuances began.

  “I’m sure this needs more reagent!” insisted Spike, holding a small vial.

  “No, if you add more, it’ll disrupt the synthesis,” Marvo countered, “You even wrote in the previous formula that exceeding the amount causes precipitation.”

  They argued briefly, each standing his ground, but soon the dispute turned into discussion. They began analyzing each step, breaking it down as if assembling a complex puzzle. Marvo, though younger, held his own — his logic, fresh perspective, and theoretical knowledge proving invaluable.

  He often adjusted the respirator on his face — the uncomfortable mask pressed on his nose, and the humidity in the room amplified the discomfort. But he didn’t complain. It was his choice — to be here, to participate, to try, to learn. Each time he wiped his fogged goggles and sometimes gasped at the acrid smell.

  Gradually, a new formula took shape around them — more precise, tidy, with carefully measured proportions. Marvo recorded everything in his notebook, adding notes, correcting earlier mistakes. His handwriting was sharp, almost angular, but neat. In that moment, he felt needed — not just an executor, but a participant in something important.

  When everything was almost ready — the last flasks in place, the mixture in one of the vessels slowly cooling and releasing a cloudy vapor — the front door burst open with a sharp sound. Boss stepped into the room. His gaze swept across the space, as if he already knew what he would see, but still lingered on the unexpected scene.

  Before him stood Marvo — in a respirator and protective goggles, wearing an old T-shirt smeared with some white substance, hair disheveled with strands escaping from his tight ponytail. He didn’t look like a teenager; he looked like a technician — focused, composed, and… a little different.

  Boss raised an eyebrow and, looking at this “chemical laboratory,” asked quietly:

  “What’s going on here?”

  Spike, noticing how Boss’s gaze lingered on Marvo, couldn’t suppress a laugh:

  “Turns out, our Marvo isn’t a novice in this field either. I thought he was just curious, but look at him,” he’s putting formulas together as well as I do.

  Boss slightly raised the corners of his mouth in an approving smile and nodded:

  “Well, since Marvo has so much free time, as I can see…” he paused for emphasis “…then let him help you here. Together, maybe you’ll be even more productive.”

  Marvo only nodded, keeping his respirator on, but something warmed in his chest — maybe it was pride.

  “And where are Ryan and the Pooch?” Boss asked, turning to Spike.

  “Probably at the market,” Spike shrugged. “They left this morning, said something about a purchase, but I don’t know the details.”

  Boss didn’t ask further — he just glanced toward the window, from which a damp May breeze drifted in. Then he shifted his gaze back to the table where the mixture was settling and, almost to himself, said:

  “Just make sure it doesn’t draw attention. Every day counts now.”

  With that, Boss turned and left for another room without any fuss. A few seconds later, his voice could be heard — he was speaking quietly on the phone, clearly checking details. The call was brief, precise, like Boss himself.

  Marvo, still standing in his mask, froze in place and stared at the still liquid in the flask for a full minute. His thoughts seemed to slow. He realized he felt… satisfaction. It was a rare moment — clarity and inner calm. He had a new purpose, a new challenge. He was no longer just a courier. He was becoming something more. A person who couldn’t simply be replaced.

  And then June arrived.

  The morning was ordinary. The same apartments, the same food, the same silence. But after lunch, Ryan approached him with a short sentence:

  “Put on something warmer. We’re going for a walk.”

  Marvo was surprised but didn’t ask any questions. When he left the room, Boss just nodded at him, as if he already knew everything. It was his day off — personal, real, not tied to “couriering” or any other work. Boss had personally allowed it.

  They walked on foot, slowly, for a long time, until they reached busier streets. It was early summer, but the wind still carried a memory of spring. People around were laughing, someone was eating cotton candy, children ran with toys. A fair had arrived — bright, colorful, with music, smells of food, and a strange, almost forgotten feeling… of carefreeness.

  Marvo felt out of place at this celebration, as if he were looking at a world that wasn’t meant for him. But Ryan was nearby — silent, as always, but his gaze conveyed a simple thing: “You’ve earned at least one day, just one day.”

  “Have you ever been to a fair?” Ryan suddenly asked, nodding toward the colorful stalls.

  Marvo shook his head.

  “Then we’ll start with the strangest thing.” Ryan smiled and pulled him along, disappearing into the crowd of lights and voices.

  They walked past noisy stalls with trinkets, sparkling toys, and street performers until they stopped at an old carousel with mechanical figures spinning to a slow melody. Ryan bought two tickets — handed one to Marvo without a word and sat on a bench to watch.

  At first, Marvo wanted to refuse — it seemed silly, childish… but then, for some reason, he sat down. The carousel creaked and slowly began to spin. The wind hit his face, his stomach fluttered a little, and in that moment he realized… he was smiling. Inside, his chest tightened, but not from fear — it was from some new, unfamiliar feeling.

  “Maybe this is joy? Even if just for a few minutes.”

  After the carousel, they bought roasted corn and wandered through the rows — sometimes stopping at stalls, sometimes just silently watching passersby. Ryan remained calm the whole time, not pushing, not saying a single unnecessary word, but it was clear — he remembered. He knew what kind of day it was for Marvo today. He made sure the boy could feel it.

  “Have you ever made a wish on your birthday?” Ryan asked as they approached a stall with popping balloons and children’s screams.

  Marvo shrugged:

  “I was usually alone on that day. Or… I’d forget about it entirely.”

  Ryan nodded and didn’t push. He simply handed him one of the balloons:

  “Make a wish. Even if it’s silly. Just do it.”

  Marvo took the balloon silently, closed his eyes for a second, and let it go.

  He didn’t know what he had wished for. Maybe a home. Maybe peace. Maybe a real family. Or simply that this moment wouldn’t disappear — the moment when everything didn’t feel like hell.

  Later, on the way back, they stopped at a small bookstore. Ryan said he needed to check something, but Marvo quickly realized it was another part of the gift. He bought a thin book on chemistry — not the hardest one, but interesting. Ryan paid without a word and walked out first.

  “You’re not a child anymore, Marvo. But today, you were. And that’s okay.”

  “And tomorrow?” Marvo asked quietly.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll be who we’re meant to be again.”

  They returned late. The entrance smelled of dust and flowers. Marvo couldn’t sleep for a long time, staring at the ceiling and clutching the book in his hands.

  That day, he turned seventeen.

  It was a day he would remember. Forever.