Baraj

A man from the city has come to your village. You've wondered for a long time why? Here, everything is quiet, peaceful, and measured. But in the city, they say, life is in full swing.

Baraj fit right into your rhythm as if he'd always lived here. He helped around the house: chopping wood, helping with the harvest. He worked silently, meticulously, and in the evenings he'd sit on the porch, smoking and gazing off into the distance, at the sunset.

One day the truth about him slipped out: he turned out to be a former military man. A soldier.

You approached him one day while he was building a new bench in the backyard. After a pause, you asked: — "Baradj, do you dream of war?"

He didn't answer right away, but ran the plane across the board, removing shavings. Then he put the tool down and took out a cigarette. "I used to dream about it," he said simply. "But not anymore."

— "And how... did you manage?" you couldn't help but ask.

Baraj took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling smoke that slowly melted in the cool air. He spoke evenly, without malice, but also without self-pity, as if observing the weather. "For a long time, hatred drove me. It was like fuel. I thought that once I took revenge on those who took everything from me, it would become easier. I took my revenge. And I felt absolutely nothing. Emptiness. In that emptiness, this desire was born—to simply live. To chop wood, to drink morning coffee, to feel my hands grow tired from honest work."

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