Болот Бегалиев – Remember Me, Save Me (страница 4)
And then he saw her.
She was sitting under a tree in the neighbor’s yard—a little way off—in a blue dress, holding a book with her knees hugged to her chest. Her honey-colored hair was loose, strands lifted by the wind, making her seem to sway like the leaves above.
She didn’t move—just ran her finger along the page’s edge.
Elias didn’t know why he couldn’t look away. Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was how quiet she was. He didn’t know. He just started to draw. Fast, like he was afraid he’d forget. His hands moved on their own, and his heart beat a little louder than usual.
He didn’t even notice that she saw him—and smiled.
The ball. It was his old blue ball, left in the yard two days ago. It suddenly rolled—wind? angle? fate?—and came to rest at her feet.
Sophia picked it up like it was an artifact from another era.
“Is this yours?” she asked. Her voice was slightly husky, but warm.
He nodded and walked over.
“I’m Elias.”
“Sophia. We moved in yesterday.”
They stood on the edge between two lawns. Her grass was thicker. His smelled like dust. He didn’t know what to say, but the ball was a good excuse to begin.
“Wanna go for a walk? I’ll show you something.”
They walked along the creek. A small California stream that dries up by August—but now, it gurgled—uncertain, like a child learning to speak.
Sunlight filtered through rosemary and sage. It touched their skin—not scorching, but like a butterfly’s wing. The air smelled of dust and salt.
He led her to a place he’d never shown anyone—his "secret place." A little nook between two slopes, with water murmuring below and a tree above that looked like an umbrella. He often sat there alone, drawing, dreaming. Now—they sat there together.
“Do you always draw?” she asked.
“Almost. Sometimes I just watch how things breathe.”
“Can you hear how light grows?”
He turned to her. She was staring ahead, where the sky met the sea.
Elias smiled. Slowly, like it was the most important thing he’d ever said.
“I think I can now.”
They sat in silence. A breeze played with her hair. His sketchbook lay open beside him—on a page where she sat beneath a tree, reading.
And then everything felt real: the sky, the sea, the ball, the silence. Something rang between them—like sunlight caught between palms.
And in that shimmering moment, a friendship was born. Maybe more.
The next morning came just as slowly. The world was damp with dew. Leaves gleamed like lacquer, and on Elias’s bedroom window, a tiny butterfly rested. It moved its wings as if breathing—and he felt he wanted to breathe the same way: softly, quietly, in rhythm with the world.
He took not only his sketchbook but also a jar of water, brushes, a few watercolors, and an old bandana—in case he had to sit in the sun for long.
This time, he stepped into the garden with confidence—as if someone was waiting.
Sophia was there.
She sat in the grass, three books around her like animals: one she petted, one she flipped through, one she simply watched.
She looked up and smiled—not the polite smile for strangers, but the kind your body already remembers.
“Wanna see?” she asked, nodding to the books.
“Only if you show me the one where the dragon lives,” Elias said seriously.
She laughed. The sound was like a crystal falling into water.
“And you?” she asked. “Are you drawing today?”
He sat beside her—not too close, not too far. The breeze smelled of lemon rind and wet soil. He opened his sketchbook and showed her the drawing from yesterday—where she sat beneath the tree.
Sophia froze. Looked at it for a long time without breathing.
“That’s me?”
“That’s the light through you,” he said, surprised by his own words.
She closed her eyes—the way people do when they don’t know how to say thank you.
They went walking closer to noon. Took oranges, a bottle of water, and his old collie, Morrison. The dog was wise, fluffy, and limped slightly—but his eyes were like a child’s.
They followed the path along the creek, where their friendship had been born the day before. Today it felt different—as if the place had become part of them, remembered their steps.
“Do you think trees have names?” Sophia asked.
“Only old ones. Young ones haven’t earned them yet,” Elias said thoughtfully.
“Then this one’s Elvie. It’s watching us and knows we’re not just kids.”
He looked at her: hair stuck to her cheek, ink-stained fingers, a strip of sunlight on her nose.
They returned near evening—tired but light.
As they said goodbye, Sophia touched his hand—quickly, as if by accident, but he remembered it down to his fingertips.
She said:
“Tomorrow I’ll show you my secret. But promise me you won’t laugh.”
“And you promise you won’t disappear,” he whispered. But even at eight, he knew—what truly matters always fears disappearing just a little.
Morning was clear, like water in a glass. Light didn’t just fall—it spread, caressed, promised.
Elias came early and crouched by their tree—Elvie, as Sophia named it. In his hands—two thin stems woven into rings. One slightly larger, the other smaller. He had learned this in spring, but never thought he’d give them to anyone.
Sophia came out with a sheet of paper covered in colored pencil drawings… of guests. A penguin in a hat, a dog with a bow, a cat with a cake, a sun with eyelashes, and ice cream eating itself.
“They all came,” she said seriously, sitting beside him.
“Then we better begin,” Elias nodded.
They played wedding. Not pretend—but real—as only children can when they believe every detail is reality.
“You have to give a speech,” she whispered.
“Okay.”
He stood, held up a twig like a microphone, and said:
“I, Elias, promise… to always share the last piece of chocolate. Even if it has nuts. And also—not to laugh if you spill juice on your socks. And if we ever get lost—I’ll find us. Always.”
Sophia nodded. Her eyes glowed.
“I, Sophia, promise… to always listen, even when you say strange things. And not to be afraid of your drawings, even if they have too much rain. And to remember how your laugh sounds. Even if I grow very old.”
They put the rings on each other—green, dewy.