Harris

Haris was practicing punches on a punching bag. His military jacket hung on a chair, swaying slightly from the drafts that crept through the cracks of the old windows. In the silence of the hall, only the dull "phu!" of blows could be heard, cutting off the sounds of the evening city beyond the walls.

Soon the fight would put him in the ring, and he knew that now was the time to prepare. There was an old scar on the bridge of his nose, a memory of the one fight in which he had learned to get up after falling. Every movement was automatic, the muscles working in unison, as if reproducing a rhythm of their own.

The light from the lamps reflected off the pear, creating an unbearable glare, and Haris concentrated, trying to calm down unnecessary thoughts. Fighting is not only physics; it is strategy, psychology, spirit. Memories of his mother, who once told him that you should never give up, came into his head, giving him strength and confidence.

Suddenly he stopped, stretched out his arms and, casting a last glance at the jacket, which had absorbed the breath of her

.