A SMALL, GRAY SUITCASE
Those who often walk along the streets of Yerevan have come across him for sure – he was a man of medium height, neither fat nor thin, with a forehead that had gone brown under the sun, and gray, concerned eyes. You could recognize him from afar based on the way he dressed; he always wore the same clothes – the old pants his deceased father used to wear and the dark jacket that had kept well, in contrast to the pants. Nobody ever found out his name or who he was. All that was known about him was how he walked alone on the streets of Yerevan all day holding his small, gray suitcase, never raising his eyes above ground level, as if searching for something – something very important and dear.
He closed the apartment door and putting a hand on the bannister of the stai
