The vehicle bounced over countless potholes on the dirt road, raising clouds of dust from under its wheels. Alexei, who had been leaning tiredly against the door, straightened up when the first houses of the village appeared among the trees.

"My father, Rustam, lives in this village," said Ermek.

"Does he know we're coming?" asked Alexei.

"Of course," Ermek nodded. "I contacted him by radio while you were hiding in the grotto. He's expecting us."

Alexei looked at Dinara, who was silently gazing out the window. Her face revealed impatience and anxiety. Evidently, meeting her grandfather was an important event for her, but thoughts of pursuit and danger gave her no peace.

The UAZ drove along the main street of the village, raising dust and attracting the attention of the few pedestrians and dogs dozing in the evening shadows. It was a typical Kyrgyz village—single-story houses surrounded by high mud-brick walls, behind which the crowns of fruit trees were visible, occasional small shops, and a small mosque with a low minaret.

"Life here flows almost the same as it did a hundred years ago," Ermek remarked. "Of course, there's electricity, televisions, mobile phones. But the foundation remains the same—the land, the mountains, traditions passed down from generation to generation."

The car turned toward the outskirts of the village and stopped in front of a mud-brick fence painted blue. Bakyt cut the engine, and the sudden silence, broken only by the distant barking of dogs and bleating of sheep, seemed deafening after the long journey.

"We've arrived," announced Ermek, opening the door. "Welcome to my father's house."

They got out of the car. A tall elderly man in a traditional Kyrgyz kolpak—a conical white hat with an ornamental design—was already waiting for them at the gate. Despite his age, Rustam Kambarov looked fit and robust. He had a swarthy face with deep wrinkles, penetrating dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He held a carved walking stick in his hand but leaned on it lightly, more for convenience than necessity.

"Grandfather!" Dinara ran to him and embraced him.

"Kenzhem, my little one," the old man smiled, hugging his granddaughter. "How glad I am to see you."

Then he turned his attention to Ermek and warmly embraced his son. Finally, his gaze settled on Alexei. Something in that gaze—attentive, scrutinizing, as if looking into the very soul—made Alexei feel uncomfortable.

"And you must be Igor Nikolaevich's grandson," said Rustam, extending his hand. "I see his features in your face. The same eyes, the same chin."

"Alexei Sorin," Alexei introduced himself, shaking the old man's dry but firm hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Rustam-aga."

"You knew my grandfather?" he asked, surprised by how accurately Rustam had identified his relationship.

"Oh yes," the old man nodded. "Igor Nikolaevich was a good man. Honest. A true friend." He gestured for everyone to enter the courtyard. "But we'll talk about that over dinner. You must be tired and hungry from your journey."

They entered a spacious courtyard where a table had been set under a canopy of grapevines. A plump middle-aged woman in a traditional dress and headscarf was busy with preparations.

"This is Aigul, my helper," Rustam introduced her. "She has been taking care of me since my wife, Dinara's grandmother, passed away ten years ago."

Aigul nodded warmly to the guests and returned to her tasks. Bakyt, saying goodbye, left on his own business, promising to return in the morning.

They sat down at the table, which was already laden with traditional Kyrgyz dishes—beshbarmak, manty, boorsok, kurut, jam, and, of course, apples and peaches grown in Rustam's garden. The old man poured strong black tea into bowls.