The catacombs from which Balaban emerged were part of Odessa’s old labyrinth. Once, quarrymen had dug out limestone here to build the city, leaving behind hundreds of kilometers of tunnels. Later, smugglers, fugitives, and rebels had found refuge in those endless corridors. The catacombs had become a hidden city beneath the streets — a place of darkness, silence, and old secrets. Balaban knew their twists and echoes like the lines on his own palms.

  The hatch, disguised under thorny bushes, led him out into the Arcadia Ravine — a dry gulch falling toward the sea, cut by dusty paths and tangled trees. Above, gulls wheeled under a hard blue sky. The warm air smelled of salt, dust, and distant fires.

  He moved quickly along the path, keeping to the shade, until he reached a small restaurant perched on a wooden terrace above the rocks. No tourists, no curious glances — only the sea, the crying birds, and the smell of the sun on stone.

  Chelago sat at a table near the railing, facing the open water. White shirt, pale hat, a glass of water with lemon. There was a stillness about him, but it was not peace.

  Balaban approached without sound.

  — Good day, Doctor, — he said softly.

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  Chelago lifted his head and nodded. Balaban sat across from him.

  The waiter brought two cups of coffee without a word.

  Slowly, Balaban reached into his jacket and placed a small bundle on the table. Inside — a fragment of dark amber and a piece of a handwritten map.

  — This is your part, — he said.

  Chelago didn’t touch it at once. For a long moment, he simply gazed at it — as if something inside him had recognized it. Then he tucked it carefully into his breast pocket.

  Balaban studied him. He saw it clearly now: Chelago understood.

  — You know what awaits you? — Balaban asked.

  Chelago’s voice was quiet but certain:

  — I know.

  The wind stirred the awning overhead. The sea murmured against the rocks below. Time seemed to hold its breath.

  Balaban touched his cup but didn’t drink.

  — If you don't return... — he began, but left it unfinished.

  Chelago met his eyes.

  — I will return, — he said. — Perhaps different. But I will return.

  They stood almost at the same time.

  Their handshake was brief, solid — the handshake of men who understood things too heavy to name.

  — Glory to Ukraine, — said Balaban.

  — And to those who carry it in their hearts, — Chelago replied.

  Balaban turned and disappeared down the trail toward the old road.

  Chelago remained by the railing.

  The sea stretched before him, endless and patient. The wind pressed against his back like the weight of fate.

  Everything that had happened so far had only been a prelude. The real journey was beginning now.

  The waves below rolled in slow rhythm. Each breath of wind carried a new weight — but he no longer feared it.

  He had already taken the first step.