The autumn morning crept into the room through the half-open window vent. A cold wind, smelling of wet leaves and damp earth, slowly filled the space, bringing with it a faint shiver. From outside came the occasional hum of passing cars and the cries of birds moving closer to warm rooftops. The air was gray and transparent, like a morning before rain.

  In the kitchen, the usual morning chaos reigned. It smelled of toasted bread, boiling oatmeal, and fresh coffee. The burners burned with a blue flame, steam rising from a pot on the stove. Vegetables sizzled as they fried, and somewhere in the corner the doors of an old cupboard closed with a dull thud.

  The clatter of dishes was almost continuous — someone was setting out plates, someone was clearing away the remains of last night’s dinner, someone was trying to cut something, stir, and make sure nothing burned all at once. The radio on the top shelf kept talking — in a muffled voice the host read the morning news, interrupted by light, slightly off-key music. Along with it sounded two, sometimes even three voices at once: someone arguing about the schedule, someone grumbling that the milk had boiled over again, and someone else, still half-asleep, trying to pour themselves tea blindly.

  The kitchen was cramped but alive. Everyone had their own task, their own mood, their own voice in this morning polyphony.

  A boy of about fifteen stood at the sink, monotonously rinsing plates in warm water, not listening to the jumble of voices around him. Someone behind his back was loudly arguing about some household matter, but he was as if behind glass — the sounds reached him muffled, as though from another world.

  His black hair was gathered into a loose ponytail at the back of his head, carelessly — just enough to keep it out of the way. Strands still slipped free, falling onto his forehead and temples, clinging to his skin as he bent over the dishes. His face was sharp, with clearly defined cheekbones and hollows, as if he were used to restraining emotions, constantly clenching his teeth. There was a restrained severity in his features, a maturity that did not match his age.

  Thin but nimble fingers carefully washed each plate — movements honed by time, without haste. He did not think about what he was doing — his body worked on autopilot while his mind drifted somewhere far away. He was wearing a black turtleneck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows so they wouldn’t get wet, and loose gray pants — simple clothes, yet fitting him with unexpected precision.

  He did not complain, did not speak, did not seek eye contact.

  “Marvo!” Inna suddenly called out, and her voice cut like a spoon against metal. “Are you even listening when people talk to you?”

  He flinched and turned his head, surfacing from his thoughts. He nodded — briefly, almost apologetically, without looking directly at her.

  Inna waved a kitchen towel at him irritably.

  “Don’t forget you need to go to Laura at the market, get everything on the list — I left it on the shelf. And stop by the shoe shop, pick up my shoes, I need them for work!”

  Marvo nodded again, a little more clearly this time, showing that he understood. He began carefully placing the already clean dishes on the shelf, and behind his back there came irritated muttering — Inna’s husband, as always, grumbled something unpleasant in his direction. He didn’t catch the words, and didn’t want to. He knew there was nothing good in them. Such words had long stopped provoking any response in him.

  After completing several of his usual morning tasks — sweeping the floor, clearing the table, wiping down the stove — Marvo began to get ready for the market. He threw on his jacket and left the house, slowly pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

  The street smelled of dampness. A leaden sky hung over the streets, and a light slush covered the road. Puddles, here and there stiff with cold water, reflected the gray outlines of trees and wires. The cold wind crept under his collar and clung to his skin, but Marvo did not hurry. The market was about a thirty-minute walk away, and he decided to go slowly.

  He loved walking. It was a rare moment when he could simply be alone with himself, not hear other people’s voices, not feel their gazes, not carry out someone else’s will. The fresh air, even filled with chilly dampness, felt like freedom.

  It was better than working part-time in Inna’s shop. Long ago she had dumped all the heavy work on him: unloading crates, receiving deliveries, cleaning, even dealing with customers. In return he got a tiny wage that, in essence, went straight back — for groceries for the house, for covering the family’s needs… and more often, for Inna’s daughter’s whims. She was planning to leave for the city, enroll in a university, live in a dormitory, and build her best life, as she liked to say.

  Marvo doubted that she would succeed. He had watched her for too long to believe in her dreams. In her smug manner, her whims, and her laziness, he saw an exact copy of her parents. And even if the girl did leave for the city, she was unlikely to build anything greater than what her mother and father had.

  Marvo rarely allowed himself to linger on thoughts about Inna’s family. It was a waste of time. He had too many other things worth thinking about.

  He often imagined his future — everything that could have been if he had been given a different chance. He dreamed of another life, one in which he would not be used as a slave to household chores, where he would have at least the smallest choice. For example, if he had ended up in an orphanage… There, perhaps, he would have been forced to go to school — the very place Inna’s daughter hated so much. But although Marvo did not know for sure, it seemed to him that at least there he would have had some kind of structure, some kind of order, something — anything — that might have helped him get out of this dead end.

  He imagined himself sitting at a desk, listening to teachers, learning something new, instead of dusting the house or washing dishes. It would be a completely different world. A chance. And although he doubted that life in an orphanage could be better than his current one, it would still be a step forward for him.

  Marvo often thought about what would happen to him in the future. He couldn’t stay in this house any longer — and, frankly, he didn’t want to. Who would? He felt the moment of separation approaching, the moment when he would have to sever all ties with this place and leave. He didn’t know exactly where to go, but he understood that he had to do something to get out.

  He thought about what to do next. Where to go, what to strive for? Sometimes images of himself would appear in his mind, but not as he was now. He pictured himself as tall and intelligent — perhaps even a professor at some institution, a person who wouldn’t have to worry about paying for food or avoiding the debt traps that were his constant companions. Financial stability — that was what he was looking for, what he wanted for himself. He didn’t want to be doomed to perpetual debt like his housemates, whose daily problems were such a vivid reminder of where poor choices could lead.

  Marvo often imagined himself sitting in some office, surrounded by books and laboratory equipment, where he could calmly pursue his passion — calculating new chemical formulas, studying reactions, and discovering something new.

  Sometimes, when he managed to steal a few minutes, he would run to the local library. There, among old and new books, he could find answers to his questions and delve into the study of various subjects. It was in the library that his interest in chemistry grew into something greater.

  But every time one of his housemates found his notes, all those pages of calculations and formulas were immediately thrown into the trash. They saw no value in them. And, of course, they called it a waste of time, scolding him for spending time on “useless things.” But to Marvo, those notes were more than just sheets of paper — they were his dream, his aspiration.

  He didn’t even notice when he reached Laura’s stall at the market. Deep in thought, he walked almost without realizing how quickly he had made the journey. His steps were measured, his gaze fixed on nothing. Everything around him seemed shrouded in a fog: people, the market’s bustle, the cries of vendors, and the smells — all merged into a single stream that held no significance for him.

  Marvo stopped next to the stall, and only when his eyes fell on Laura, standing with a basket in her hands, did he come back to himself. Inna’s acquaintance’s wife always greeted him with a friendly smile, but today she looked somewhat tired and not as welcoming as usual.

  “Well, Marvo, here for groceries again?” she asked, glancing at his face as if trying to catch what was on his mind.

  He nodded silently and handed over the money, not particularly interested in conversation. All he cared about was finishing the task as quickly as possible and returning home.

  He filled several small bags with groceries, carefully arranging them so they wouldn’t interfere with each other. No matter how hard he tried to remain indifferent, he smiled at Laura out of politeness, though his smile was mechanical, as always when he had to feign friendliness.

  Noticing a conversation at the neighboring stall, he couldn’t help but listen. The vendor was loudly refusing to accept something. Opposite him stood an elderly man, clearly irritated, trying to sell the shop owner something with weakly trembling hands. Marvo noticed that he was most likely trying to offer meat — freshly hunted venison from the nearby forest.

  He heard shouts, complaints, even threats — the argument was growing increasingly heated. The man at the stall didn’t want to take the goods, and the old man refused to give up, passionately insisting that it was “the best” and that he “didn’t have time to go into the forest for anything better.”

  Marvo slowed his pace, slowly slipping the remaining money into his pocket, feeling his attention completely absorbed by this strange dispute.

  The old man waved his hands as if disregarding the price and nodded when the vendor finally agreed to take the game — but for a meager payment.

  “I’m going to the city,” said the old man confidently, “they’ll pay much more for it there.”

  The vendor, hearing this, snorted and snapped sharply:

  “Then go to the city, damn it! We don’t need you here if something doesn’t suit you. And don’t show your face at my stall again!”

  The old man stood for a few seconds, unsure how to react. Then, quietly restraining his irritation, he reached for his things and trudged away, muttering unhappily under his breath. The vendor returned to his work, serving other customers, paying no attention to the one who had left.

  Standing aside, Marvo fell into thought. Nothing particularly important had happened, yet a strange residue lingered.

  Suddenly, Laura said,

  “Well, well, what isn’t happening.”

  Marvo asked,

  “Not the first time today?”

  He gestured toward the stall where the conflict had just flared. Laura nodded, confirming his suspicion.

  “Yes, scenes like this aren’t uncommon today,” she added.

  Marvo didn’t delve further into the conversation, but his gaze unconsciously followed the old man, who, swaying slightly, made his way toward the market exit. He felt the man moving farther away and couldn’t help but notice where he was headed, muttering something under his breath.

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  After that, Marvo, lost in thought, headed home. His steps quickened slightly, and almost unconsciously he began to catch up with the old man, as if something inside him hinted that there might be something important ahead.

  The old man slowed his pace a little. As if reflecting on his muttering, he added, now speaking not just to himself but to Marvo, who was walking beside him:

  “Actually, I started wandering back in my youth,” he said, swinging his hand and glancing back at the stall behind him. “With my father. We were always on the move — discovering new things, beautiful sights, new places… We never stayed in one spot. Often, while passing through fields or forests, we’d hunt games to sell in the nearest town, yes… Everything felt like the journey itself was life, not just the road. After he passed, I continued — a tradition, you understand? But I have no children, so it seems this tradition will end with me.”

  He sighed, staring into the distance.

  “I don’t really regret it… but sometimes it feels like I’ve missed something. Maybe if I had stayed somewhere, I might have had a family, a home of my own. But it’s not so easy to forget, not like it was with him, and I’m not the sort of person to sit still anymore.”

  Marvo, who had been walking silently beside him for a while, suddenly decided to ask where this wanderer was headed.

  “To Novoel,” he said, “it’s a city unlike any other. Quiet, peaceful. Even a little magic, if you know where to look. Beautiful places, few people. But most importantly — there’s meaning there, something in the air, you know?”

  Marvo listened with growing curiosity.

  He asked the old man a few questions about Novoel, his interest increasing. He imagined the city — a mix of military and industrial structures, but also beautiful spots, green parks, and cozy corners where one could escape the clamor and noise, as the old man had said. In Novoel, different sides of life blended — the strict and the strong, but also those that attracted with their harmony and calm.

  The old man smiled again, as if realizing that Marvo was unlikely to reach Novoel anytime soon.

  “You’d learn a lot there, boy.”

  Marvo didn’t notice how the conversation with the old man had drawn him in, and soon they were almost at his modest home, the place that was his everyday reality, unchanging and familiar. The old man, continuing his story, somehow made Marvo think deeply. From his words, he felt something inside him shift, a realization that he could no longer stay in this place. His thoughts about change became clear and determined, and Marvo understood that he wanted to change his life here and now.

  When they reached the stop, the old man, oblivious to Marvo’s introspection, began boarding his unusual vehicle — an old cart, converted into something more than just a means of transport. He carefully loaded the meat inside, wrapping the packages and preparing to depart. Marvo, standing nearby, watched it all, involuntarily reflecting on his own future.

  Marvo approached the door, which would now remain in his memory for many years. He set the grocery bags on the doorstep, completely forgetting about Inna’s shoes. Only now, when everything was done, did he remember them, but it was already too late.

  He took out the remaining money and placed it on the bags, trying in some small way to make up for his forgetfulness. His gaze fell again on the dark, overcast sky, and feeling that time would not wait, he returned to the old man, who was already ready to set off.

  Marvo called out to him, and the old man turned. Almost running up to the cart, Marvo asked if the old man could give him a ride to Novoel.

  The old man measured him with a glance, pondered for a moment, and then shrugged.

  “Hop in,” he said, and with that brief answer, opened up a possibility for Marvo — a chance that could become the first step toward change.

  Marvo climbed inside and sat facing backward. They set off along the uneven cobblestone road, jostling with every bump. He watched carefully as the familiar yard gradually receded, until it disappeared entirely.

  His heart was pounding. No, he wasn’t afraid. Not nervous, not anxious. Everything happening was simply new, and the feeling was indescribable. He wasn’t sure about the future, but he knew one thing — he had made a decision.

  It was only when the house finally vanished from sight, when the road curved around the next bend, that his heart began to settle slightly.

  He placed a hand over his heart, and the tight, pulling sensation in his chest was gone. Everything from before — all the fears, doubts, and worries — had vanished, as if dissolved into the air. He felt the tension leave, replaced by something new. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but now it was a feeling of freedom.

  They rode in silence for perhaps an hour. The quiet around them was broken only by the creak of the cart and the distant sounds of the road. The landscape gradually changed, opening up more and more, and Marvo felt his heartbeat steady and his thoughts quiet. He had made his decision.

  Unable to resist, he decided to move forward to watch the road. The desire to see where he was headed had become more important than sitting in the back, in the shadow of his thoughts. Slightly awkwardly, but still managing, he shifted to the front of the cart and settled next to the old man. Now the space before him was wide open, and he could calmly watch the changing world around him.

  As if sensing his thoughts, the old man leaned back slightly and, without looking at Marvo, asked:

  “Why did you decide to do this?”

  Marvo paused for a moment, processing the question in his mind. He wasn’t ready for a deep answer.

  “There’s no one waiting for me back there,” he replied, dropping his shoulders and relaxing, “I want to try something new, maybe discover a new path for myself.”

  The old man laughed, but it was a kind, warm laugh. He patted Marvo on the shoulder and said:

  “The road is long. But if you want something new, it’s better to start now. That way, you won’t stay where you were before.”

  He turned slightly toward the boy, tilting his head, and continued:

  “I wandered a lot too. In my youth, when I traveled with my father, there were no maps, no plans. We just went where we wanted. Sometimes you end up in good places, sometimes in bad. But every time — it’s a new discovery. That’s the meaning of the journey. You never know what will be around the next bend.”

  Marvo turned to the old man and, hesitating slightly, asked:

  “What has been the most memorable thing in your life? Something you’ll never forget.”

  The old man paused for a moment, his eyes becoming for a second as deep as the road they were traveling. Then, with a slight smile, he replied:

  “That’s a difficult question, boy. Every journey I’ve taken has been memorable in its own way. But honestly, I never forget the very first day I set off on a journey with my father. We didn’t know where we were going. We just walked, and in that moment, I felt something special. It was a feeling of freedom, a sense that the world had opened before us like a huge book, each page a new place, a new encounter. My father and I laughed, shared stories, and it seemed that time didn’t matter. We were on the road, and that was what mattered most.”

  He looked at Marvo, slightly frowning, as if reflecting on something personal, then continued:

  “Life is like that. Sometimes you meet people who change your path, or events that give you a new perspective on the world. But moments like that first day, when you discover the road for yourself — you can’t repeat them. They become part of you, and with them, you’re no longer the person you once were.”

  Marvo was silent for a while, processing what he had heard. His heart beat faster, and he realized that this old man was not just a wanderer. His life was filled with genuine experiences, moments that could not simply be forgotten.

  After a long journey, Marvo watched the lonely streetlights, barely illuminating the dark path. From time to time, he noticed the shadows of forests, and occasionally vast fields stretching for kilometers would appear. All of it gave the road a sense of infinity, and the world seemed so vast and unknown.

  Suddenly, the old man broke the silence.

  “What interests you in life, boy?” he asked, noticing Marvo’s thoughtful expression.

  Marvo hesitated briefly, then, as if with a deliberate decision, replied:

  “I want to explore the world, see it from different angles. And I want to stand on my own in a big city, to have more opportunities. I’m drawn to chemistry. I feel I can understand it, and I want to become someone who doesn’t have to depend on others.”

  The old man chuckled, shaking his head with a lighthearted amusement.

  “Chemistry, you say? Interesting, young man,” he said with a kind smile, “but be careful — the path isn’t always as straightforward as it may seem.”

  Marvo smiled in response, unsure what else to say. The journey was long, and his thoughts sank deeper into his dreams. And then, at last, he noticed lights in the distance — the first lights of the city.

  The old man, noticing them, leaned slightly forward, as if it helped him see the city better. He even rose a little, trying to make out everything in the darkness.

  “Is that it? Novoel?” Marvo asked, eagerly peering at the lights.

  The old man nodded and, not without pride, replied:

  “Yes, that’s it. This is Novoel.”

  Unable to contain his curiosity, Marvo asked:

  “And what’s your name, old man?”

  The old man smiled, stroking his beard.

  “My name is Allan,” he said, glancing at Marvo for a moment, as if measuring him with his eyes. “You will remember this city, and I will remember you. To me, you are like the drive toward something greater, a young desire to find your path in this vast world.”

  “Marvo,” the boy said, a little shyly, but with firmness in his voice.

  The old man smiled in response, and there was something warm, something familiar, in his gaze. It was a feeling often missing for children without parents, and Marvo felt that warmth, as if Allan had become someone close to him.

  For a moment, it seemed awkward to feel such care from a stranger. But with every kilometer of the journey, with every word from the old man, that feeling calmed him, and he relaxed.

  The city drew nearer. Its lights now hinted at life and movement. And finally, they reached the outskirts of Novoel. The city was still far off, but its scale began to take shape before them, as more concrete roads opened up, industrial buildings appeared, and the air carried the pulse, noise, and energy of the place.

  The old man looked at Marvo, and he caught a glance that seemed to say:

  “Here it is, your new world.”

  At the city’s entrance, the old man slowed the cart slightly and, glancing at Marvo, said:

  “I need to turn here. You can come with me if you want, but if you have your own plans, I won’t hold you back.”

  Marvo paused for a moment, then, deciding he needed to continue on his own path, replied:

  “No, thank you. I’ll go on by myself.”

  The old man nodded, his eyes softening, and with a gentle smile he said:

  “I wish you luck in your new beginnings, Marvo.”

  With those words, he steered the cart away, keeping his gaze on the boy until he turned the corner.

  Marvo stood there, watching the old man disappear from view. He felt a strange, warm sense of gratitude, and waving after him, he lifted his hand in farewell.

  “Thank you, Allan,” he said softly, as the old man disappeared beyond the horizon.

  ***

  Novoel seemed enormous to him compared to Eltwood, the small agricultural town he had lived in before. At first, Marvo didn’t think about where he would sleep or how he would find food — there wasn’t a single coin in his pocket. He walked through the city streets, taking in every new sight and corner, marveling at everything he saw.

  The smooth roads, laid with high-quality asphalt, perfectly straight and lined with neatly painted curbs, gave the city a strict yet organized appearance. Despite the late hour, the streets were full of cars. Even at night, Novoel didn’t sleep — the flow of vehicles never stopped, giving the city a sense of life, unstoppable energy, and movement.

  Marvo felt his chest swell with excitement. Everything here was… big, different. Even the night sky seemed vast, and the air felt fresh and full of possibilities. He liked this place.

  The bridges spanning the roads, a couple of rivers weaving through the city streets, gave Novoel a special atmosphere. Marvo wandered from street to street, enjoying the view of the night city under the open, clear sky, sprinkled with stars and a bright moon that lit everything around. Everything felt so calm and majestic.

  He didn’t notice passing the large train station and several cinemas, so absorbed was he in observing the city. Numerous red-brick buildings gave a cozy yet sturdy appearance. In every building, on every corner, there was something interesting, something to study, admire, or catch the eye.

  Marvo felt the city engulf him, making him forget everything else.

  He reached a large park, which he circled for a full half-hour, carefully reading the names of streets and alleys. The park was picturesque and wide, yet he couldn’t ignore how the night was slowly fading, and how his fatigue grew with every step.

  Only at dawn did he feel his body demanding rest. He sat on a bench near a very wide city street, where the first hints of light were beginning to appear. He was the only one in the park at that hour, enjoying the silence that accompanied the arrival of a new day.

  Gradually, the light increased, and he bent one leg, letting his arm dangle, and lay back on the bench. His eyes followed the sky as it brightened with new colors. The stars slowly vanished, yielding to vivid shades of orange, soft pink, and blue. The sky seemed to fill with living colors, and Marvo, forgetting everything else, simply watched this magical process, allowing himself a little rest, even though he knew many challenges still lay ahead.

  Whether from exhaustion or from his own thoughts and fantasies, he closed his eyes for just a moment and slipped into a deep sleep. The dream was swift and vivid, full of unexpected images, like scenes from a film he was filming himself. He saw himself wealthy and successful. In one dream, he stood on the terrace of a massive skyscraper, surrounded by towering architecture. He gazed at the night stars, but from a different perspective — from above, as if the world lay beneath his feet, and he was part of this vast, bright, multifaceted city.

  The stars seemed closer, and the city below almost alive, and he felt his life shifting, growing, transforming into something greater. These visions were so real and vivid that it seemed the dream itself was the answer to all his questions and desires.