Part I
…You know what we’re missing? A feather that simply vanished. That feather. Just a shard of a swan’s wing. And when we hold it in our hands again—everything that’s lost finds its way back home…
The streets of Tashkent were dust-covered and choked with haze. Not a single café offered the peace to sit and focus. My eyes stung from exhaustion. Even in the most picturesque interior, at the coziest corner table, you couldn’t enjoy your coffee with genuine pleasure.
Still, I sat without blinking in the bar beneath the chimes on the Square, my fingers clenched around a mug, waiting for sunset. My gaze was fixed on the horizon, painted only in orange. The landscape grew darker by the day. In the face of the fickle autumn weather, I had wrapped myself in a long orange-hued coat, thick denim jeans, and a stylish Korean-style sweater. It seemed I wasn’t the only one dressed like this…
"Good afternoon, sir. May I sit here? I’d like to talk for a bit."
He sat across from me.
"I don’t know who you are," I said, "but I’ll listen. Go ahead."
In recent days, the air had grown so heavy it felt like one of the omens of the world’s end. My mood had become numb to most things. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, this man appeared before me—also in a coat, with a sharply styled haircut and an odd, piercing stare. He spoke immediately:
"Strange day, isn’t it? Feels like the earth is folding into itself. The city’s air is just the same: dense, oppressive. It won’t let you sleep or stay awake. At sunset, it’s as if everything—the earth, the sky, even me—is drained of strength. The broken rays of the sun drown in the dusty haze…"
"Your words don’t move me," I said. "Maybe because my mood is exactly like that. Today, yesterday, tomorrow—I’m sure it’ll be the same. Melancholy, alien, suffocating. Don’t take it personally, stranger."
"But tonight’s sunset… it’s different."
His tone changed abruptly. My pupils widened. Who is this man?
"A courier."
"I’m listening. What needs to be delivered?"
"Just transported. We’ve already prepared navigation and a live route for you."
"Is the item in another country?"
"No, very close. Closer than you think."
"You seem… suspicious."
"We came to you because you handle suspicious deliveries. But don’t worry. Around you are people who won’t interfere with delicate conversations."
He glanced around. The café’s visitors, as if on cue, turned toward him one by one, nodded, and returned to their business.
"Looks like I’m surrounded…" he thought. But not a flicker of fear showed on his face.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I won’t deny it. But you—you’re a different kind of suspicious. Usually, shady deliveries begin with encrypted messages. But you just showed up and spilled everything out. No, you’re nothing like the low-tier clients I’ve worked with before. You feel more like a political agent. I’m warning you: without trust, I don’t get tangled in these kinds of webs. And don’t bother threatening me.”
“You dig too deep,” he replied, still composed. “We’re not part of any political games. Though… we do have partners in that world. But I assure you, you won’t be dropped into the middle of a conflict. Everything will be done officially. Contract. Guarantee. And to be honest, we don’t think you’ll turn it down. It’s a simple job. With fair pay.”
“If you won’t tell me what the item is, I walk.”
“I can tell you this: it’s not contraband. Not a precious metal. Not drugs—one hundred percent. And not political documents either. Is that enough?”
As always, he made his decision swiftly and sharply—that was just his nature.
“Fine. Encrypt the address and time. Send it to me.”
