lotus flower

The sea breeze was too calm for Rania's chaotic heart. The sun was setting toward the horizon, coloring the sky in shades of apricot and rose. The waves gently lapped the shore, unaware that Ali was lost among the rocks. "Ali!" Her voice trailed off. "Ali, please answer me!" She ran barefoot across the sand, each step sinking deeper into the shore. Her heart pounded like war drums. Her husband, Youssef, was a few meters away, calling the boy's name with panic written all over his face—a normally calm man, but now completely exhausted. They searched the beach, the cafes, the small souvenir shops. Nothing. No sign of the 12-year-old boy, his eyes fixed on his face and his heart filled with pain. Rania's hands trembled as she called his name again. "Ali! Baby, please... I won, just get out!" Earlier that day, she and Ali had had an argument. Again. She asked him to turn off the video game and come to dinner. He refused. She raised her voice. He said he hated her. It wasn't the first time. He hated her with all his heart. He thought she was going to take his father away, and she did. But this time... He had packed a small backpack and walked out the back door. No one saw him. No one noticed until it was too late. Rania fell to her knees in the sand, tears stinging her eyes. "Where are you, Ali...?" It wasn't his mother. She knew that. She wasn't trying to replace anyone. But he still didn't understand. "Rania," Youssef called hoarsely. The guards said the front-door camera had captured him leaving... four hours earlier. She lifted her head, terrified. "Four hours? He could be anywhere!" Youssef knelt beside her. "We'll find him..." But the fear in his eyes betrayed his words. The sea was calm that evening. A calm that only comes when the world is about to collapse. Rania's world was about to collapse. She ran onto the beach, barefoot and panting. Sea salt splattered on her skin, but she didn't feel it. Fine grains of sand clung to her dress, but she didn't notice. All she could think about was his little face—his angry frown—and his missing backpack. Ali had disappeared. And this time, they couldn't find him. She searched the beach, the town, the market stalls, the lighthouse, and the cliff path where he used to sit and throw stones into the ocean. Youssef drove around half of Sochi, talking to taxi drivers, shopkeepers, and bus stops. Nothing. They had only one piece of evidence: the front-door camera footage. A blurry figure—a 12-year-old boy, carrying his backpack, determined to keep going—walked out the villa's gate at 3:47 p.m. Alone. It was now 10:21 p.m. The sun had disappeared, and so had the boy. Meanwhile... in another city In the cold heart of Krasnodar, the train station was bustling. People rushed in every direction. Vendors sold sunflower seeds and warm samsa pastries from small carts. Neon signs flashed overhead. Trains roared back and forth, pulsing with life. In the midst of it all, Ali sat. His thin body was hidden behind the oversized hoodie he'd packed. His face was tucked into the shadows of his sleeves. He had 20 rubles left in his pocket and a cheap bottle of water he'd filled in the station bathroom. He'd eaten a pack of biscuits hours earlier and saved half of it for the morning. He wasn't afraid. Not exactly. But the world seemed wider than ever. He sat on a bench, staring at the station's digital screen, trying to look like he belonged there. No one noticed. And that's exactly what he wanted. No one asked. No one tried to "help." No one tried to replace his mother. Ali's eyes burned. He remembered his deceased mother. When his father remarried and brought Rania into their home, everything changed. She smelled different. Her voice was too cheerful. Her grammar was too many. Her jokes weren't funny enough. And worst of all... She loved him. She was trying. He hated her and he hated his father. How dare he marry again? That's why he left. He didn't want anyone to comfort him. He didn't want anyone to fix him. So he ran away. At the villa, Rania sat on the living room floor, her arms wrapped around Ali's pillow, her eyes red from crying. The police filed a formal report. Youssef paced back and forth like a man on fire, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid Russian, his voice cracking between each sentence. But Rania... couldn't move. She tried to convince Ali that morning to sit with her for breakfast. She made him his favorite eggs. He refused. She pushed him. He shouted. "Okay. Hungry then." That was the last thing she said before he disappeared. "Please," she whispered into the silence. "Go home. We'll find a solution... I swear, we'll solve this." But there was only the ticking of a clock. And the place where his laughter used to be. Ali: Alone, but Determined That night, Ali huddled on a wooden bench in the corner of the station, wearing his jacket, clutching his backpack like a shield. He didn't cry. He thought about taking a train further—to Rostov, maybe, or even to Moscow. He didn't know what he would do there. He just wanted to be anywhere but home. "I can work," he whispered to himself. "I'll clean cars. I'll carry bags. I'm not going back." And in that moment, for the first time in his short life, he made a promise. He wouldn't go back until the world stopped trying to mold him into someone he didn't want to be. Until his grief stopped being treated as something to be healed. Until someone realized he didn't want new beginnings. He just wanted someone to sit by his side at the end. In Sochi, Rania stood alone on the balcony of the villa, overlooking the dark waves. She whispered his name into the wind. Her voice cracked like glass. Somewhere out there, her stepson walked in the night—barely a teenager, but carrying the weight of someone twice his age. And the worst part? He didn't want to be found. Not yet. Not now. Maybe he never would be. Several hours later, Ali stood in front of a tall iron gate, gleaming under the streetlights in a quiet neighborhood of Krasnodar. He blinked. Did he get the wrong address? This couldn't be his uncle's house. The building was towering, like a piece from a magazine—sleek black walls with gold accents, a security camera cleverly installed in the entryway, and wide marble steps leading to a massive oak door. Not a trace of peeling paint. Not a whisper of poverty. Not at all what he'd expected. He'd thought his uncle was poor. He tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack. For a second, he almost turned around. But the chill of the night air reminded him he had nowhere else to go. He pressed the doorbell. A faint thump sounded. "Kto Tam?" (Who's there?) came the faint voice. Ali cleared his throat. "I'm... Ali." Silence. Then there was the click of the gate. A hum. Green light. It opened. Ali entered, walking carefully down the corridor, his sneakers almost silent on the smooth stone. A soft scent of pine and fresh lemons permeated the air. The garden was beautiful. Elegant lights lit the corridor like a royal promenade. When the front door opened, a tall, broad-shouldered man stood in a black coat, his dark hair disheveled, and a sharp, incomprehensible expression in his eyes. Uncle Adel. But not the gruff man who grumbled about old memories. Adel looked sharp. Cool. Unfazed. He raised an eyebrow. "Well... that's unexpected." Ali looked down. "Can I come in?" Adel didn't move. "You're supposed to be in Sochi." "I left." "How did you get here?" "Train. Then I walked." Adel stepped aside. "Come in." Inside the House Ali entered through the door. The floors were polished marble, its white and gray veins running like rivers. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling like frozen rain. The walls were covered with expensive paintings. The furniture was clean, simple, and modern. Velvet chairs. A long staircase with gold banisters curved into the darkness of the second floor. It looked like it came from a wealthy man's imagination. Ali turned around slowly, trying not to look surprised. "Do you live here?" he muttered. Adel laughed dryly behind him. "Surprised?" "A little," Ali said, trying not to show how surprised he was. Adel walked past him, barefoot but confident, heading into the open kitchen. "People expect me to live like a gangster or a mechanic. The truth is... I hate showing off." He grabbed two glasses, filled one with water and the other with lemon juice, and said, "Sit down." Ali obeyed, choosing the edge of the velvet sofa, feeling the tightness of the space. Adel handed him the water. "Why are you here?" "I couldn't stay there," Ali said. "I couldn't breathe. They look at me like I'm broken. Like they want to fix me. I don't want to be fixed." He meant that his real parents had died in an accident, and that Youssef and Adel were his uncles, with Youssef taking custody. Adel sat across from him. "So you thought of me?" "You're my uncle," Ali said, raising his eyes. "You're not delicate. Don't pretend. Don't talk to me like I'm glass." Adel's mouth curled into a small, dark smile. "You think I'm cold?" Ali shrugged. "Maybe." Adel leaned forward. "Good. Because the world is cold. I'd rather you learn that from me than from a stranger." They sat in silence. Only the ticking of the wall clock and the faint hum of the air conditioner. Ali looked around. "I thought you two weren't getting along." "No." "Then why did you let me in?" Adel's eyes widened. A little. "Because you're family. And I know what it's like to lose someone and have people rush to replace them instead of remembering them." Ali swallowed. Adel stood. "There's a guest room upstairs. You can sit there." Ali hesitated. "Thank you." So, how did all this start?