— And the children kicked me out…” sobbed the aunt, who many years ago had tried to raise Artyom. “They put me in the shed, saying that I was in their way. I laid my life at their feet! Forgive me if I hurt you… Soon I’ll have to answer to your late mother as well…”
Artyom stood silently by the fresh little mound of a grave, thinking about why people leave and never return. Beneath the loose, damp earth lay his mother. He found it strange: how was she doing there, in the dark, in a cramped wooden coffin? Wasn’t it cold? And then he remembered his grandmother’s words from three years ago: “People who leave turn into birds and fly up to the sky.” His grandmother had long ago become a little bird and flown away when he was six. Now it was his mother’s turn.
“— And when I become a bird, will I be like mom?” he asked, tugging at the hand of Aunt Marina who stood beside him.
“What bird? Don’t talk nonsense, stand still!” she snapped irritably.
Artyom sighed and glanced around at the sparse crowd. People nearby began to disperse, forming a line along the crosses toward the exit. Aunt Marina grabbed his hand and pulled him along.
“Come on,” she said, leading him away from his mother’s grave.
When they stepped outside the cemetery fence, Marina turned toward the gate to make the sign of the cross and ordered Artyom to do the same. He obediently turned toward the unpainted wooden gate and began to make the sign of the cross over himself. At that moment, a small gray bird descended to the very top of the gate. It looked at him with its tiny eyes, opened its yellow beak, and chirped.
After his mother’s death, Artyom’s life changed beyond recognition. His peaceful existence was disrupted by the hustle and bustle of unfamiliar people. Aunt Marina moved into their home, bringing along her two sons. They first of all threw out all his mother’s belongings, and his own things were shoved far away. The house had become completely foreign.
But that was only the beginning. The very owners began to change as well. Artyom felt that people increasingly kept their distance from him, as if he were something dirty or dangerous.
“You’ll live here,” declared Aunt Marina, opening the door to a small room that had once served as a storage closet.
“Why can’t I live in my own room?” Artyom asked in surprise.
“Because your room now belongs to my son,” she replied venomously. “He’s big now and needs the space. And you, being small and stupid, will have to live here.”
“I’m not stupid,” retorted Artyom. “You’re the fools.”
Aunt Marina immediately smacked him on the head.
“You filthy pup!” she shouted, shaking him by the shoulders. “Keep talking like that!”
Artyom broke free and hid in a corner behind a large box. That’s how he spent the entire evening—rubbing his sore spot and crying. No one had ever beaten him before, and this injustice tortured his soul.
Life in the cramped closet soon became unbearable. Artyom gasped from the bullying by his cousins and aunt. Not a single kind word, not a single warm look.
“I’m going to run away!” he declared one day when Aunt Marina again attacked him for no reason.
“Run away,” she sneered. “Do you think anyone will look for you? Who needs you anyway?”
After she left, Artyom began to gather his things. He stuffed them into his school backpack, cradled it like a beloved toy, and sat on his bed. When night fell, he jumped out the window, retrieved his old bicycle from the shed, and quietly rolled it out the gate. One last time, glancing back at the house where those who now considered him unwanted remained, he began to pedal.
The entire next day, Artyom rode relentlessly forward. His native village disappeared over the horizon. Before him stretched a city—gray, enormous, unfriendly. He remembered riding here once with his mother. Then the city had seemed cheerful and welcoming: they’d spent the whole day at an amusement park, enjoying ice cream and cotton candy. But now the city seemed transformed. It had become cold and hostile, like an angry teacher.
Artyom headed for the train station. The building greeted him with nearly empty halls. He sat on one of the chairs and tried to loosen his stiff legs. His stomach betrayed him with a rumble, reminding him of his hunger. Opening his backpack, he discovered that his food had run out. His gaze fell on a small snack bar to the right: the enticing smells of fresh baked goods were almost hypnotic. Alas, he had no money.
Unable to endure any longer, Artyom made up his mind. He entered the café and, once he was sure the seller was busy behind the counter, grabbed several pastries and ran outside. Returning to his spot, he began to devour them greedily, hardly chewing.
“You sure are slick,” said a voice behind him. “Where did you learn to steal like that?”
Startled, Artyom turned around. On a nearby chair sat a man in a black leather jacket. His face was covered with a thick beard, and his rotten teeth gleamed in a mocking smile.
“Maybe you’ll share some of your loot?” he asked, still smiling.
With a trembling hand, Artyom handed him his last cabbage pie. The man bit off half and handed the rest back.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good kid, though.”
It was more a statement than a question, but Artyom still nodded.
“Will you turn me in to the police?” Artyom asked.
The man laughed.
“Don’t think the police will care about some kid who swiped three pastries,” he replied. “But if you keep it up, they’ll definitely take notice.”
“I’m not just any kid,” Artyom answered hurtfully. “I’m almost nine. I’ve nearly finished the second grade.”
The man in the leather jacket got up, easily climbed over the back of the chair, and sat next to Artyom.
“What’s your name?” he asked, turning to the boy. “And where are your parents?”
Artyom stated his name and briefly explained: “I have no parents. My mother died recently… And I never saw my father.”
The stranger shook his head thoughtfully, then tousled Artyom’s hair with a rough hand missing two fingers.
“Oh, you poor little tearjerker,” he sighed. “Well then, come with me. I’ll at least feed you properly.”
“I don’t know you at all,” protested Artyom, looking at him suspiciously. “Maybe you’re a bad person?”
The man burst into louder laughter, as if he had just heard the funniest joke.
“My name’s Uncle Mitya,” he said between laughs. “I work as a janitor here. So, will you come with me?”
He extended his huge, weathered hand toward Artyom, and after a moment’s hesitation, the boy placed his small hand in his. Uncle Mitya gently squeezed it and led Artyom to a service exit.
Uncle Mitya took him to his modest dwelling, hidden among garages near the station. It was a small concrete structure, more like a temporary shelter. Inside, Artyom saw only a stove, a makeshift bed made of planed boards, an old table, and a couple of equally ancient chairs.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Uncle Mitya said as he removed a pot from the stove. “We’re about to have lunch.”
He poured hot soup into bowls, and they ate in silence. During the meal, Uncle Mitya asked where Artyom had come from, and the boy explained his journey from his small village.
“Well, isn’t that something, kid! Sixty kilometers by bicycle! Not every athlete could handle that distance!”
Artyom managed only a tired smile.
“I’m used to it,” he shrugged. “Once we went on a hike for thirty kilometers. Everyone got tired except me.”
And he continued eating as if nothing unusual had happened.
After lunch, Uncle Mitya went off to work, leaving Artyom to rest. But the boy couldn’t sleep on the hard bed, so he got dressed and went outside. The sound of machines working came from a nearby garage. After a short pause by an ajar door, Artyom mustered the courage and stepped inside.
The first thing that caught his eye was a big motorcycle hanging from the ceiling. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Artyom saw people bustling around another motorcycle lying on the floor. Someone was fiddling with its engine, while others carried tools.
“Hey, don’t just stand there!” someone from deep in the garage shouted. “This beast could fall and crush you!”
Startled, Artyom jumped back. Then a strong young man with long, flowing hair approached him. He put his huge hand on the boy’s shoulder and asked:
“Who are you?”
“Artyomka,” came the quick reply. “I’m Uncle Mitya’s son.”
The young man looked at him intently.
“I didn’t know Mitya had kids,” he grumbled. “Alright then, come in and sit wherever you want.”
He pointed to a bench against the wall, and Artyom moved toward it. Sitting there, he watched as people in leather vests revived an old motorcycle. Then the long-haired young man dismissed everyone, took the handlebars, and kicked the starter with his foot. The motorcycle roared to life, billowed a cloud of smoke, and began to growl deeply.
“Like it?” asked the young man. Artyom nodded.
“By the way, my name is Stepan, but everyone here calls me Borman. And you can call me that. Understand?”
Artyom nodded again. Borman rolled the motorcycle outside and sat down behind him.
“Let’s go, let’s take a lap!” he suggested. “Hold on to me so you don’t fall.”
Borman released the clutch, and the motorcycle surged forward, racing past garages, trees, and the whole world. Artyom felt as if he were part of something incredible. He would remember this day for the rest of his life—the day he met Borman.
A new life began for Artyom. After overcoming many obstacles, Uncle Mitya legally became his guardian, and the boy went back to school. In the evenings, he helped Uncle Mitya clean up the station or spent time in Borman’s garage, watching bikers restore old motorcycles. On his ninth birthday, Borman installed a small motor on his bicycle.
“Welcome to the club!” he said, watching as Artyom took his new moped for a spin. “When you grow up, you’ll get your own vest.”
Artyom was happy. His classmates led ordinary lives, while he was riding with real bikers. For a nine-year-old boy, there couldn’t be a better life.
Ten years passed—ten happy years that Artyom treasured like a gem. He grew up, graduated from school, served in the army, and now he was returning home. Sitting on the bus in his demobilization uniform, he gazed thoughtfully out the window.
“I wonder how Uncle Mitya is doing? How’s Borman? And what about the rest of the guys?”
He recalled the farewell at the station. Back then, a whole line of motorcycles had pulled up near the station. The leather-clad guys embraced him like a brother and accompanied him for a long time.
“Good luck, brother!” Borman shouted in farewell as he accelerated. “We’ll be waiting for you!”
The bus stopped at that very station where, ten years ago, Artyom had stolen pastries and met Uncle Mitya. He entered the building and looked around. Everything was just as before—except Uncle Mitya was nowhere to be seen. Following the familiar path through a service door, Artyom headed toward the concrete box—the home where he had spent so many years.
Inside, it was empty. Completely empty. No old bed, no table, no chairs—nothing. But most importantly, Uncle Mitya was not there.
Artyom dropped his backpack on the floor and sat on it.
“Uncle Mitya,” he said, addressing the emptiness. “Uncle Mitya, I’m back!”
But there was no reply.
Then Artyom went to the familiar garage.
“Hey there,” he said as he entered. “Listen, Borman, why did you cut your hair?”
Borman, now bald and sitting in the corner, raised his head and looked at Artyom in surprise.
“You’re such a puny little runt!” Borman exclaimed, rising and coming toward him. “You finally returned!”
He wrapped his powerful arms around Artyom so tightly that the boy’s bones creaked.
“You’ve come back just in time, brother,” Borman said, pulling two dusty bottles of beer from an old drawer. “I was about to leave.”
They each took a sip, and Artyom, pulling away from the bottle, asked, “And what about Uncle Mitya? Have you seen him?”
Borman lowered his head as if unwilling to meet his eyes. “He died… He caught pneumonia in the winter. Didn’t pull through. I tried calling you at the base, but couldn’t get through.”
Artyom froze in place, and the bottle slipped from his hand, shattering on the grimy concrete floor.
“I was on exercises then…” Artyom’s voice trembled. “Why didn’t you write to me?”
Borman shrugged, looking awkwardly aside. “I don’t know… I thought such news would only weigh you down. On the front, such things only cause trouble…”
He handed Artyom a new bottle and began gathering the glass shards from the floor. After taking another sip, Artyom asked the question that had been on his mind for a long time: “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving,” Borman answered gloomily. “My business has been shut down. They closed half of our guys; the rest are on the run. It’s a good thing you weren’t here, or you’d have gotten caught up too.”
Artyom looked at him in confusion: “But what about the club? What about all that?”
Borman smiled bitterly. “There’s no club anymore. Half of the guys are locked up, the rest are fugitives. It’s a good thing you weren’t here, or you’d be in deep trouble.”
He stood, tossed the shards into a trash bin, and removed his worn biker vest adorned with biker patches.
“Here, take it,” he said, offering the vest to Artyom. “Wear it if you want—or toss it. I’m leaving you all this junk as well.”
Borman put on his tattered jacket and invited Artyom to sit beside him. They sat in silence, exchanging only forlorn glances.
“Time to go,” Borman finally said, rising and extending his hand to Artyom. “Alright, brother. Don’t forget old Borman.”
He embraced Artyom once more, patted him on the shoulder, then rolled out an old black “Dnepr” motorcycle from deep inside the garage, started it up, and disappeared into the evening twilight. Artyom never saw him again.
To distract himself from the overwhelming sorrow, Artyom started up Borman’s Harley and rode off wherever his eyes led him. After riding through several streets, he turned onto the city square and then onto the embankment. Around him, happy people strolled, enjoying a warm May evening. Artyom felt like an outsider among them, as if he were a rider from another world.
Stopping his imposing bike at a distance, he watched the passersby. His heart pounded beneath his leather armor—lonely and in pain. Artyom started the engine again and sped off, eager to dissolve into the evening.
When he reached a bridge rising above the river, the road was blocked by several cars. Carefully maneuvering around them, he noticed a small car that was dangling off a guardrail, on the verge of plunging into the dark water.
“Hey!” a man shouted, waving his arms. “Help!”
Artyom stopped the motorcycle, and the man quickly ran over.
“There’s a girl inside,” the man blurted. “Can you get her out?”
Artyom shrugged: “If I climb in, the car will definitely come off. Maybe try pulling it?”
“We’ve already tried,” the man sighed. “It’s stuck fast.”
With a resigned sigh, Artyom took off his biker vest and hung it on the handlebar. Then he pulled a hammer from the glove compartment and headed toward the car.
Climbing onto the hood, he began hammering at the rear window. From inside came a frightened cry from a woman.
“Stay quiet!” he shouted. “It’ll be over soon.”
The hammer struck again and again until the glass, unable to withstand the blows, shattered. Artyom tossed the hammer into the river. Then he squeezed into the car and grabbed the girl seated inside.
“Pull my legs!” he shouted at the gathered onlookers. “Pull hard—don’t hold back!”
The people formed a human chain and began to pull. When Artyom, holding the girl close, managed to get out, the car wavered, creaked, and tumbled down. Splashes reached the people on the bridge, soaking them from head to toe.
Artyom wiped his face with his vest, draped it over his shoulders, and helped the girl onto the motorcycle.
“Are you okay?” he asked her, but she only shook her head weakly.
Artyom started the motorcycle and rode away, leaving behind the raucous applause of grateful onlookers.
Artyom stopped the motorcycle near the first café he encountered along the way. With great effort, he dragged Liza inside, seated her at a table, and, without ceremony, ordered the waitress to bring tea. Once the tea arrived, Artyom almost forcibly began to help the girl drink the hot beverage until she finally started to come around.
“The car…” she murmured weakly. “It’s drowned…”
Artyom laughed, trying to ease the tension: “Who cares about the car! The important thing is that you’re alive.”
Liza, still trembling, began to babble about how the car was a gift from her father, brand-new—almost a toy.
“What’s your name?” Artyom interrupted, deciding not to dwell on details. “I’m Artyom. And you?”
“Liza,” she replied softly.
After Liza finished her tea, Artyom took her by the hand and led her to the exit.
“Where are we going?” she asked, swaying.
“I’ll take you home,” he answered curtly. “It’s late. You need to rest.”
He helped her onto the motorcycle, took the rider’s seat himself, and gently set off toward her home—a place she managed to name after a few moments of thought.
Liza’s home turned out to be an imposing mansion located in a prestigious area of a private sector. Artyom stopped the bike a few meters from the gate and helped Liza dismount.
“Well, here you are home,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Time to say goodbye.”
Liza took a few steps but then turned back to him.
“I almost forgot to thank you!” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much for getting me out. I don’t even know how it happened… I just closed my eyes for a second, and then—the car was already hanging over the river.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Artyom smiled. “These things happen every day on the roads.”
Liza couldn’t help but smile back, and Artyom waved goodbye.
“Here’s my number,” she said, stepping closer and handing him her business card. “Call me if you need help. My father has connections in the city—he’s always ready to assist.”
Artyom tucked the card into his pocket, said his farewell, and rode off, leaving behind the roar of his engine.
Some time later, Artyom found a job at a small auto repair shop. With his first paycheck, he rented a modest apartment. Yet, life in solitude weighed on him. The silence that enveloped his evenings seemed to drain his energy. One day, returning home and accidentally coming across Liza’s business card, he decided to call her.
“I thought you’d never call,” she said, her voice filled with joy.
Without much thought, Artyom arranged to meet at that very café where he had taken her after the rescue. Liza agreed. He dressed better, got on his motorcycle, and went to pick her up. Thoughts of her had not left him since the day they parted.
Thus began their regular meetings. Every evening Artyom would pick up Liza, and they would ride around the city, playing tag with the wind. The motorcycle, Liza, and Artyom became one—a little world full of love and happiness. On that very bike, Artyom proposed to her, handing over his biker ring and his heart filled with love.
They married in secret, without unnecessary witnesses. After the ceremony, Artyom took Liza to a cozy little restaurant, where they spent their first evening as husband and wife. Whether dancing slow dances or sitting at the table exchanging warm glances, Artyom felt like the happiest man in the world.
“My love, come sit and eat,” Liza would say every evening when he returned from work.
And it seemed that nothing else was needed. But soon another important event occurred.
“I’m pregnant,” Liza announced during one of their evenings as they danced slowly. “It’s already the eighth week.”
Artyom froze, absorbing her words. Once their meaning sank in, he scooped Liza up in his arms and spun her around, as if he were about to take flight with her.
“Fool, put me down! I’m getting dizzy,” Liza laughed.
“Tell me, is it a boy or a girl?” Artyom asked thoughtfully as he gently set her down. “Although… I don’t mind. The main thing is—we’re going to have a child. Liza, you have no idea how happy I am.”
Artyom began to work even harder, eager to earn as much money as possible. He wanted to give his child everything he’d been deprived of in his own childhood. But late nights at work and constant weekend business trips drove a wedge between them.
“You’re never home,” Liza reproached. “All those trips… I’m afraid one day you’ll crash. What then, for our child?”
Artyom tried to reassure her: “Liza, everything will be fine. I follow all safety protocols, I keep every situation under control.”
“Fine? Where is ‘fine’?!—” she burst out. “We see each other only a few hours a day! Even the weekends are devoted to work. I want to spend more time with you!”
Even his passion for motorcycling became a stumbling block. Once, Liza had enjoyed riding with him, but now she categorically opposed it.
“When will you stop with this childish nonsense?” she repeated over and over. “You’re a grown man, yet you act like a teenager. Sell it! I want to be sure our child grows up with you by their side!”
Artyom didn’t know what to say. He merely shrugged, hoping that after the baby was born everything would improve. “Hormonal imbalance,” he thought.
The situation worsened. Liza constantly argued, withdrew into herself, and stopped cooking or communicating with Artyom. He tried to fix things, but in vain.
One day, coming home, he couldn’t find her. On the bedside table lay a note.
“— Forgive me,” it read in her handwriting. “I’m leaving. I hope you’ll understand and forgive me. I fought with you for so long, but you wouldn’t listen. I’m tired. Perhaps meeting was a mistake.”
Artyom read the note several times, tucked it into his pocket, and wearily sank onto the bed. Her scent still lingered in the air, yet his world had collapsed once more.
Then Artyom began to think about his old friend. He had considered finding Borman and riding away with him, but he wasn’t sure if he was even alive or where to find him.
He tried to ask around about his old friend, but acquaintances just shrugged: “I don’t know where he is now. Maybe he left the country.”
Artyom was alone again—just as he had been many years ago when he’d just begun his journey. Only now the pain was deeper because he knew that this time he had lost not just a friend, but the family he had desperately tried to build.
“Honestly, I have no idea where he is,” admitted an old acquaintance of Artyom’s, shrugging. “They say Borman rode off to the south. Smart guy—he always knew that sooner or later ‘the colored people’ would close his business. He’d sell half the town’s goods. And think about it—where did he get the money for a Harley? You know how much a motorcycle costs.”
More and more, Artyom found himself considering selling Borman’s garage along with its contents and his motorcycle, and then heading back to his native village. There he planned to take up farming—to start a pig farm. According to his calculations, the Harley was worth about two hundred thousand, and the garage could fetch even more. Finally, Artyom decided. He sold the garage, receiving almost half a million, but decided to keep the motorcycle for now. Finding a small house in the village, he packed his belongings and bought a bus ticket. He wasn’t going to apologize to Liza—he saw no point in it. He didn’t think he was at fault.
On the eve of his departure, when Artyom had already gone to sleep, there was a knock on the door. Reluctantly, he got out from under his warm blanket and went to open it. Standing on the doorstep was his father-in-law, Gennady Nikolaevich.
“Come in,” Artyom said, throwing on a robe. “Has something happened with Liza?”
Gennady Nikolaevich entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Liza has had a baby,” he announced. “Your son.”
Artyom stared at him in astonishment.
“But she was eight months along… How did this happen? And who is the father?”
“A boy,” his father-in-law smiled. “She named him Artyom. Probably in your honor. Yes, the baby came early, but the delivery went smoothly. Our whole family prayed for his health. Don’t you want to see him?”
Gennady Nikolaevich placed his hand on Artyom’s shoulder. The young man hesitated. Of course, he longed to see his son, to embrace Liza, to share in the joy of her motherhood. But would he be allowed to do so?
“Liza misses you, even if she doesn’t say it,” continued his father-in-law, as if reading his thoughts. “Whenever your name comes up, she falls silent, but her eyes immediately fill with tears. Meet with her, talk. Perhaps you two will reconcile. After all, you are now forever bound by this little human…”
Artyom lowered his head.
“I was planning to move to the countryside,” he confessed. “I don’t think Liza would want that kind of life for herself. And if she wanted to see me, she would have called long ago.”
He told his father-in-law about his dream of starting a farm. To his surprise, Gennady Nikolaevich exclaimed:
“That’s a great idea! Life in the fresh air is wonderful! And it will do the baby good. Brilliant thought!”
His father-in-law offered to help with building the farm and buying piglets, and Artyom thanked him in advance.
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call,” Gennady Nikolaevich said. “And meet with Liza. I ask you as a man to another man—no hints. I know you both need it.”
After his father-in-law left, Artyom took out his phone and dialed Liza’s number. When she answered, he took a deep breath and said:
“I love you, Liza, and I love our son too… Tell him that.”
“And we love you,” she replied through tears. “We miss you very much. Come, Artyom. I’ll introduce you to our son.”
A week later, Artyom picked up Liza and their son and set off for his native village. The house he had bought was located at the far end of a street he’d known since childhood. Riding along it, Artyom noticed how much had changed. Some houses were gone; others had been rebuilt. His own house had remained untouched by time, as if frozen in a long slumber. Artyom glanced at it briefly and said to Liza:
“Remember when I told you how I was kicked out of the house? That was this very house.”
Liza looked at him in surprise.
“Aren’t you going in? I wonder what has changed.”
“No,” Artyom shook his head. “I have nothing to do there. I’ve long said goodbye to the past.”
The car stopped in front of a small house with a slate roof. Artyom helped unload the belongings, paid the driver, and, taking the son in his arms, kissed him on the nose.
“Here we are, Artyom Artyomovich,” he smiled. “Soon the piglets will arrive, as small as you are.”
After handing his son over to Liza, Artyom noticed an old woman walking by. Her emaciated body was wrapped in rags, and her head in a tattered shawl. Looking closer, he recognized her.
“Aunt Marina,” he called. “Hello!”
The old woman froze, then slowly turned.
“Artyom? Is that you?” she croaked.
The once unrecognizable Aunt Marina could barely move now. Her face had become like a dried apple, and her hands, once strong, were now twisted by arthritis.
“I live in a shed,” she admitted, struggling to hold back tears. “My children nearly burned the house down, so it’s impossible to live there now.”
“You must be angry with me,” she added, wiping her tears. “I can’t forgive myself. Everything that happened to me—I deserved it for how I treated you…”
Artyom shook his head.
“What’s done is done,” he said, turning to leave.
But after a second, he stopped and returned to the old woman. She wept softly, trembling with sorrow. Artyom gave her the address of his city apartment.
“It’s paid for a month in advance,” he said, handing her a piece of paper with the address. “Tell the landlady it’s from me. Go today. Is there money for a taxi?”
He gently shook her hand, and she, still crying, walked away. The gesture filled Artyom with bitterness. Is this the price of a mother’s love?
Liza looked at her husband in astonishment.
“Why such generosity?” she asked. “This woman tormented you, and now you help her. Why?”
Artyom smiled.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Lately, I’ve been surprising even myself. Perhaps you have such a positive influence on me.”
He took a leather biker vest from his backpack and draped it over his sleeping son.
“Someday he will wear it, get on a motorcycle, and ride off to find his own happiness,” he said.
“Just like you,” Liza replied, resting against his shoulder. “He’ll ride and find it, just like his dad.”
Artyom laughed and kissed his wife, agreeing with her words. He was sure that now everything would be alright. And it was so: life gradually improved. Farming brought him joy, his son grew up healthy, and Liza, by his side, became happy again.
