— “Hey, old man!” sneered Thomas, a tall, strong guy with a tattoo on his neck. “What are you shaking for? Can’t sleep without your pills, huh?”
The old man didn’t answer. He sat on the bottom bunk, leaning against the wall, holding a metal mug of cold tea. He looked about seventy-five, gray-haired, frail, with faded eyes. His name was Andre.
— “Answer me, grandpa!” Thomas yelled, stepping closer. “Think you get respect for your age here? We respect strength, not old age!”
— “I… don’t meddle in anyone’s business, son,” Andre said quietly. “My life is lived. All that’s left is just to be.”
— “Son!” Thomas laughed. “You’re not my father, you old fart. I could take guys like you with one hand…”
He suddenly knocked the mug out of Andre’s hand. The metal hit the concrete floor, tea splashing. A viscous silence hung in the cell. Everyone understood it was better not to interfere.
Andre didn’t look up. He ran a finger along the table, wiped a drop on his sleeve, and set the mug back down. No fear, no anger—as if the whole situation had nothing to do with him. This calmness only enraged Thomas more.
— “Hear that, grandpa?” he took another step. “He who stays silent gets trampled. Understand?”
— “I understand, son,” the old man replied calmly. “Just don’t make noise. Night is coming.”
Thomas scoffed, swiped Andre’s piece of bread off the table, and walked away. Andre picked up the bread, blew off the dust, and put it back. He didn’t even eat it.
When the lights went out, the cell sank into gray darkness. Someone prayed softly, someone tossed and turned, someone counted breaths to fall asleep. Thomas fell asleep instantly—confidently, with a snore.
But in the night, Sam, the bunkmate, woke up to a strange sound. Thomas was wheezing, as if choking. The struggle was quiet, convulsive.
— “Hey!” Sam whispered. “He’s not breathing right!”
The old man was already awake. He heard everything instantly: the ragged breathing, the heartbeat—uneven, like a step on ice. He had known these sounds once—he had been a paramedic. He had listened to hundreds of such nights, saving dozens of such chests.
— “Sam, light the lamp.”
The flame of the makeshift candle illuminated Thomas’s face—bluish lips, eyes filled with terror.
— “Air…” he gasped. “Can’t… breathe…”
— “Quiet,” Andre said. “It’s your heart. Don’t panic. Look at me.”
He reached out and placed his palm on Thomas’s massive hand. “Under your tongue—here’s a pill. Breathe with me. One… two… One… two…”
Thomas clung to the old man with his gaze, as if to the shore. In his eyes flickered something that doesn’t belong in prison—the fear of being weak.
— “Who… are you?” he breathed out.
— “A doctor. Once. A paramedic. Then life went crooked. Breathe. More. Good.”
Sema—a faithful witness to any miracle—wiped the sweat from Thomas’s forehead. Tigran crossed himself in the corner, as if afraid to disturb an invisible spell.
After ten minutes, the breathing evened out. The color returned to Thomas’s cheeks. He lowered his eyes and asked quietly:
— “Why did you… help?”
— “Because there is no one here but us,” the old man answered. “And if we don’t look out for each other, who will?”
He let go of Thomas’s hand. The light flickered, and the cell sank into darkness again. But now, the fear was gone.
Morning in prison always begins with the clang of locks. But this time—it also began with a whisper. When the guard opened the door, he found Thomas washing the table, scrubbing out a rust stain. Then he picked up the old man’s mug from the floor, carefully set it back, and blew on the rim.
— “What is it, boys?” he said quietly. “Don’t bother the man while he’s drinking his tea.”
The entire block fell silent.
Much changed after that. Thomas started fetching water, helping the old man write in his notebook, and making sure no one bothered Andre. When someone tried to push the old man aside in the mess hall, Thomas simply said:
— “Let him pass. Show respect for the doctor.”
And for the first time within those walls, respect didn’t require fists.
A few months later, Andre was released. The court had reviewed his case, and he went home. Before leaving, he left Thomas the mug.
— “Let it remind you,” he said. “Don’t throw people away.”
They embraced briefly, man to man.
A year passed. In the summer, a man in a clean shirt with a clay pot in his hands approached the small house on the edge of the village. The basil smelled fresh.
— “I’m looking for Andre,” he told the neighbor.
— “He died in the spring,” she replied. “Quietly, in his sleep. With his notebook in his hands.”
The man nodded, walked into the yard, found the grave beneath the apple tree, and set down the pot.
— “Thank you,” he said softly. “For my life.”
The wind swayed the green leaves. For a moment, it seemed the old man was near again—with a mug in his hand, a gentle smile, and that same voice that knew how to calm hearts.
Since then, Thomas worked as an orderly in a hospital. The pay was ridiculous, the nights were tough. But when someone started choking from panic or pain, he simply said:
— “Breathe with me. One… two… You are not a hero. You are a person. Allow yourself to be one.”
And always, before taking a sip of tea, he blew on the rim of his mug—the old man’s way, so as not to burn himself.