Swan Feather

Swan Feather

Part I

…You know what we’re missing? A feather that simply vanished. That feather. Just a shard of a swan’s wing. And when we hold it in our hands again—everything that’s lost finds its way back home...

The streets of Tashkent were dust-covered and choked with haze. Not a single café offered the peace to sit and focus. My eyes stung from exhaustion. Even in the most picturesque interior, at the coziest corner table, you couldn’t enjoy your coffee with genuine pleasure.

Still, I sat without blinking in the bar beneath the chimes on the Square, my fingers clenched around a mug, waiting for sunset. My gaze was fixed on the horizon, painted only in orange. The landscape grew darker by the day. In the face of the fickle autumn weather, I had wrapped myself in a long orange-hued coat, thick denim jeans, and a stylish Korean-style sweater. It seemed I wasn’t the only one dressed like this...

"Good afternoon, sir. May I sit here? I’d like to talk for a bit."

He sat across from me.

"I don’t know who you are," I said, "but I’ll listen. Go ahead."

In recent days, the air had grown so heavy it felt like one of the omens of the world’s end. My mood had become numb to most things. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, this man appeared before me—also in a coat, with a sharply styled haircut and an odd, piercing stare. He spoke immediately:

"Strange day, isn’t it? Feels like the earth is folding into itself. The city’s air is just the same: dense, oppressive. It won’t let you sleep or stay awake. At sunset, it’s as if everything—the earth, the sky, even me—is drained of strength. The broken rays of the sun drown in the dusty haze..."

"Your words don’t move me," I said. "Maybe because my mood is exactly like that. Today, yesterday, tomorrow—I’m sure it’ll be the same. Melancholy, alien, suffocating. Don’t take it personally, stranger."

"But tonight’s sunset... it’s different."

His tone changed abruptly. My pupils widened. Who is this man?

"A courier."

"I’m listening. What needs to be delivered?"

"Just transported. We’ve already prepared navigation and a live route for you."

"Is the item in another country?"

"No, very close. Closer than you think."

"You seem... suspicious."

"We came to you because you handle suspicious deliveries. But don’t worry. Around you are people who won’t interfere with delicate conversations."

He glanced around. The café’s visitors, as if on cue, turned toward him one by one, nodded, and returned to their business.

"Looks like I’m surrounded..." he thought. But not a flicker of fear showed on his face.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I won’t deny it. But you—you’re a different kind of suspicious. Usually, shady deliveries begin with encrypted messages. But you just showed up and spilled everything out. No, you’re nothing like the low-tier clients I’ve worked with before. You feel more like a political agent. I’m warning you: without trust, I don’t get tangled in these kinds of webs. And don’t bother threatening me.”

“You dig too deep,” he replied, still composed. “We’re not part of any political games. Though... we do have partners in that world. But I assure you, you won’t be dropped into the middle of a conflict. Everything will be done officially. Contract. Guarantee. And to be honest, we don’t think you’ll turn it down. It’s a simple job. With fair pay.”

“If you won’t tell me what the item is, I walk.”

“I can tell you this: it’s not contraband. Not a precious metal. Not drugs—one hundred percent. And not political documents either. Is that enough?”

As always, he made his decision swiftly and sharply—that was just his nature.

“Fine. Encrypt the address and time. Send it to me.”

“No need. It’s simple. The more you complicate the path, the more complicated the outcome becomes.”

“Here—take this navigator. You’ll be assigned a guide. He’ll explain everything.”

It was a device shaped like a wristwatch—with a touchscreen, a leather strap, and mechanical buttons for manual input.

“It only shows the route?” he asked.

“No. But for now, the navigation is all you need to worry about.”

As those words were spoken, a low rumble began rising on the young man’s side—like the approach of a subway train.

And by the time the last sentence landed, the man was already standing right above him.

“It’s time to go. Your guide will show the way.”

The one he called the guide was a tall young man with straw-colored hair styled in the same spiked fashion. But unlike the first, his face was more open—even welcoming. Perhaps that’s why the young man gave his silent agreement—with a faint nod.

He stood up.

Something stirred inside him—an unfamiliar sense of resolve… and even excitement.

Just moments ago, he’d been wrapped in thoughts about how dull and pointless everything had become. And now, suddenly, a strange surge of anticipation.

They descended the café’s steps. The young man began to think more seriously about the mission itself. Normally, all he needed was a precise instruction, and that was it. He never asked questions.

But this time—it felt different.

The stranger had said: a simple item.

Not valuable.

Not drugs.

Not documents.

“Damn... that’s actually intriguing,” he thought.

Ask the guide? That would break his own code.

Still, he felt something like… a first assignment.

Like a child.

“Why don’t we chat a bit?” the guide offered. “While we walk—just a few words?”

“I don’t mind,” he replied, “as long as it’s nothing personal.”

“Fair enough. Curious where we’re headed?”

You know what makes working with professionals so pleasant?

They don’t complain, don’t ask pointless questions, don’t make things harder than they are.

Even in silence, walking beside them feels right.

The young man tilted his head slightly to the left, glanced at the guide, and then returned to his calm, even stride.

As they passed the Square's chimes, the guide spoke again:

“The first point is nearby. Do you like pigeons?”

“Yes,” the young man answered shortly.

“See how they’re not afraid of people? Tourists feed them all day—they don’t even flinch anymore. They swarm right at your feet…”

“Amusing.”

“I’m a boring companion, huh? Or are you just a true professional?”

“Here we are—by the monument.

You know when that building to the left was built?”

“No.”

“During the reign of Alexander II. Architect: Yanchevsky.”

“I don’t care for history.”

“Ah. Apologies. They did warn me about that.”

"He seemed composed and silent a minute ago… and now, once he starts talking, he’s a completely different person," the young man thought.

They reached the monument to Amir Timur.

“Now put on the navigator, please. Like that.

Now turn the left dial—like setting a traditional watch.

One… two… three… all the way to twelve. Done. Route point should appear?”

“Yes.”

“To confirm, press here,” the guide said.

The young man did as instructed.

“Let’s check. Monument—right in front of us. Across from it—the Uzbekistan Hotel. To the right—a clock tower. Behind us—the Law University building. All marked.”

The micro-mechanical device stored each location with its name and a miniature diagram—everything saved to memory.

He hadn’t seen a function like this before.

With a surprised twist of his lips, he looked up—just as the guide pointed toward the entrance to the underground passage.

“A little interest in your city’s history wouldn’t hurt.”

“It’s not my city.”

“I see... Happens often.”

“That’s why I don’t get too attached. People lived here before me, they’ll live here after.”

“But for me—it’s home. That’s why I do care. I’m passionate about its history...”

They moved toward the underground crossing near Amir Temur Square.

“This metro station used to have a different name, you know. And do you know why the monument to Temur is shaped the way it is? Since I was a child, I always asked: Why? For whom? Why exactly like this? That’s why I carry a head full of facts most people think are useless.”

“My good man, I do appreciate that—or at least I’ll pretend I do. But I don’t need bursts of memory or excessive emotion at every step. Makes me too impulsive... Mind if I just call you pal?”

“Of course! Call me whatever you like.”

“Pal, I don’t even know the historical name of the city I was born in. I leave that to the historians. I just need practical, utilitarian skills to keep my personal life in order. No one calls that talent, but for me—it’s enough.”

They arrived at the platform, where the train was about to stop.

“To be honest—you’re right,” the guide said. “Specialists like you are exactly what’s needed. That’s why we’re here together.

Not just together—this task was entrusted to you, not to me.”

The young man tried to figure out why this person had been assigned as his escort.

“So... are you a courier too?” he asked.

“No... well, in a way—yes. I’m a lead specialist in history, specifically in numismatics and linguistics. Which, as you can imagine, doesn’t exactly sharpen one’s delivery skills.”

“And how’s that relevant to any of this?”

A rising rumble cut off the reply—the train was arriving.

The young man turned to ask another question, but his companion was already focused on the incoming train, calculating which door would be best to board.

The noise drowned out the rest of their conversation.

They stepped into the carriage. The train began to move.

After several stations had passed, the guide gave a subtle signal—it was time to get off.

They exited at Alisher Navoi station, each lost in his own thoughts.

The young man wanted to finish the question that had been growing inside him... but he held back.

The guide walked in silence, following some invisible route. Even on the escalator, the atmosphere between them didn’t shift.

A train stood waiting on the opposite track.

As if it had known—they would be coming back.

They approached like machines: one leading, the other following. Once again, they entered the carriage.

At last, it seemed they had reached the destination. The guide gestured ahead:

“We get off here. This is where it begins.”

“Gafur Gulyam Station?!” the young man exclaimed in surprise.

“Let’s head somewhere private.”

His tone had turned firm—almost commanding. He led the way to the far end of the platform, where the shadows were deeper.

The young man suddenly noticed—they were heading toward a metro exit blocked off for repairs.

“Where are you going?! That area’s completely shut off!”

“Keep moving.”

“But it’s locked!”

“It’s supposed to be.”

Without a word, the guide pulled out a key, casually unlocked the gate, then grabbed the young man’s wrist and led him through the metal bars.

The screech of the iron gate blended with the roar of the departing train—like it had all been choreographed in advance.

Inside was dim. The light from the platform barely reached the first few meters of the corridor.

From his pocket, the guide took out an antique pocket lantern—a real relic—and handed it to the young man. Then, with a simple match, he lit the wick.

Taking the flickering lamp back into his own hand, he walked ahead.

“No need to bother trying,” he said coolly.

“Over on this side of the platform, your phone won’t work.

Neither will that pocket flashlight.

Even the navigator we gave you—it’s useless here.

Shift just slightly to the left… and you’ll change entirely.”

The young man nodded silently.

Without protest, without questions, with the cold professionalism of habit, he followed.

He accepted everything unfolding around him as simply another part of the mission.

The guide handed him a bundle of worn clothing.

It carried the musty scent of age and dust.

The clothes were rough, thick, heavy—stiff, as if starched—and unmistakably old.

Garments with a history.

Piece by piece, he removed his own clothes and slipped into the unfamiliar ones.

They didn’t fit right. They didn’t feel like his.

They felt like someone else’s life.

He felt exhausted. Out of place. Like he had stepped into a stranger’s body.

Questions buzzed in his head like static:

Who wore this before me?

Where has it been?

Why me?

These questions rang in his ears, louder with every heartbeat.

“Leave your clothes here. You’ll return to this spot later.”

“I don’t get it... What is this, a changing room? Isn’t this a bit too weird?”

“Don’t worry,” the guide said calmly. “While you’re changing in this shelter, I’ll briefly explain the mission...

My name is Jahongir. As I mentioned before, I’m part of the Organization’s logistics division. And for this assignment—I’m your escort.”

Jahongir raised the lantern slightly, a faint smile on his face.

“I know. The place looks eerie. But trust me—what’s ahead is even more remarkable.

This... is a dream come true for any secret agency.”

Something inside the young man’s mind snapped like a fuse.

Only now did he truly begin to feel the atmosphere, the weight of it all.

Nothing felt like before—as if he had stepped into another world entirely.

Suddenly, he grabbed Jahongir by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall.

His voice was low, furious:

“Explain. Now. No riddles. What is this place? Give me a straight answer!”

Jahongir didn’t flinch. Still holding the lantern, his eyes remained fixed on the flame.

“Careful with the light. If it goes out... things might not go well.”

“Enough games! Talk! What do you call this place?!”

“This is the Platform of Time. The entry corridor. A neutral tunnel.”

“And where are we going from here?”

“We’re not going anywhere. The mission is here. At the very end of the corridor.”

“What am I retrieving? Where do I deliver it?”

The young man’s grip on his collar tightened. The tension was razor-sharp.

“If you let go,” Jahongir said calmly, “I’ll explain it in your terms. Breathe. I’m your living guarantee.

As long as I’m with you—you are protected.”

His gaze, lit by the flicker of the lantern, was so steady, so sure, that each word seemed to stand on solid ground.

Slowly, the young man loosened his grip, backed away, and dropped into a crouch.

It was as if his legs could no longer hold him.

“Courier. Name: Rustam. Age: 27. Education: basic. Single. Field specialist. No interest in history whatsoever... Listen carefully.

We are now standing in the sealed section of Gafur Gulyam metro station—officially closed for repairs.

In truth, this is a portal. An ancient passage, long forgotten and hidden. There’s another just like it at a different station.

Your task:

Travel into the past and retrieve the Swan Feather.

That’s all. I’ll explain the rest later.

That feather—it’s the emblem of our Organization.

It even shares its name: The Swan Feather.

Your mission is to bring it back.

Now focus.

At the end of this tunnel, you’ll enter the same location—but in a different era.

No object besides your body and the issued navigator may cross the boundary of time.

That’s why you must change completely—even your underclothes.

These old, musty garments match the fashion of that era.

This is a neutral zone. Here, you may leave your things—your tech, your clothes—untouched.

Remember:

When you return—don’t bring anything back with you.

Not a pebble. Not a scrap of cloth.

Anything else would disturb the balance between the timelines.”

Rustam stared silently at Jahongir, taking in every word.

But as the man kept speaking, it was as if a cold layer began creeping across his skin.

“Why?” the question spun endlessly in his mind.

“What if this is all just an elaborate joke?”

He had already tried using his phone—no signal, no power.

So Jahongir hadn’t lied: the tech really didn’t work here.

But this talk of portals, missions, swan feathers—it all sounded like a poorly staged play.

And yet… he was expected to walk to the end of that tunnel, as if he had already signed some invisible contract.

A hundred questions spun through his mind like a cyclone.

But then Rustam realized—he didn’t want to ask them.

Let Jahongir do the convincing.

“Come with me,” said Jahongir, lifting the lantern and pointing toward a staircase that led upward.

“We’ll go upstairs.”

Rustam rose reluctantly from the cold ground, where he had sat curled like a knot.

He stepped after Jahongir.

Part of him wanted to follow this through—to see how it all ended.

Another part rebelled, calling the whole thing absurd.

But one trait had always ruled his nature—stubbornness.

He remembered when, as a boy, he and some friends had dared to explore a cave outside their village late at night.

One of the boys had grown scared and wanted to turn back.

Their leader had snapped:

“Only cowards start something and then run away.”

Those words hadn’t even been aimed at Rustam—but they had burned into his memory.

And ever since, retreat had never been his way.

Step by step, they climbed the stairs, lit only by the faint glow of the lantern.

At the top, hidden under an arched shadow, was an old wooden door—

Most likely once used by station personnel.

Carved across it were large Latin letters, written in a strange, almost hand-drawn font—

clearly made before the age of computers and printers.

Everything here screamed of abandonment.

Above, silence reigned.

The air was cool.

The space felt like outer space—soundless, but somehow breathing.

Jahongir turned to Rustam, looking him straight in the eyes.

His voice was low, almost intimate:

“This is a restricted section of the metro.

In truth, every station has its technical sectors—places only specialists know about.

We’re about to enter one of those now. Once inside, I’ll explain the rest.”

Rustam shook the numbness out of his hands and silently followed.

Jahongir pulled a strange device from his pocket—something like a key—and inserted it into a narrow slit in the door.

When it clicked open, a staircase appeared before them.

Descending was difficult, but Jahongir’s steady, unshaken steps gave Rustam the strength to continue.

At the bottom, they entered a vast underground chamber—dark, echoing, nearly silent.

The space felt unstable, surreal.

Only a few faint symbols shimmered in the distance.

Jahongir pointed ahead.

“That tunnel over there—used to be a depot.

It was built solely for trains.”

He paused, then added:

“Now… it serves us.”

Rustam glanced at him, concern stirring in his chest.

“How does it work? What’s waiting at the end?”

Jahongir smiled slightly.

“You’ll understand once you pass through.

Just remember—this isn’t a normal tunnel.

You won’t just feel movement.

You’ll feel time, space—and even yourself—in a different way.

The changes inside are scientific in nature... but we don’t need to get into the details right now.”

“So I just walk through the tunnel?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“You’ll come out the other side.”

“And after that?”

“That’s when your mission begins.”

“But how—”

“Listen carefully,” Jahongir said, his tone sharpening.

“This is the last moment I can explain everything to you.”

“On the other side, you’ll emerge in a different time.

The year: 1219, Gregorian calendar.

The season: autumn.”

“Your point of arrival will most likely be a cellar, a dungeon—or some sort of underground hollow.”

“The most important thing—” Jahongir continued, “—is this:

The Swan Feather will be on a writing desk.”

“You’ll likely arrive through a back door, into a sealed room where scribes are working.

There may be many feathers on the table—but none of those are your target.

The real one is stored in a tin box or a drawer.

It’s unique.

If you dip it in water—it doesn’t get wet.

That’s how you’ll know it.”

“After that, find your way out.”

“Our communication will be through the feather itself.

There should be a sheet of paper inside the box.

Write your question on it—we’ll reply on the same paper.”

“But we can only respond with ‘YES’ or ‘NO’.

So don’t ask vague questions.”

Don’t speak to anyone.

Don’t look anyone in the eyes.

Don’t eat anything.

And don’t bring back a single object.

Not even a pebble.

Any violation—and the balance of time collapses.”

“That’s it. The rest… you’ll discover there.”

“Go.”

Rustam had never felt his neck stiffen like this before.

His nape turned to stone.

He was on the verge—of screaming, of calling it all ridiculous.

But he wanted it over. Quickly.

So he said nothing.

He only nodded… and stepped into the tunnel.

At first, it looked like any wide corridor.

But with every step, his legs grew heavier.

The walls seemed to close in, even though visually—they stayed the same.

His breathing quickened.

It felt as if his entire body was being pressed inward.

As if he was being swallowed by the tunnel—

squeezed through narrow intestines like a bead through a straw.

Soon, he couldn’t walk upright anymore.

He dropped to his knees and began crawling, his shoulders and hips brushing the walls.

Every motion required effort—

even the air had turned thick and sticky.

“How does this even work?” Rustam could barely think.

With his eyes, he still saw space—

but his body… it was caught in a vice.

Then, from the depths of the blurred silence, Jahongir’s voice returned—

as if from another dimension:

“You’re feeling spatial compression.

It’s just a quantum effect.

An illusion.

Keep going—

and you’ll find yourself again.”

But Rustam could barely breathe.

His hands trembled, fingers clutching the rough, sandpaper-like walls.

Every inch forward was a battle—his body fought for each movement.

At last—at the very end,

where the tunnel had narrowed into something more like a crack in the stone,

he saw it—

a dim light.

With what strength he had left, he pushed with both arms…

and smashed through a metal grate—

as if being born again.

What he saw beyond...

...was no longer his world.

******************************

“They say anything begun at sunset is doomed to fail.”

“I don’t believe in omens. What does it matter if the sun stands high above or slips behind the horizon?”

Their voices echoed softly in one of the quiet corners of a grand, near-ceremonial library.

The shelves were stacked with massive tomes bound in thick leather, their pages heavy with the weight of centuries.

The two men sat at opposite ends of a low, lacquered bench placed between two lounge chairs.

Their postures were relaxed, but their voices held a certain restraint—both held special positions.

Yes, this was that very library, where the members of the ancient organization known as The Swan Feather convened.

This institution had existed for centuries—since times that historians hesitantly labeled “before our era.”

The members never broke the law; they dealt strictly with historical documents.

Their relationship with the state was amicable, their cooperation steady, never crossing into open conflict.

Only once, in 1996, as the Amir Temur Memorial Museum was being prepared for grand opening,

a mild confrontation sparked between them and external historians.

It never escalated into a full dispute,

but since then, the organization had withdrawn from public debate entirely.

Between the two armchairs sat an old four-player chessboard.

Thin steam rose from delicate porcelain cups of dark, aromatic coffee placed along the edges.

“Imagine, if only Amir Olimkhan had—”

“Enough.”

The voice was calm, but firm. “You're getting too emotional. Your concern is understandable… but incurable.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“In theory, anything is possible. Especially when you weren’t actually there.”

With that, the speaker tilted his head slightly to the left and coolly captured a pawn on square H4 with a knight. Then continued, unfazed:

“Besides—mourning the impossible, tormenting oneself… come now. We are rational, composed individuals.”

He leaned back into the armchair.

As he did, a beam of light fell across his face through the glass ceiling, and it irritated him.

It was the same man who had once appeared in the café.

He favored the fashion of the 1960s—even his hairstyle was loyal to that era.

His opponent, by contrast, dressed in a more traditional, softer classic style.

His figure betrayed that sports weren’t his strength—

but his experience and authority placed him among the most influential members of the organization.

And he was not the type to walk back his words.

“There is no such thing as an impossible task,” he said.

“Plans may be flawed—but so is the enemy!

And the enemy—whether a man, a politician, nature, or even time itself…”

“There’s a saying by Confucius,” the first man interrupted:

“In a dark room, it’s hard to find a black cat…

especially when it isn’t there.”

“That is precisely why neither you, nor I, nor even Jahongir went on the mission ourselves,”

the man said quietly.

“We sent an ordinary man. A simple one.”

“You mean the strength of the mission… lies in his simplicity?”

“Without question. In his focus on the present.

In his complete indifference to history.”

“That’s dreadful.”

“My dear friend,” the first man replied, leaning back with a calm that bordered on reverence,

“you and I… we are cogs in a known machine.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other, parallel mechanisms at work.

People like him are necessary—to fill in the gaps we can’t see.”

He didn’t finish the sentence before straightening up in his chair and looking again at the chessboard.

“Until he returns, we were supposed to hold an internal assembly,”

his ‘opponent’ reminded, cautious but composed.

“Then now is the perfect time.”

“Last night, leaders from six countries arrived for the meeting.”

“Two of those nations are usually cold to such gatherings.

Looks like this time, the result has stirred them.

Let them gather, then…”

They both fell silent for a moment—

first staring at the pieces on the chessboard,

then lifting their gaze toward the domed ceiling above,

where endless rings of bookshelves stretched upward,

spiraling like the landscape of a boundless mind.

************************************

Dense, impenetrable darkness.

Breathing was hard. The sharp scent of oil—perhaps essential oil—hung thick in the air.

Cautiously lifting his head from the floor, Rustam tried to steady his vision and take in his surroundings. Slowly, the murky dimness began to fade, and out of it emerged a faintly lit room.

Small. Low-ceilinged. But not dusty—only slightly stale.

Two corners of the ceiling gave off a diffused glow. Three of the walls were entirely lined with bookshelves, stretching all the way up to the ceiling. The wall where he had awakened was bare, made of rough brick, likely once intended for a chimney. It was from that opening that he had fallen through.

As his eyes and mind gradually adjusted, Rustam began to pick up on the subtleties of the space.

Despite its modest size, the room held several tall shelves and three wooden writing desks designed for standing work.

Each desk came up to about waist-height, fitted with narrow side drawers. The surfaces were neatly arranged with writing tools, paper-cutting knives, and sets of quills.

For a brief moment, Rustam recalled Jahongir’s words:

“The Scribes’ Room…”

Yes. This was it—the very place he had described.

Rising from the thick rug beneath him, Rustam noted its softness, its oddly comforting texture.

His eyes swept across the bookshelves. The books appeared so rare, so elegant, that even someone with a deep aversion to reading would, upon seeing them, transform into a zealous bibliophile.

Aside from books, the room held only candles and ancient candleholders—nothing modern.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He was drawn from one shelf to the next.

He wanted to reach out—and he did.

As his gaze wandered around the room, Rustam suddenly noticed two small boxes resting on one of the desks.

“This is it. Jahongir said the Swan’s Feather would be in a case. Could it be one of these?” he thought.

But as he came closer, he realized—one box was an inkwell, the other a holder for quills.

He quickly turned to the drawers.

Opening the first one, he finally found it:

A small, elongated silver case, dull with age, but gleaming faintly in the low light.

Roughly the length of one and a half palms, slim—exactly as it had been described.

Carefully, he lifted the lid.

Inside was a snow-white feather, thick and breathtakingly delicate, resting in a nest of soft, cotton-like lining.

Tucked in one corner of the box was a rolled-up piece of parchment, matching the size of the case.

Rustam stared at the find for a moment, breath held,

Then quickly shut the lid, snapped the latch into place, and slipped the case into the wide, tattered sleeve of his worn cloak.

Now he listened carefully.

Sounds… a way back…

And, according to the instructions — the next step of the mission.

Ah, yes! Jahongir had said there would be a way to make contact.

But how exactly did he explain it?

It was enough to simply write on the paper — and the answer would appear on its own. That was it.

Rustam opened the case once more, took out the rolled parchment, unrolled it on the writing desk, and picked up the quill.

Dipping it into the inkwell, he began to write:

“I’ve found the Feather. What now?”

At that very moment, heavy, muffled footsteps echoed from above.

It sounded like voices — faint, like they were underwater.

Rustam couldn’t tear his eyes from the ceiling.

He frantically tried to figure out: where could an unexpected visitor appear from?

Slowly, trying not to make a sound, he turned back to the shelves and grabbed one of the oil lamps.

He began sweeping it along the walls — the firelight, along with the smoke, would reveal any hidden drafts or cracks.

After several minutes of searching, he noticed something.

In the same part of the bookshelf he had fallen through earlier, the smoke was being pulled rapidly inward.

That had to be it — the “symbolic entrance,” like those hidden passageways in lavish mansions, concealed behind bookshelves.

The sounds from above had now faded. That brought some relief.

Rustam glanced again at the parchment — no response.

“Of course… what did I expect, some childish trick? Paper answering back?” he muttered irritably.

He set the lamp back down and began to push the suspicious section of the shelf.

First to the left — a dull click.

Then again — nothing.

On the third try, the shelf budged slightly and, with a metallic groan, slid aside.

Through the narrow gap, soft light filtered in.

Thank God. A way out.

He paused, listening again — silence.

He quickly placed the paper and feather back in the case, tucked it into the wide sleeve of his worn coat, and began to squeeze into the narrow passage.

On the left, there was a slightly wider opening — he aimed for that.

Cautiously, he lowered one foot, feeling for a step — yes, a staircase.

Another step. Then another.

Seven narrow, almost ballet-like stairs — as if carved for a dancer.

A gentle light glowed from below. Its source was somewhere beyond an arched threshold.

Rustam crept forward, hunched low, ready for anything.

On the other side of the archway was emptiness —

A warehouse?

No — not a storage room, but rather a connecting gallery, linking different corridors.

Along both walls, torches flickered in twin rows. Between them, giant amphorae stood in alcoves and against the walls.

In one far corner was another passage. Another arch.

“Well then… whatever happens, happens,” he whispered to himself.

He moved toward the new archway, cautiously ascending yet another staircase. Already by the second flight, voices became clearly audible — lively, loud, and engaged in conversation.

At the very top step, Rustam stopped abruptly. First, he glanced back, then — very slowly, as if not wanting to disturb the fabric of space itself — leaned forward and peeked through a narrow opening from which the sounds of another world trickled in.

As he slowly rose from the depths and looked up, he was immediately enveloped by a strange sound — like a sudden downpour crashing directly onto his head.

He thought, “Must be an evening rain...”

But the sight that met his eyes was something else entirely — unknown, and seemingly woven from pure light.

Everything around him was dazzling, radiant, and vividly colored.

It was as though nature had gathered here all the warm, refined shades of the world into one place.

It was hard to grasp what this place truly was.

What was this reality made of?

Had he truly crossed into the other side — another world?

Or perhaps… he had simply fallen unconscious in that tunnel, and now lay somewhere, dreaming in a daze?

“Close your eyes, even for a moment…”

— whispered a voice from within him.

“Maybe I really should just compose myself before looking around,” he thought.

He shut his eyes. Then, gently covering his face with one hand, he left a tiny gap between his fingers and began to peek through.

Through that narrow slit, he noticed movement — a gathering of people illuminated by the flicker of torchlight.

He widened his fingers just a bit more — and saw them: dozens of people, dressed in radiant, almost fairytale-like garments, clustered in small circles, speaking softly to one another.

Rustam’s mind finally kicked into full awareness.

In the span of mere heartbeats, he pieced together everything he knew: memories, experience, Jahongir’s words, the gravity of his mission, the old garments on his body…

It all converged into a single, focused thought.

He straightened sharply, stepped forward — and found himself standing on the level surface of this new world.

He felt as if he had just awakened from a long, deep sleep — alert, alive.

Now, all that remained was to take hold of what surrounded him.

The people were adorned in vibrant, pastoral garments.

Some wore flowing caftans.

All around stretched archways and columns, emanating the subtle scent of sandalwood.

The floor beneath him was paved with elegant tiles, forming a geometric pattern — as if the ground itself had sprung to life from a three-dimensional painting.

He looked up — and nearly staggered back from what he saw.

The sky… it was blinding in its beauty, sprinkled with billions of stars that burned more brightly than anything he had ever witnessed.

Where did all that light come from?

How could so many stars exist?

And then…

That waterfall-like sound…

It was coming from behind him.

Rustam turned around — and found himself standing beside a majestic fountain, shimmering under the starlight.

Water cascaded down from countless sources, intertwining and glistening like woven crystal threads.

In that moment, he understood — yes, this was the voice that had poured over him from above. It had been the fountain.

The air was fresh and delicate, filling his lungs with a cool gentleness.

He had emerged at the very base of the fountain, encircled by archways crowning this mysterious place.

Without wasting a second, he darted toward the most secluded of the nearby columns.

Hidden behind its marble body, he finally allowed himself a breath — a moment to gather his scattered thoughts.

“I’m here. Exactly where Jahongir said I’d be. The feather is with me. The mission is nearly complete. Jahongir told me: you’ll arrive in the year 1219 — it’s all governed by quantum laws. To send a message, write a question on the paper, and I’ll reply with ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Then why…” he frowned, “…why did my first question go unanswered?”

No. This was not a place for doubt or vague speculation.

Here, only clarity mattered — precision.

Only the kind of question that could be answered with a simple “yes” or “no.”

Rustam leaned his back against the column and sank to his knees.

He retrieved the feather and the folded sheet of paper once again.

This time, finally, he wrote a question that truly belonged to this place:

“Have you been here before?”

Not a moment passed before a ripple of ink stirred across the page, rising as though from the depths of the parchment, and formed a single, stark word:

“Yes.”

“My God… What… how is this even possible?”

Rustam was stunned. The answer had come too quickly. Too clearly. Too impossibly real.

“Alright… enough.”

If he allowed himself to wander even a little further into the maze of strange thoughts, he would drown — even if only metaphorically — in the bottomless sea of confusion.

“Fine. Now I need to ask something that truly matters. I need guidance.”

He pressed the feather to the page again and wrote:

“I’ve arrived at a place surrounded by columns and arches, with a fountain at its center. Is this where I’m meant to be?”

The ink once again lifted swiftly from the paper.

The answer came instantly:

“Yes.”

Rustam cautiously looked around.

He was just forming his next question when, suddenly, his eyes caught the faint glow of the navigator in his hand.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” he muttered. “Where were you this whole time?!”

He began adjusting the device just as Jahongir had once shown him.

The mechanical parts shifted and clicked, and soon before him appeared an enlarged holographic display — nearly four times the original size.

The core of the screen glowed blue, and Rustam’s current location lit up, along with the nearby zone marked by a guided route.

According to the map… he was still in Tashkent.

That seemed... strange.

At the edge of the display, a panel with additional data pulsed softly. Rustam tapped it.

A secondary window opened, displaying a rapid stream of text:

“Date: 15.11.1219

Current Location: Caravanserai of the Key Keepers

Region: Tashkent

Sovereign State: The Empire of the Khwarezmshahs…”

You cannot imagine what Rustam felt unless you yourself have stood under the blow of lightning at point-blank range.

His mind could not process the magnitude of what was unfolding.

His thoughts ricocheted wildly between “This is a dream...” and “No — this is real…”

His heart thundered like a war drum, each beat echoing in his ears. His breath faltered.

A shiver ran through him — every cell in his body seemed to scream in protest, rejecting reality itself.

"Damn it! If my curses took physical form, they’d flip the laws of nature upside down…”

Clenching his jaw, he barked inwardly:

“Pull yourself together! Whatever this is — we stick to the plan. Finish this cursed mission and get the hell out! Move!”

Summoning every ounce of his will, he pushed down the chaos raging inside and focused on the only thing that mattered now — completing the mission.

Straightening from behind the column, he cast one last glance at the fountain.

Then, turning toward the nearest archway, he stepped forward — following the navigator’s glowing path into the unknown.

Leaving behind the wondrous courtyard adorned with fountains and framed by majestic columns, Rustam moved ever deeper beneath the archway’s embrace. With each step, new and unfamiliar landscapes unfolded before him — stirring visions, foreign not only to his body but to his very soul...

Midnight.

The night life of Tashkent pulsed with energy.

Before him stretched a lavish boulevard, paved with smooth, burnished brown stones — as if polished specifically to welcome nobles of high standing. On either side, market stalls shimmered in the glow of hanging lamps, their counters overflowing with gleaming copper and silver items, dazzling the eye.

Tall, lean men passed by in light, flowing vests with cloaks casually draped over one shoulder, turbans coiled neatly atop their heads. Merchants, whose hands never rested, rushed to replenish their stalls with goods, while the thick crowd swirled and murmured with the rhythmic beat of an Eastern night.

All of this unfolded beneath soaring arches, beyond which loomed the silhouette of a great congregational mosque — the crown jewel at the end of this vibrant bazaar.

In a place like this, blood seemed to flow faster on its own. Rustam felt a surge of alertness, an inner clarity sharpened by movement.

He slowly merged into the current of people.

With every step, his eyes widened at the richness, variety, and sheer brightness of the stalls lining both sides of the road.

Before long, almost without realizing it, he found himself close to one of the merchant rows. His mind remained focused and composed.

He remembered the rules:

Don’t speak to the locals. Don’t meet their gaze. Don’t touch anything. Don’t taste anything — except water.

Observe — that was allowed, he thought.

Tilting slightly to the right, he turned toward the artisans. There, skilled craftsmen worked leather, hammering it into metal forms and deftly carving out shaped pieces.

On the opposite side of the wide avenue stood a carriage — a real one, like something pulled from a fable — drawn by muscular horses. Judging by the guards and its distance from the crowd, someone of great status sat within.

As he veered left, he noticed a small group of three or four men speaking in an unfamiliar language, their words flowing with expressive gestures. Near them, seated directly on the ground, was a middle-aged craftsman in modest clothes. With a casual grace, he rolled shining slivers — perhaps gold — between his fingers and tapped them lightly with a small hammer on an anvil.

With each blow, he passed the shaped fragment to an elder beside him, who began the next stage of refinement. It was this particular process that caught Rustam’s attention.

He stepped closer to get a better view.

The older man’s work appeared even more fascinating — delicate, almost meditative.

Weaving between the shoulders of the watching customers, Rustam began peering in... quietly, carefully, as though spying on time itself.

The elder carefully placed the golden blanks into an iron mold set atop a massive wooden board. Then, taking a thick metal rod, he pressed it over the shapes and began striking heavy blows with a hammer in a slow, rhythmic cadence.

Yes — he was minting coins.

After completing a precise series of strikes, the old man weighed the finished coins on a small scale. Once satisfied, he handed them to a man standing nearby, who silently began counting them one by one.

Rustam, full of curiosity, stepped closer to examine the coins.

They were about the size of a modern 1000-soum piece, bearing six-pointed stars on one side and eight-pointed stars on the other. At their center, fine Arabic script had been etched with astonishing detail.

The coins were not just well-crafted — they were exquisite. Smooth, luminous, almost hypnotic.

They seemed less like objects of currency and more like something forged from pure wonder.

Rustam stood captivated, unable to tear his gaze away.

To an outside observer, he might have seemed like a pickpocket… or a madman.

But it didn’t matter — the world around him had pulled him fully into its orbit.

Suddenly, his wrist jolted with a sharp, vibrating pain.

He winced and looked down — the navigator strapped to his arm was buzzing violently, demanding his immediate attention.

He straightened at once and covered the device with his left hand, shielding it from view as he glanced around.

The message was clear: hurry.

Rustam exhaled sharply, turned, and resumed his stride with fresh urgency.

He needed to cross the square, making his way through the mosque to reach the opposite side.

To the left of the mosque’s grand structure stood an archway — subtle but unmistakable — leading to another courtyard.

The mosque loomed before him, towering with majesty and silent nobility, casting long shadows across the square. And beside it, nestled like a secret, was the archway he had to reach.

Rustam picked up his pace.

Every instinct told him:

Reach the arch. Get through. Escape the danger.

Yet the dense crowd and ever-present murmur made it difficult to focus.

Rustam was steadily moving farther and farther from the grandeur of the square.

He ran like the wind — swift, light-footed — while a storm of conflicting thoughts raged in his mind:

“Can this really be the 13th century? Could the Khwarazmian Empire truly have been so advanced, so luxurious? Where are the donkey carts we studied in school? Where are the crumbling huts and squat yurts?..”

As Rustam pressed onward through the dark, narrow corridors of the 13th century, burdened by the weight of his mission, elsewhere — far beyond that time — Jahongir sat at the edge of a somber, bottomless temporal portal, deep in thought.

Only three questions had reached him so far.

To two of them, he had replied: yes.

But something gnawed at his core — a tightening knot of unease.

How will this mission end? Will Rustam make it through?

The chief purpose was clear: support Rustam.

And yet… why hadn’t they sent Jahongir himself?

He was the real scholar — the one who could walk this mission blindfolded.

He wouldn’t have even needed the navigator.

He knew the Organization’s archives by heart. He could recite, word for word, entire chronicles of Asia and Europe from memory the moment he opened his eyes.

So why had they chosen an ordinary courier?

Was this all some kind of twisted farce?

Could the Council’s decision truly be justified?

According to them, it was forbidden to send someone who knew history too well into the past.

Such people, they argued, were doomed to interfere.

But someone inexperienced — like Rustam — someone unburdened by knowledge, was ideal.

He would be afraid to deviate from the protocol, and thus, he would carry out the task without bias.

"Whether you like it or not, you’d try to change something," one of the senior members had said.

"Strong emotions, especially in those closely tied to history, become fuel — the very fuel that alters time’s flow. A simple man, like Rustam, will stay within the lines. He will follow orders."

Those words still echoed in Jahongir’s mind.

Impartiality…

But what is that, really? Simplicity? Or is it courage?

He couldn’t escape the spiral of questions wrapping tighter around his thoughts.

The flame of the oil lamp before him flickered, waning into dimness, casting soft, fading glimmers over his brooding face.

He glanced absentmindedly at the wick, barely aglow at the lamp’s base.

"Let it burn out…"

**************************************

Meanwhile, Rustam continued forward, stepping through one of the dark corridors of the 13th century.

He carried within him the weight of a mission he had chosen himself.

His thoughts were scattered and intrusive.

His heart pounded rapidly, and swirls of anxious speculation stormed through his mind.

He knew full well he mustn’t alter the course of history.

But what exactly needed to happen for the mission to be considered complete — that, he still did not know...

Weary from the long walk, Rustam decided to pause and catch his breath.

Roughly half a verst from the caravanserai he had left behind, he came upon another — smaller, dull in color, standing slightly apart from the main road.

Unlike the previous one, this caravanserai appeared far more modest, built in a strict rectangular shape, and seemingly long forgotten.

Exhausted by the constant flood of impressions and strain, Rustam felt a powerful thirst and chose to step inside — if only to find a sip of water.

Approaching the arched entrance, black as night, he cautiously crossed the threshold.

Behind the gate opened a small inner courtyard and several archways, likely leading into three or four tiny chambers.

However — no fountain, no stream, not even a basin could be seen.

The place was eerily silent — so much so that it strained the ear.

An unnatural stillness. Even his own footsteps sounded faint and muffled.

Only one man was visible — he was replacing the oil in lanterns that lined the walking paths.

Rustam lowered his gaze and noticed the ground was layered with a thick, soft felt carpet.

Judging by the narrow arches and covered paths, it seemed this place could only be reached on foot.

Of several passageways, he chose the widest.

The narrower ones might lead to more hidden chambers, and he had no wish to fall into another trap.

Passing under an archway, he found himself in a room that resembled a dining hall.

Though he had entered with thirst, his instincts warned him: this place was far more dangerous and mysterious than it had seemed from the outside.

He advanced with great caution.

And then, after only a few steps, a chill crawled down his spine — someone was watching him.

Tensing, he continued forward.

The room wasn’t particularly large — six low tables on raised platforms stood in a row.

Light spilled in from a high window set deep into the wall.

Rustam tried not to look too long at the people seated at the tables, only casting quick glances to get his bearings.

Above each dining platform hung a heavy lamp.

Despite the night’s silence outside, inside it was well-lit — you could easily make out someone’s face from ten paces away.

From the far corner, a young, thin man locked eyes with Rustam and began to approach with unhurried steps. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, Rustam took a few steps forward to meet him. When only three paces separated them, the boy opened his mouth to speak — but Rustam beat him to it, sharply saying:

— Water.

The boy didn’t even get a chance to greet him. With a faint, confused smile and a gesture, he replied in his own tongue:

— Su muyyulishka ta‘ar, ishikin artede.

(“Water — just around the corner, behind the door.”)

Rustam pressed his hand to his chest in thanks. The boy, still smiling slightly, turned at the call of a customer seated at one of the low tables and hurried off in that direction. He likely took Rustam for a dervish or a foreign servant — his clothing was worn, shapeless, and even by the standards of that century, made a pitiful impression.

Rustam didn’t fully understand what the boy had said, but he headed the way indicated.

Inside, his anxiety was growing — he still had the disturbing sense that someone was following him. He scanned everything carefully from the corner of his eye.

“I have to get out of here… fast,” flashed through his mind.

The navigator on his wrist began to vibrate again — pulsing, flickering urgently as if warning of some looming threat.

— I’ll draw too much attention like this! — he hissed under his breath. — Someone’s already trailing me!

Oh! The fountain — there it is. I’ll drink and get out!

Approaching the marble wall from which water trickled, he noticed a wooden shelf nearby, lined with porcelain bowls. He grabbed one, but in his haste, didn’t bother using it — he bent down and scooped the water with his hands.

He drank with his eyes closed, savoring each drop. The water was so pure, so cold and revitalizing, it felt like the kiss of a fairy.

With each sip, it was as if time itself had stopped. He wanted to remain like this forever — as if he were drinking not just water, but the very essence of life…

The spell broke abruptly with shouts — sharp, unfamiliar cries in a foreign tongue.

Rustam’s eyes snapped open. He straightened and rushed toward the entrance he had come through, but just before reaching it, he instinctively halted and recoiled.

In the hall with the dining platforms now stood a line of guards — like an organized unit of palace sentries.

“There’s no way I’m getting out through there now!” he panicked.

“There must be another exit… an inner courtyard maybe!”

He hurriedly searched the chamber for another way out. But there were no doors, no arches — nothing. Still refusing to give in, he began feeling along the walls, desperate to find even the faintest crack or edge.

“Maybe in a place this strange… there really are hidden ways,” he thought, clinging to hope.

His fingers slid helplessly across the smooth stone surface.

Not the slightest notch. Not a groove.

From the other side of the wall, the guards’ voices grew louder — their shouts and commands sharper, angrier.

“I’m trapped. This room is sealed. Just marble columns, taps, and a large wooden shelf. That’s it.”

Whispering these words, Rustam shut his eyes and slumped against the wall, drained of all strength.

— Wait! This shelf… Could it really be just a shelf?! — the thought ignited in him like a spark.

— In this strange place, I’ve witnessed wonders I never imagined possible! There must be a secret here. It would be a crime if there weren’t!

Muttering the words like a mantra, he crawled toward the shelf.

— Come on, what are you hiding? Handle? Latch? Lock? Rope? What have you got?!

His fingers worked feverishly, groping along the wood, searching for anything that might offer an escape. Like a blind man, he traced every inch from top to bottom, desperate.

Some of the carved patterns gave him hope — he tried pressing them, sliding them, shifting panels left and right.

Nothing.

Still, he didn’t stop. He slid lower and lower, until his hands felt the narrow gap between the shelf and the floor. He jammed his fingers into the slit — and suddenly, with a loud crack, something shifted.

The jolt of discovery nearly made his heart leap out of his chest.

He had triggered something.

At last — a portion of the shelf detached. It was a door!

He flung it open. A gaping black void yawned behind it.

And just then — a voice thundered from the outer hall, sharp and commanding, growing nearer:

— Rāh baroi mehmoni bāzorgoh!

("Clear the way for the guest of the bazaar!")

Rustam didn’t hesitate. He hurled himself into the darkness.

At first, he tried to descend carefully — but there were unseen steps, uneven and steep, and his foot slipped.

He plunged downward.

A sequence of loud crashes, a door slamming shut above him, the clatter of tumbling crates — all erupted at once.

But somehow, he remained conscious.

— What kind of trap is this?! — he gasped, struggling for breath.

— And what is that whispering in my ear?

The cellar he had fallen into was not like anything he'd expected. In the dim glow of a single candle hanging from the wall, he could just make out the source of the soft fluttering sounds.

Wings.

Hundreds of wings.

The place was a dovecote — a quiet resting chamber for pigeons. Their feathers shimmered faintly in the low light, and the air was thick with the scent of straw, dust, and something ancient, alive.

— Pigeons?.. In a cellar?..

Lying on the floor, Rustam squinted and looked up. Rows of wooden cages lined the walls — stacked one atop another, packed tightly with birds. The pigeons buzzed anxiously, their wings rustling in uneasy protest at the sudden crash of an unfamiliar intruder. Two cages had collapsed in the fall, and their former inhabitants were now flitting wildly through the dark room.

— I have to put them back, — he murmured.

Almost blindly, though carefully, he caught the two frantic pigeons and gently placed them back — one in a niche to the right, the other into the upper left cell. The dim light made the task difficult and delicate.

Suddenly, a fresh breeze brushed across his face.

— A draft? Down here? — he whispered in surprise.

He froze.

— There has to be a second exit! — the thought struck like lightning.

It had barely been an hour since he arrived in this time — and already he'd encountered so many hidden doors, traps, and underground chambers that he had to bite back a stream of curses.

Looking up toward the ceiling, his eyes caught a cluster of levers.

— At last, something straightforward, — he exhaled in relief.

— All right… pull it, Rustam.

With a satisfying clunk, the mechanism creaked to life. A wooden panel above shifted, and a faint golden evening light spilled through a crack in the shutters above. He moved closer — and finally, a view opened before him: an unobstructed, open plain bathed in the last light of dusk.

Rustam glanced at the navigator: the next waypoint was close, no more than a quarter mile away. And yes — there it was. In the distance, a stone barn stood out against the natural backdrop.

— That’s it... the well... That must be the sign, — he whispered, steadying his breath.

Gripping the window frame tightly, he found a foothold and pulled himself upward. The ledge wasn’t very high, but the sharp wind and awkward wall joints made the ascent tricky. Still, with effort, he clambered out into the quiet expanse.

He paused to take in the landscape, then pressed forward toward the barn marked on his navigator. The wide, open field lay in hushed silence, broken only by the faint rustling of dry grass beneath his steps. As he approached, the outlines of the barn’s stone walls became clearer — old, but solid.

— I’m here, — he murmured, halting briefly beside the well.

— The navigator points here... Is this where it goes?

Something inside the barn felt… different. The cold stone walls seemed to exude a kind of quiet energy, as though holding their breath.

Cautiously, Rustam stepped across the creaking floorboards. To light the way, he took a small candle from a corner and sparked it to life. In the flickering glow, he scanned the space — stacked crates, a few rusted tools, dusty buckets. But in the very center, slightly sunken into the ground, stood the well.

— This must be the place, — he said under his breath. The navigator’s screen pulsed with confirmation.

All around were old relics of forgotten times. And there, waiting in the silence, was the well — its heavy wooden lid guarding whatever purpose it had waited centuries to fulfill.

Rustam stepped toward the well—then stopped short.

His gaze had caught on some dusty shelves built into the stone walls. Amidst gray rags, old bricks, and random containers, there was… a hollow space. Turning toward the corner of the barn, he noticed a narrow, almost invisible door, half-buried in straw.

He knelt, cleared some of the hay, and tested the door—it was a hidden hatch, old and barely hinged. It might lead to a secret chamber… or somewhere far less welcoming.

A thought crossed his mind:

— Why not ask Jahongir?

He took out the pen and began to write:

“I’m at the location the navigator marked. It’s a stone barn. I’m inside. There are shelves, a secret hatch in the straw, a large wooden chest, and a well.”

The message disappeared.

But no reply came.

— Ah, right, — Rustam recalled, — he can only reply with “Yes” or “No.” I’ll ask in options.

“Shelves?”

— No.

“Open the hidden hatch?”

— No.

“Chest?”

— No.

Then… could it be… the well?

“Well?”

— Yes.

— Incredible! If I drop it into the well…

“Is the well dry?”

— Yes.

— Perfect. I can make it work.

There were boxes on the shelves, and leather pouches—maybe something to lower the capsule gently.

Suddenly, sharp noises echoed from somewhere in the barn — something fell, scraped across the floor, clattered in the shadows.

Heart racing, Rustam rummaged through the shelves until he found a small, sturdy box. He placed the capsule inside, sealing it with trembling hands. There was no time for ceremony, no ritual farewell. He didn’t even reflect on the symbolic weight of the message. Frankly, he didn’t care anymore.

All that mattered now was getting home.

He found a heap of worn leather sheets in the corner, and began wrapping the box carefully—layer after layer—to protect it in case the well wasn’t as dry as it seemed, or to soften the impact of the fall.

— Please… let this work, — he muttered.

Then, with one last breath, he leaned over the well and prepared to lower the message into the depths of history.

And—as if by providence—in this strange old barn, there was a rope.

That was all he needed.

Rustam fastened it tightly around the carefully wrapped box and began to lower it gently into the well.

The depth was substantial—the rope kept descending, and the tension never slackened.

— Three fathoms… and still not enough? — he muttered. — Fine. Let it be. It won't fall apart.

Moments later, the bundle landed with a muted thud at the bottom.

— Is that it? Is it… done?

Rustam held his breath.

His pulse, until now pounding like a war drum, began to slow.

His breathing steadied.

For the first time amid this whirlwind of time, fear, and chaos—he felt light.

Relieved.

But he also knew—this peace wouldn’t last.

The mission wasn’t over yet. Not until he found his way out of here.

He took one final glance into the darkness of the well, then turned.

His next move had to be fast, precise, and—ideally—silent.

It was time to leave the barn.

******************************************

Silence enveloped the world around him. Rustam felt calm—truly calm.

Now, he listened only to his navigator. No distractions, no detours—just the precise instructions that led him forward.

Having left the dark, shadow-cloaked caravanserai behind, he finally arrived at the very place where it had all begun—the luminous, splendid Caravanserai of the Lockkeepers.

Only now did his body begin to truly feel the weight of exhaustion. It showed in his steps—unhurried, heavy, as if burdened by the hours that had passed.

He walked indifferently past the lively stalls, heading once again toward the arch—toward the very fountain that had first enchanted him.

The plaza, once teeming with people, now lay empty. As he neared the fountain, he drew in a deep breath—filling his lungs with the pure, healing air of this world. He didn’t even want to exhale.

The air didn’t press upon him or stir anxiety—it dissolved into his blood like light. He took one more breath. One last breath before returning.

In a moment of strange uplift, Rustam knelt at the edge of the fountain.

— If not for the fact that I’m a stranger here, this place… it’s safer than where I’m about to go back to, — he thought.

— Maybe I could’ve stayed a day longer…

All those strange amphorae, the hanging torches, the narrow stairs, the tense thoughts—they now seemed simple, mundane.

Even that secret chamber with its hidden cabinet—perhaps now once again filled with the quiet murmur of scribes—no longer stirred his concern. Not at all.

He ascended the last steps beneath the flickering torchlight.

The half-open cabinet door stood before him like the familiar entrance to a home.

He slipped inside.

The dim scriptorium, filled with the scent of lamp oil, stood empty.

Rustam scanned the shelves, one after another.

When was the last time he’d felt such a storm of emotion? He couldn’t remember.

Lowering his head, he stepped toward the familiar exit hatch and knelt on the soft carpet. The moment had come.

— I don’t even know what to say… — he whispered into the darkness.

And then his eyes caught a glimpse of the grate at the edge of the carpet. He froze.

— What am I going back to? — the thought struck.

My apartment? A family long gone?

A job I’ve been looking to escape for years?

Dust-filled air. Neglected cafés…

And yet—so what? That is still my home.

The life I built.

The rhythm I understand.

He raised his head.

Took in a deep breath.

And whispered firmly, resolutely:

— Forward. Take me in, my world.

I return to your embrace.

With his right hand, Rustam found the chimney flue along the wall and began pulling himself upward.

The opening was still as narrow as before. Cautiously, he slid his left arm inside as well. Exhaling, he began to squeeze through.

Just a little more effort—and he would reach the tunnel.

He moved forward with agonizing slowness, like a well-fed snake crawling through a tight burrow.

Turning back was impossible now. Had he already crawled five meters?

And then—it began.

The pressure.

A powerful, overwhelming pressure.

He was entering the tunnel.

Crossing the quantum boundary of time.

It was no easy passage.

Time is no open gate.

— What’s happening? The tunnel… it’s wider now. The walls are pulling away…

But then why does it still feel like I’m being crushed?

Could I… could I simply stand up and walk?

There’s no strength left…

Wait.

The pressure—it’s fading!

Yes!

I’m on my feet!

At last.

He stood upright in the darkness of the tunnel, steady and alert.

This was the passage meant to lead him home.

He was back.

— Jahongir!

It’s done!

************************************************

Strangely, when he reached the grate, Jahongir was nowhere in sight.

What does that mean now?

Where’s the lantern?

Even that was gone.

His things were supposed to be right here by the grate.

Yes—there they were!

Thank God, still in place.

His coat, waistcoat, trousers, underwear—just as he’d left them…

But what kind of joke is this, Jahongir?

He was supposed to be waiting here.

Well—fine. If he’s gone, he’s gone.

He still had the Organization’s navigator. They’d find him.

— Finally, I can get rid of these rags! Time to put on my clothes…

Dear God—

It didn’t even feel like he was just getting dressed.

It felt like he was returning to his own body.

Should I wear the coat, or carry it?

Better wear it—it's probably cold outside.

By the way… what time is it?

Navigator—you had a timer, didn’t you? Let’s see…

It's already light out?

I’ve spent the whole night in that tunnel?!

I didn’t even notice…

Once he’d changed, he climbed the stairs to the door.

The same dark corridor. The same wide steps.

But now—no signs. Odd.

Maybe the Organization’s staff cleaned things up a bit.

He began descending the grand staircase.

Beyond the grate—real life.

The year 2024. Autumn.

The final days of fallen leaves.

— If it really is morning, first thing I’m doing is grabbing a coffee, he said aloud, a flicker of excitement in his voice as he picked up speed.

The grate, as if waiting for him, let morning light pass through its ornate metalwork.

He grabbed the handle and pulled with all his might.

With a soft, satisfying creak, it opened before him—

a metro platform.

Bright. Spacious.

Clean, fresh air.

A decent crowd of people.

Apparently, now that Tashkent was seriously leaning into tourism, even the subway was full of foreign visitors—many dressed in national kamzols with flowing hems and colorful tubeteikas.

It looked like it was becoming a trend.

The thought made him pause.

Lost in his own reflections, he hadn’t even noticed at first—

just how much had changed.

Some metro stations that had long cried out for renovation…

now gleamed before him, utterly transformed.

Impressive.

— Are there only tourists on the metro today? — Rustam thought with a slight smile. — Everyone’s wearing our national clothing. Those outfits the locals no longer wear—foreigners don them proudly, like peacocks...

Behind him, mingling with the soft draft, came a distant, echoing rumble. He turned around.

Out of an unusually wide tunnel, a massive white train was racing toward the platform, whistling sharply as it approached at full speed.

— Wait... when did they start running trains like this? We were riding completely different carriages before... Or is this some sort of test run? Oh well.

He decided to leave the metro. The rest of the way, he’d take a taxi. Reaching into his pocket to set a destination on his navigator, he realized it was acting up again.

He ascended the escalator. The corridors and the escalators themselves looked... different. Somehow unfamiliar. But since this courier wasn’t used to riding the metro often, he quickly shrugged off his surprise.

— I should take the metro more often. Any more of this and I’d have gotten completely lost. Alright, time to call a cab, — he muttered, unlocking his phone. — Wait—what the hell? No signal? I’m above ground! I should’ve had reception even underground! What?! “Service unavailable”?! What kind of nonsense is this? In broad daylight, outdoors—no signal?!

He climbed the final steps toward the street and, for the first time, looked up at the daylight. Looked—

And froze.

— Where the hell am I? What is this forest?!

He was standing right at the threshold—

Behind him, the metro station.

In front, dense underbrush and a thick woodland grove.

Overwhelmed by disbelief, he looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. But no landmark revealed itself.

Still—he had to get out of here.

For a split second, he even wondered if perhaps… he hadn’t returned to his own world.

But—how could that be?

Or… could it?

Maybe somewhere in Tashkent there really was a place like this.

Strange…

— I’ll go forward. Maybe if I get through the forest, I’ll reach a main road.

He stepped into the undergrowth, weaving his way along the tree line.

The lush green scenery and the unfamiliar chirping of wild birds only deepened his unease.

None of this fit the logic of ordinary life in Tashkent.

Then—through the thicket—he glimpsed light:

A clearing.

A wide road.

— Thank God. I knew it wasn’t a real jungle, — he sighed in relief.

Indeed, a highway stretched between two wooded ridges.

Making his way down to the roadside, he followed its curve on foot.

Outwardly, he looked composed.

But inside—his mind was silent.

He had no strength left for fear or questions.

A sharp car horn blared behind him.

Rustam turned quickly.

A black Bentley pulled up—not quite a model he recognized.

From it stepped a tall man with slicked-back blond hair and a long coat.

He walked up to him and said:

— “Are you Rustam?”

— “Yes!”

— “We’re with the Organization. The one you’ve been cooperating with.”

— “I finally found you!” — Rustam said, his voice trembling slightly as he hurried toward them.

— “My navigator stopped working, and your agent—the one who was supposed to meet me—he just vanished. I nearly got lost in that forest…”

“Please, take the back seat,” the man said. “You can tell me everything on the way.”

The plush seat, the tinted windows—everything inside the car breathed peace and protection. Rustam felt, perhaps for the first time, that the danger and chaos truly lay behind him.

His companion, seated just ahead, gazed out the window with a faint smile, as if signaling that he would only speak once Rustam did.

Rustam drew in a breath and began:

“This... this is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

The man immediately turned to him, his expression attentive.

“How do you feel, sir? Any lingering emotional distress?”

“No... not now,” Rustam replied. “Not at the moment. But... wait. We are heading to the Directorate now, aren’t we?”

“Exactly, sir. That’s where the main headquarters of our Organization is. They’re expecting you.”

“We’re not... stopping to retrieve the item?”

“What item are you referring to, sir?”

“You know... the one I was assigned to hide, as per your instructions?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t briefed on the specifics of your mission. My task is solely to escort you to Central Command.”

Despite his consistently polite tone, the man’s face never shifted from its calm, almost neutral expression.

“I see… By the way…”

“Yes, sir?” he turned again, offering a smile—slight, but calculated.

“Why isn’t my phone picking up any signal? Are there no towers here?”

“Towers?” he echoed. “If by towers you mean communication devices, just connect to the satellite. Problem solved.”

“Satellite?.. Maybe you can set it up for me?”

Handing over his phone, Rustam noticed the man pause briefly after glancing at the device. For just a second, he seemed to freeze in contemplation. Still, his face remained unchanged—that same strange, almost mechanical calm.

A moment of silence. Then, finally:

“We’ll take care of everything once we arrive at the Directorate. No need to worry.”

Something in his tone sent a chill crawling up Rustam’s spine.

He took back his phone and slipped it into his pocket, unease beginning to rise like mist inside him.

“Would you like me to activate the calming window mode? It’ll help you relax. Rest a little.”

“Sure... I don’t mind,” Rustam replied, though he didn’t entirely understand what that meant.

The escort lightly tapped the touchscreen. The windows darkened instantly, now displaying shimmering underwater scenes—swaying kelp, drifting bubbles, schools of fish gliding silently through the deep. Only then did Rustam grasp what was meant.

Soft music began to play through the speakers—a gentle hum, like the ocean breathing close to his ear.

And finally... exhaustion began to claim him. After the relentless hours of tension, the secret passageways, the dangers, the endless questions… he felt his head tilt slightly to one side, his eyelids growing heavier… his consciousness swaying, like seaweed caught in a slow, soothing current...

********************************************

“Forgive me, sir. But I’m afraid I have to wake you…”

The voice pulled Rustam out of his drowsy haze. Blinking heavily, he rubbed his eyes and slowly stepped out of the car, still slightly unsteady. Before him loomed a colossal structure, so immense that its shadow seemed to press down on him, making him feel small and unsure.

Still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked up—higher and higher—as far as his vision would reach. The tower soared upward, dissolving into the sky.

“Since when do skyscrapers like this exist in Tashkent?!”

Suddenly, from either side, two young men approached—smiling, friendly on the surface. Before Rustam could even process what was happening, cold, heavy metal cuffs clamped around his wrists.

“Citizen Rustam, unregistered and unaccompanied—by the authority of the Organization, you are hereby placed under arrest!”

“What?!” he managed to exclaim.

But looking at the faces of these ‘friendly’ men—still wearing their courteous expressions—Rustam realized that indignation would be pointless. Whether out of confidence in his own innocence or belief in connections at the top, he chose not to resist. He let them escort him inside.

The building’s entrance hall felt like something from a different world: vast, opulent, unreal. People stood in flawless rows, dressed in odd, ceremonial uniforms like an honor guard. They led him toward a massive gilded door, where one of the men unexpectedly asked, still politely:

“We hope we haven’t treated you harshly. If you feel discomfort, you’re free to speak.”

“Just tell me who I’m meeting and where,” Rustam replied coldly. “I swear I won’t argue.”

“Of course. You know him. He’s expecting you.”

The door opened—and a flood of light engulfed Rustam, revealing a grand chamber resembling a private library. A luxurious red carpet stretched from the threshold to the center, where two armchairs faced each other, with a chessboard on a low table between them. All around, shelves soared to the ceiling, packed with books. The room exhaled quiet power and mystery.

By the window, half-concealed behind rich green drapes, stood a man—tall, dignified, perhaps nearing sixty, with sleek silver hair combed back. His hands were clasped behind him. His very stance radiated composed authority. He didn’t turn, but it was as if he already knew—every step Rustam had taken, every thought, every choice.

Without a word, the two escorts seated Rustam in the chair across from the chessboard and silently exited the room, leaving him alone with the man at the window. Rustam recognized him immediately—it was the same man he had once encountered in the café.

“So,” Rustam said, fixing him with a hard stare, “you’ve decided to play some sort of game with me. But I’m not the type to forget things like that. Think very carefully before you refuse to answer.”

The man turned. His voice was calm, but held a cutting edge of cold authority.

“My dear Rustam… you should be ashamed you still haven’t grasped what you’ve done. I only approached you after I was convinced of your reliability. But please, don’t be offended… Not even in my worst nightmares did I imagine you would begin your mission with such a catastrophic blunder.”

Rustam couldn't take it anymore and snapped:

“Know your place!”

“Do not raise your voice here, Rustam!” the man shot back sharply. “This is not a place for shouting!”

Rustam glared at him in silence, fists clenched, his whole body drawn taut like a wire.

“Then speak plainly!” he spat. “What is it that I supposedly did wrong? What harm did I cause you?!”

“Now that’s more like it.” The man nodded. “Commendable — at least you're trying to understand.”

“You’ve got a little time to explain yourself,” Rustam growled through clenched teeth. “I’m dead tired. So you talk first. Then I’ll ask questions.”

“Excellent. You are gold, Rustam. So listen closely. We sent you — through Jahongir — on a mission of the utmost importance. Yes, it was dangerous. Yes, it was complex. You were tasked with traveling to the past to retrieve a specific artifact — the Feather of the White Swan. According to protocol, you were to hide it in a precisely marked location, then return and retrieve it here, in the present timeline. Is that correct?”

“Absolutely.”

“Bravo. But you broke the rules. And that is the heart of the problem.”

“I did nothing wrong!” Rustam shot back. “I followed Jahongir’s instructions to the letter. I didn’t talk to anyone. I avoided eye contact. I didn’t eat a thing — only drank water. I did everything cleanly!”

“If only that were true!”

“What do you want from me?! What is it you think I’ve done?!”

“Did you not notice, upon your return, how drastically time has shifted? Or are you simply that unobservant?”

Rustam kept his silence, still staring at the man with distrust. Inside, a storm raged — but he said nothing.

“Let me explain it another way,” the man finally said. Sitting down across from Rustam, he reached for a massive volume on the nearby shelf.

“This is the Chronicle — the compiled record of our secret organization. In every era, in every city, there have been scribes tasked with maintaining records like these. Our organization has existed since the days of Bactria. These pages hold the truth of the past — a truth no state archive has preserved.”

He began leafing through the pages with utmost care, as if he were not touching mere paper, but the very fabric of time itself. On one particular page, he stopped.

“Here. This is what was supposed to happen,” he said. “Autumn of the year 1219. The region that today is known as Tashkent. On the verge of destruction — the imminent campaign of Genghis Khan. It was this very month he was to enter the city, burn it to the ground, and then march on to conquer Khujand. That moment marked the beginning of the end for the Khwarezmian Empire. From its ashes, Genghis Khan would build the foundation of his own dynasty — the Empire of the Genghisids.”

Rustam finally turned his gaze to the chronicle, a frown creasing his brow.

“But I told you — I never even saw Genghis Khan. I didn’t meet anyone!”

“Don’t rush. Let me explain what you really did. Because the timeline we’re living in now is nothing like the original. Genghis Khan was defeated at Khujand. History diverged completely. And if you still don’t grasp what that means, then answer me just one question. Focus. What country are we currently in?”

“You’re kidding, right? Uh… well, obviously — Uzbekistan!”

“Nothing of the sort,” the man said, rising to his feet and staring Rustam directly in the eye. “We are now in the Kingdom of the Khwarezmshahs. Today is December 1st, 2024 by modern reckoning. The city of Tashkent. A sovereign sultanate of the Khwarezmian dynasty!”

Rustam still couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. The man, however, continued speaking — his tone calm but resolute:

“Now let’s get to how you are connected to all of this. According to the true timeline, a questionable figure lived during the reign of the Khwarezmshahs — a merchant named Mahmud Chalabi. This traitor was meant, on that very same day, to send critical intelligence to a Mongol scout by carrier pigeon — vital information regarding troop movements and war plans of the Khwarezmshah army. For this purpose, he traveled to a caravanserai — the very same one with the hidden cellars. That night, he released the pigeon.”

“But here’s the twist — instead of flying to Genghis Khan’s camp, the pigeon flew straight to Khujand, to the headquarters of Temur Malik. Understand this: carrier pigeons don’t make mistakes. They’re trained precisely for this — confined in darkness, taught to navigate with flawless instinct.”

Rustam, as if struck by a creeping guilt, unconsciously relaxed his frown.

“Especially if they fly by night,” the man added, closing the thick chronicle with a quiet sigh. There was a brief pause before he continued, now speaking more softly, the tension in his voice melting away:

“The pigeon’s error exposed the treachery. Temur Malik instantly understood: someone had tried to betray them. He devised a clever plan. He rode to Tashkent, seized that very caravanserai, forced the traitor to write a forged message, and sent a new pigeon — this time, to the Mongol camp. He also alerted Jalal ad-Din. Jalal ad-Din immediately changed strategy and took command of the eastern regiment.”

Due to the false intelligence, Genghis Khan’s forces launched a premature offensive. In the very first battle, Temur Malik’s regiment crushed the Mongol vanguard. What followed was a humiliating string of defeats that eventually forced Genghis Khan himself to enter the fray. But it was too late — he was captured.

Jalal ad-Din ordered him to be beaten to death by the people of Khujand — publicly, mercilessly. His body was tied to a horse’s tail and dragged all the way to Tashkent.

Mahmud Chalabi was captured in Gurganj and flayed alive. Jalal ad-Din, now commanding the eastern division, seized control of the city. Turkan-Khatun was declared mentally unfit to rule. Muhammad Khwarezmshah voluntarily abdicated the throne…

And here is the most important part:

The Khwarezmian state still exists to this day.

The man stared directly into Rustam’s eyes.

“And according to all verified data, you were directly involved in the incident with the pigeon.”

As he listened, Rustam’s mind reeled through everything that had happened — each moment flashing back like scenes from a fever dream.

“I… I just… My God…”

“If you’ve finally remembered, then I suppose all that’s left is to congratulate you… though it’s far too late for that now. Your case was already reviewed by the council of our organization. And the verdict… has been passed.”

He paused — not out of cruelty, but out of a strange, measured finality.

“And by the way — don’t even think about seeking help. In this timeline, there is not a single person who remembers you. You are the only human being who has slipped through into this alternate version of history.”

“Wait! What about my family?!”

“I’m… sorry.”

To be continued…