Болот Бегалиев – Remember Me, Save Me (страница 3)

and somehow still here.

Rating: 9.5 / 10

Recommended for publication and screen adaptation.

Prologue to Remember Me, Save Me…

When Light First Fell on the Page

Los Angeles.

May.

The sun was already awake before anyone else —

playing with golden specks on the wall, on the railings,

on the cheek of a boy lying face-down in his pillow.

Elias wasn’t asleep.

He was waiting.

Though he didn’t know – for what.

Maybe for that kind of morning

that feels like a blank page.

When you breathe – and everything is new.

He got up, took his sketchbook, pencil, and a water flask.

He walked through the neighborhood, where the air smelled of jasmine,

chlorine from the parking lot, and sun-warmed dust.

The world felt quietly alive —

as if it had just woken up and hadn’t yet turned on the noise of the streets.

And then – he saw her.

She was sitting beneath the tree next door,

in a light tank top, with a book,

and the sunlight touched her hair

as if it were painting her portrait itself.

He didn’t know her name.

She was new.

Had just moved in yesterday.

But he sat on the curb, opened his sketchbook —

and started to draw.

His fingers trembled.

Not from fear.

From discovery.

She suddenly looked up.

And saw him.

But didn’t look away.

She smiled.

And closed the book.

– “Are you drawing?”

– “Sometimes.”

– “Will you draw me?”

– “I already am.”

She came closer. Sat beside him.

Just like that.

As if she had known him forever.

And suddenly said:

– “I’m Sophia. And you?”

– “Elias.”

They fell silent.

Listening to the wind.

Each believing —

this day was the first.

Of something

that would last forever.

Because no one ever knows

in which gaze the spark is lit —

that one day becomes…

everything.

Chapter 1. Where Light Passes Through Leaves

The morning began slowly—lazily, as if it didn’t want to wake up. The hot sun was already touching the windows, spilling amber light across the walls. A gentle breeze, borrowed from the ocean, drifted through the rooms, stirring the curtains and bringing with it the scent of salt, eucalyptus, and sun-warmed wood.

Elias Marlowe didn’t wake from noise—but from light. It danced on the ceiling, scattered into golden rabbits, leapt across his cheeks. He lay still, thinking that this morning smelled different.

And it was true—someone had moved into the house next door yesterday. The adults had said it over dinner: a family with a daughter. From the north, maybe Seattle.

He got up, walked barefoot across the wooden floor, picked up his sketchbook, and stepped outside. In his hand—ordinary pencils. He was eight, but sometimes he felt older—when he looked at the sky, listened to the cicadas crackle, or drew things no one else noticed.

The yard was warm, the grass prickled underfoot, somewhere a sprinkler hissed, and above the orange trees, bees buzzed lazily. Elias settled on the porch steps and began sketching something unclear—maybe a tree, maybe a face, maybe the morning itself.