A Test Of Will

The path back into the town seemed to stretch longer than before, the stillness growing heavier with each step. The quiet had a weight to it now, pressing down on the old man's frail frame like an invisible hand. His uneven steps echoed faintly against the cobblestones, but the sound felt distant, swallowed by the oppressive silence.

The old man glanced at Tagitsa, who walked a few paces ahead, his movements calm and unhurried. The younger man's presence was steady, like the eye of a storm, but the old man felt no comfort in it. The empty windows of the townhouses seemed to watch him, their shadows shifting slightly in the corner of his vision.

"This place," the old man muttered, his voice shaky. "It's like it's… pushing against me. Like it doesn't want me here."

Tagitsa didn't reply, his emerald eyes fixed ahead. He moved with purpose, his hands resting lightly at his sides, as if the oppressive atmosphere didn't exist.

The old man stumbled, his legs trembling under the weight of his thoughts. He caught himself against the side of a building, gasping for breath. The stillness around him seemed to grow louder, the silence echoing his doubts back at him.

"I can't…" he muttered, his voice cracking. "I can't keep doing this."

Tagitsa turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "You've carried this for years. You can carry it a little longer."

The old man's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with sudden anger. "Don't you dare talk to me like you know what this is!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the empty street. He straightened, his frail frame trembling as he pointed a shaking finger at Tagitsa. "You don't know what it's like to fail someone you love. You don't know what it's like to carry this guilt every day!"

Tagitsa's gaze didn't waver. His voice, calm and deliberate, cut through the old man's outburst. "I was never good enough for you."

The old man froze, his anger faltering as the words struck him like a physical blow. His mouth opened and closed, his breath hitching. "What…?" he whispered.

"You pushed and pushed, and no matter what I did, it was never enough," Tagitsa continued, his tone even. "Every time I tried, you found something else to criticize. Something else to fix."

The old man staggered back a step, his legs shaking. "Why are you saying this?" he gasped, his voice tinged with both anger and despair.

Tagitsa stepped closer, his emerald eyes boring into the old man's. "Because he said it to you. And you ignored him."

The old man's trembling hand gripped the edge of a nearby lamppost, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. "I didn't ignore him," he snapped, though the conviction in his voice wavered. "I… I didn't know how to respond."

Tagitsa's voice remained steady, unyielding. "You didn't respond because you didn't want to face what he was saying. You were too afraid to admit that you'd hurt him."

The old man recoiled as if the words had physically struck him. "I was doing the best I could!" he yelled, his voice raw. "I didn't mean to hurt him! I didn't mean—"

"Your anger is not with me," Tagitsa interrupted, his voice low but firm. "Face it."

The old man's breathing was ragged, his hunched frame trembling as he clutched at the lamppost for support. His sunken eyes darted around the silent street, the empty buildings looming over him like silent witnesses to his struggle.

"I thought…" he began, his voice breaking. "I thought if I pushed him, he'd understand. That he'd see it was because I loved him."

"And he thought you didn't," Tagitsa said bluntly.

The old man froze, his trembling hands gripping the lamppost so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The oppressive stillness around them seemed to press closer, the silence amplifying the weight of Tagitsa's words.

The cherry blossoms swirled in a sudden gust of wind, brushing against the old man's face like a gentle reminder. His shoulders slumped, and his gaze fell to the cobblestones. "I don't know how to face it," he whispered, his voice filled with defeat.

Tagitsa stepped back, giving the old man space. His calm presence stood in stark contrast to the turmoil in the old man's heart. "You've already taken the first step," he said quietly. "You've stopped running."

The old man looked up at him, his tear-filled eyes searching Tagitsa's face for something—anything—that could help him make sense of the storm inside him. But Tagitsa's expression remained steady, his gaze unwavering.

The cherry blossoms settled on the ground, their vibrant petals scattered across the street like fragments of broken memories. For the first time, the old man stood still, his anger giving way to exhaustion as the realization of his own words began to sink in.

The empty streets stretched endlessly before them, but the old man's gaze was turned inward. Each step felt heavier than the last as memories began to surface, their weight dragging him further into the past. His hunched frame trembled as his breathing quickened, his voice breaking the oppressive silence.

"It was the day he left," the old man muttered, his words barely audible. His hands trembled as he clutched at his cardigan. "We had another fight. Just like all the others… but this one was different."

Tagitsa walked beside him, his emerald eyes steady, his presence calm yet unyielding. He stopped suddenly, turning to face the old man. "What did you say to him?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

The old man faltered, his gaze darting to the ground. "I don't remember," he whispered, though his trembling hands and quivering lips betrayed the truth.

Tagitsa took a step closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over the old man's frail figure. Slowly, subtly, his appearance began to shift. His emerald eyes softened, taking on a familiar shade of hazel. His posture straightened slightly, the scarf around his neck disappearing to reveal smooth, unblemished skin. His features altered just enough to mimic someone from the old man's past—the son he had lost.

"You do remember," Tagitsa said, his voice calm but now carrying an echo of someone else's tone.

The old man froze, his eyes widening as he stared at Tagitsa. "What…?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

"You told me I wasn't trying hard enough," Tagitsa continued, his tone an exact replica of the old man's son. His gaze bore into the old man, unwavering. "You said I'd never succeed if I kept wasting time on meaningless things."

The old man staggered back, his hands clutching at the lamppost behind him for support. His lips moved soundlessly, his breath hitching as the memory surged forward with brutal clarity.

"It was that day," the old man whispered, his voice cracking. "He'd brought me his portfolio—his drawings. He was so proud of them. And I… I told him they were useless. That they wouldn't get him anywhere."

Tagitsa—now fully resembling the son the old man had lost—crossed his arms and stared at him, his expression a perfect imitation of the boy's wounded pride. "You didn't even look at them," he said, his voice sharp. "You told me I was wasting my life."

The old man's legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, his frail body shaking. Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his chest, the weight of his guilt threatening to crush him.

"I didn't mean it," the old man sobbed, his voice barely audible. "I thought I was helping him. I thought… I thought if I pushed him, he'd understand."

Tagitsa stepped closer, his altered form looming over the old man. "Understand what?" he asked, his tone firm but not unkind. "That you cared? Or that I wasn't enough for you?"

The old man's sobs grew louder, his trembling hands clawing at the cobblestones beneath him. "I didn't tell him," he cried. "I didn't tell him I was proud. I didn't tell him I loved him. I didn't tell him… anything he needed to hear."

The memory continued to unfold in the old man's mind, vivid and merciless. He saw the last moment he shared with his son—the younger man's face twisted in pain and frustration as he shouted, "I'll never be good enough for you!" before slamming the door and leaving.

"I didn't go after him," the old man whispered, his voice hoarse. "I just let him walk away. I thought… I thought he'd come back." He raised his tear-streaked face to Tagitsa, his eyes filled with desperation. "But he didn't. He never came back."

Tagitsa knelt down, meeting the old man's gaze at eye level. Though his appearance had changed to resemble the son, his steady calm remained. "Did you ever tell him you were proud?" he asked quietly.

The old man shook his head violently, his frail body wracked with sobs. "No," he choked out. "I didn't. I didn't tell him…"

"And did you ever let him believe that he was enough?" Tagitsa pressed, his tone unyielding but not cruel.

The old man collapsed further, his forehead pressing against the cobblestones as he wept uncontrollably. "No!" he cried, his voice echoing through the empty streets. "I didn't tell him! I didn't tell him…"

The stillness of the town seemed to magnify the old man's anguish, his cries reverberating through the silent streets. The cherry blossoms drifted gently around him, their delicate petals brushing against his trembling frame.

Tagitsa remained kneeling, his calm presence steady amidst the storm of emotions. "Then tell him now," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Say the words you couldn't say before."

The old man's sobs quieted slightly, his ragged breaths filling the silence. He lifted his head slowly, his tear-streaked face turned toward Tagitsa. The man who now resembled his son stared back at him with a gaze both expectant and understanding.

The old man's lips quivered as he tried to form the words. His voice broke, but this time, he didn't stop. "I'm proud of you," he whispered. "I always was. I just didn't know how to say it. And I… I loved you. I loved you more than anything."

The petals swirled in a sudden breeze, carrying his words into the stillness of the town. For the first time, the weight on the old man's chest began to lift. And though his tears continued to fall, there was a faint glimmer of peace in his broken voice.

Tagitsa remained kneeling beside the old man, his gaze steady as he watched the frail figure crumpled on the cobblestones. Though his form still mimicked that of the old man's son, his tone softened, the edges of his usual detachment tempered by a subtle but undeniable presence of understanding.

"Your son cannot hear you now," Tagitsa said, his voice low but firm. "But you can speak to the part of yourself that needs to forgive. That's where it begins."

The old man's sobs quieted slightly, his ragged breaths filling the still air. His trembling hands pressed against the ground as he slowly raised his head, his tear-streaked face a portrait of anguish and regret. He stared at Tagitsa, his watery eyes searching the familiar face for an answer, for something to hold onto.

"How?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "How do I forgive myself when I don't deserve it?"

Tagitsa didn't look away, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Forgiveness isn't about deserving," he said. "It's about understanding. You've held onto your guilt because you think it honors him, but all it's done is bury the truth."

The old man blinked, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. His trembling hand moved toward Tagitsa's outstretched one, hesitating before finally gripping it weakly. The touch was fleeting, but it grounded him enough to begin.

The old man's voice trembled as he began to speak, his words halting and uneven. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his gaze fixed on the cobblestones as if the weight of his guilt kept his head bowed. "I'm so sorry."

The stillness of the town seemed to hold its breath, the oppressive weight lifting just slightly as the words left his lips.

"I was wrong," he continued, his voice breaking. "I thought I was helping you… teaching you. But I wasn't. I was… I was trying to protect myself. I didn't want to see my own failures reflected in you."

His trembling fingers curled into fists against the ground, and he let out a shaky breath. "I thought if I pushed you hard enough, you'd become someone better than me. Someone I could be proud of. But you were already better. You were already enough."

Tagitsa stayed silent, letting the man's words fill the air. The cherry blossoms above began to stir gently, the oppressive stillness that had clung to the streets loosening its grip.

The old man's voice grew steadier as he continued, the act of speaking aloud seeming to chip away at the heavy stone of his regret. "I should have told you," he said, his voice filled with a quiet resolve. "I should have told you how proud I was. How much I loved you. I thought you knew… but I was wrong."

Tears streamed down his face, but his sobs no longer wracked his frail body. Instead, he seemed lighter, his hunched shoulders rising slightly as if a burden had been lifted. He raised his head slowly, his watery gaze meeting Tagitsa's.

"I hope…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "I hope you knew anyway. Even if I never said it."

Tagitsa remained kneeling, his emerald eyes locked onto the old man's. Though his form still mirrored the son, his calm presence radiated something more—a quiet strength that held the old man steady as he spoke.

The cherry blossoms stirred again, their delicate petals drifting gently to the ground. The air around them grew lighter, the oppressive weight that had pressed against the old man's chest dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

The old man let out a deep, shaky breath, his trembling hands falling to his lap. His tear-streaked face turned toward the sky, where the blossoms swirled softly against the pale horizon.

For the first time, his voice carried a faint glimmer of peace. "I'm sorry," he said again, his words clearer now. "But I'm letting go. I'm letting go because… I want to believe you knew."

Tagitsa rose slowly, his presence still calm and unwavering. The cherry blossoms drifted around them, their gentle fall matching the rhythm of the old man's steadying breaths.

The old man turned to look at him, his expression filled with gratitude and quiet relief. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice trembling but sincere.

Tagitsa's form began to shift back to his own, the resemblance to the son fading as the echoes of the past began to settle. His emerald eyes remained steady, his voice calm as he said, "You're not done yet. But you've begun."

The old man nodded, his frail frame no longer trembling as much as before. The petals swirled one last time, brushing against his hands as though offering their own quiet acknowledgment.

And the stillness that followed wasn't heavy—it was peaceful. A promise of resolution to come.