— “Hey, old man!” — mocked Kostyán, a tall, muscular guy with a tattoo on his neck. — “Why are you shaking? Afraid you’ll drown tonight without your little pill?”
The old man remained silent. He sat on the lower bunk, leaning against the wall, holding a metal cup of already cold tea. By his appearance, he must have been about seventy-five years old, gray-haired, thin, with faded eyes. His name was Panteley Ivanovich.
— “Answer me, grandfather!” — roared Kostyán, stepping closer. — “Or do you think that being seventy will earn you respect here? Respect here isn’t given for age, it’s earned through actions!”
— “I… don’t meddle in anyone’s affairs, son,” — said the old man quietly. — “I’ve already done my part in life, now I’m just approaching the end.”
— “Ha! Son!” — Kostyán laughed. — “You’re not my father, you old piece of crap. People like you I could handle with one hand…”
Suddenly, he snatched the cup from his hands. The metallic clang echoed through the cell…
The metal cup flew across the concrete and hit the leg of the table with a loud clatter, spilling the cold tea. For a moment, even the whispers stopped in the cell: everyone carried their own time of sentence and memories, and no one wanted to be between Kostyán and his rage.
— “Well, Panteley,” — someone murmured from the upper bunk — “they’ll send you to the infirmary, there you’ll keep warming the tea…”
Panteley Ivanovich didn’t lift his gaze. He just ran his bony finger along the wet edge of the table and wiped the drop with the sleeve of his gray jacket. He was the type who apologizes with a look and thanks in silence. There wasn’t a trace of fear in him, which irritated Kostyán even more.
— “Did you hear, grandfather?” — he moved even closer. — “Here, those who don’t move are easier to kick. Got it?”
The words hung in the air like a damp sheet. On the neighboring bunk, Syoma the Carpenter lowered his eyes, and Tigran pretended to play with a worn-out chess set: instead of the white queen there was a button, and instead of the black, a cigarette butt, but the game continued every night. The elderly in the cells cling to familiar games to keep their thoughts from scattering across the ceiling.
— “Understood, son,” — finally said Panteley Ivanovich, gently lifting the cup. His lips trembled, whether from back pain or memories. — “Just don’t make noise. The walls are thin. Night is coming.”
Kostyán smiled and moved to his side of the table, not forgetting to nudge a piece of the old man’s bread off the stool with his elbow. The old man, without a heavy sigh, leaned over, picked it up, blew off the dust, and set it aside. He didn’t even eat it: he just left it, like leaving a book open, to return to it later.
After the lights-out call, the ceiling lamp, trapped in a metal cage, went out, leaving a gray rectangle of shadow. Someone snorted, turning over; someone prayed into their pillow; someone else murmured verses from memory, hoping the words would serve as a lifeboat to weather the storm.
Kostyán usually fell asleep instantly: a heavy, bold sleep, with giant snores and shameless dreams. But that night, sleep came through a crack. At first, everything was as usual: he lay on the upper bunk, hands behind his head, whistling to himself, inspecting his little fortress from above — the stool, the package, the half-drunk cup of soup — and let himself fall into sleep.
Two hours later, his snoring stopped abruptly. Silence, like an animal, became alert. From below, the first to notice was Syoma the Carpenter: he had the habit of waking at any sound — in his free time, he watched over a sawmill and was responsible for the gasoline. Syoma sat in the dark and listened: Kostyán was moving. But strangely — he didn’t curse, didn’t call anyone. His movement was muffled, as if fighting against his own chest.
— “Hey, do you hear that?” — whispered Syoma. — “There… he’s breathing weird, like a broken bellows.”
Someone snorted: “Leave him, less complaining.” But Syoma’s voice was persistent. In the cells, one quickly learns to distinguish empty fuss from real danger.
— “Panteley Ivanovich…” — Syoma touched the edge of the lower bunk. — “Something’s wrong with him.”
The old man was no longer sleeping. He lay, staring into the darkness like a well, listening to the neighbor’s chest rhythm going haywire, feeling the panic grow. He knew those sounds, not from books. Forty years ago, at the village outpatient clinic, he had three consecutive guards, a pack of cookies, a kerosene lamp, and a single ECG machine that worked if you lightly tapped just below the handle. He knew how internal organs sometimes turn into frightened birds. And how to convince them to stay.
— “Syoma, turn on the light.”
He obeyed, lighting a makeshift “candle”: cotton wrapped around a paperclip, a piece of soap — the smell of childhood, poverty, and perseverance.
The flame trembled, illuminating Kostyán’s dark face. Big, confident, shameless — but now strange: bluish lips, sweat on his temple, eyes wide, searching for air as if looking for a loved one in a crowd — and not finding them.
— “Calm, calm,” — said Panteley Ivanovich, like soothing a foal. — “This is panic and heart. Breathe slowly. Look at me.”
He extended his hand and covered Kostyán’s broad hand with his own, dry as beech wood. Skin to skin: old and young, fear and experience. In that contact, there was more strength than in any threat.
— “Air…” — exhaled Kostyán, trying to sit up. — “Not… enough…”
— “Bring water,” — the old man said briefly. — “And… yes, my pill. In the pocket, Syoma. Inner, left.”
— “Are you going to heal him?” — Tigran couldn’t help asking. — “But he…”
— “Quickly,” — Panteley Ivanovich repeated calmly. — “We’ll talk later.”
The “grandfather” never wasted words, so when he asked, people usually listened. Syoma reached into the hanging jacket, searched for the hard blister pack with its corner carefully folded, and placed the round pill into the old man’s palm.
— “Under the tongue,” — said Panteley. — “Don’t swallow. Breathe with me. One… two…” — he caught Kostyán’s gaze and held it, like stopping someone at the edge of a cliff. — “Like this. No rush. You’re neither hero nor boss now. You’re human, Kostya. Just human. Allow yourself to be that.”
Kostyán, used to commanding other people’s breathing — strangling others’ panic, mixing fear into conversation — for the first time in his life gave the order to himself. He looked into those old, faded eyes, free of malice, and for a moment felt shame for kicking the cup, for laughing, for “old piece of crap.” He felt shame — and relief.
— “Again…” — said the old man. — “Again. Good. The rhythm will stabilize. It was not in vain that I’ve listened to people all these years.”
— “Who are you?” — Kostyán asked in a hoarse voice.
— “A doctor,” — he replied briefly. — “Once. Paramedic. They called me ‘the hand of God.’ Then another life began, papers, signatures, prosecutor’s offices… Well. That’s not more important than your breathing.”
He didn’t say why he was in prison. It wasn’t the time for long stories. He just continued holding the other hand — not with iron strength, but with a calm bond, like an anchor rope keeping a boat tied to the ship.
Ten minutes later, Kostyán’s face had a faint flush. Syoma began dabbing his sweat with a dirty cloth, sometimes silently making the sign of the cross. Tigran, holding his breath, suddenly realized that all his sharp jokes were paper knives: they only cut paper, but here there was flesh, bone, heart — everything real.
— “Do you feel better?” — asked Panteley.
Kostyán nodded, surprised to find tears in his eyes. He blinked like a child having his hat taken off and averted his gaze.
— “You… why…?” — he struggled for words and finally said the simplest: — “Why?”
— “Because besides us, there’s no one else in this room,” — replied the old man. — “And if we don’t help each other, who will? You are strong. You take much for yourself. Knowing how to take is good. But knowing how to give is more useful. Remember this, Kostya. Not for me — for you.”
He withdrew his hand. The lamp flickered, as if it had heard a secret, and went out again. Night closed in once more, like water. But now another silence floated: not threat, but rest.
