Бесплатный фрагмент - Prosecutor Kuwait. The lauguage of silence

Contents of the Book “The Prosecutor Kuwait”

Prologue

If you’re reading this — you’re still alive…

p. 3

Part I. The Return

(Family, Home, Inner Voice)

Chapter 1. Is He No Longer a Prosecutor?

p. 7

Chapter 2. A Home That Smells of Mint and Lamb

p. 12

Chapter 3. Belly Dancing and the Philosophy of Happiness

p. 18

Chapter 4. Where Does Vacation End?

p. 24

Chapter 5. The Puppy That Needed Praise

p. 30

Part II. First Blood

Chapter 6. Vegas. A City of Masks and Bullets?

p. 37

Chapter 7. Bullets Sign the Truth with Scars

p. 44

Chapter 8. The Trunk Where Truth Hides

p. 52

Chapter 9. The Courtroom Where Bullets Turn into Words

p. 58

Chapter 10. The Killer Missing from the Records

p. 65

Chapter 11. The Silence Paid in Gold

p. 71

Part III. A Street with No Name

Chapter 12. Where Does the New Street Begin?

p. 78

Chapter 13. The Bus That Doesn’t Take You Home

p. 84

Chapter 14. A Line That Doesn’t Exist on the Map

p. 90

Chapter 15. A Warehouse That No Longer Smells Like Childhood

p. 96

Chapter 16. The Dossier on Those Who Buy Children

p. 104

Chapter 17. The Day of Wisdom

p. 111

Part IV. A Case with a Name

Chapter 18. Fragile Truth

p. 118

Chapter 19. Sara — The Girl Who Didn’t Disappear

p. 126

Chapter 20. Children Draw When They’re Heard

p. 134

Chapter 21. Chapter 44: Those Who Stood Nearby

p. 143

Part V. A Letter from the Dark

Chapter 22. A Finale That Doesn’t Exist

p. 152

(The Robbery as a Performance, the Tunnel Case)

Chapter 23. A Voice from Below

p. 161

(A Letter from the Offender, the Closing of the Case)

Chapter 24. Those Who Knew — and Stayed Silent

p. 168

(The Trial of Accomplices and the Inactive)

Part VI. Light Beneath the Skin

Chapter 25. The End of Book One

p. 176

(Kuwait Grills Meat, Family, Jokes, and Quiet)

Epilogue

A Name, Not a Number

p. 182

Appendices (Optional):

Glossary of Terms and Context

Acknowledgments

Notes and Sources

pp. 190–200

Prologue

If you’re reading this — you’re still alive.

Which means you still have a chance to hear.

My name is Kuwait Alim.

I’m a prosecutor.

I’m not a hero. I’m not a messiah. I’m just a man who has seen too much—

and once chose not to look away.

This is not a book about laws.

It’s a book about silence—

the kind that kills.

About documents that hide tears behind their pages.

About children no one was waiting for.

About adults who find comfort in not knowing.

I took on cases no one wanted.

And heard stories that made you want to turn off the light.

I’ve heard the laughter of people whose hands were soaked in pain.

And the trembling voices of those who still hold on to hope.

If you’re looking for a fairy tale — close this book.

If you’re searching for the truth — hold on tight.

It’s fragile.

I don’t know if this book will change you.

But I do know this:

some things should never be unknown.

Open the first chapter.

Step inside.

And maybe — just maybe—

you, too, won’t be able to stay silent anymore.

Chapter 1. The Move

I wasn’t leaving to run away—

I was going to begin.

But something still came with me.

Silently. Inside.

My past.

The airport was filled with the breath of other people’s fates.

No one spoke loudly — everyone was either saying goodbye or standing on the edge of something new.

The departure lounge hummed like the sea before a storm.

It smelled of coffee, nervous sweat, and something sweet from duty-free.

I held my passport so tightly,

as if it might take off without me.

Inside — buzzing.

Not from noise,

but from the thought:

“I’ll never be the same when I come back.”

I didn’t know what America smelled like,

how it sounded,

what eyes it looked through.

But I knew: I was flying there.

And I had to.

I landed in Chicago early in the morning.

The August wind off the lake was almost cold—

damp, gritty, real.

From the taxi window, skyscrapers rose through the fog

like islands in milk.

That’s how my life in this city began—

a city where they say the wind changes people.

The law school at the University of Chicago

stood in a gray stone building that looked like a movie version of Harvard—

arched corridors, staircases, benches, ancient trees,

and the eternal buzz of student life.

The voices sounded like a rehearsal

for a massive stage play.

Laughter, debates, hurried footsteps,

doors slamming,

the rumble of suitcase wheels and laptop bags.

I stood in the middle of the courtyard,

like a frozen frame in a film.

Life rushed by around me.

And I just watched.

The dorm smelled of laundry detergent, instant noodles, and other people’s worlds.

My roommate — Jeremy — was tall, red-haired,

and carried a hundred stories on his shoulders.

He talked fast, ate pizza without a plate,

and didn’t ask where I was from.

He just handed me a mug of coffee and said:

“Welcome to the madhouse, bro.”

I smirked.

Yeah, it really was a madhouse—

a crazy house of freedom, knowledge, temptations,

and endless “Who even are you?”

First night.

First party.

The first time I saw her.

She walked into the room like someone had turned on the light.

Everyone was talking, laughing,

pouring beer into plastic cups.

The music shook the walls.

But I saw only her.

Nicole.

I learned the name later.

But her face… it struck me instantly.

Pale. Tall.

With the cold beauty of a northern actress.

A half-playful smile.

Confident movements.

She wasn’t trying to impress.

She just was.

I felt my fists clench—

not from anger,

but from how she crashed into my world

without knocking, without asking—

and went straight to the center.

I didn’t approach her.

I just remembered.

Later, lying on the bed,

staring at the ceiling,

I kept seeing her profile,

her gaze,

her shoulders,

her hair — like sunlight on ice.

America didn’t greet me with words.

But it gave me my first pain.

I had come to study law.

But for the first time,

I realized I’d have to learn myself first.

Chapter 2. Nicole

Some people don’t enter your life like a storm.

They come like light.

Quietly. Gently.

And then they disappear—

leaving only night behind.

I met Nicole in the third week of classes.

We were assigned to the same seminar group for logic.

She sat behind me, chewing on a pencil and muttering quiet curses

every time the professor scribbled another formula on the board.

I turned and whispered,

“Do you also feel like a lost chess piece?”

She laughed.

First, surprised — then, truly.

That’s how it began.

We became friends.

Real ones.

No flirting. No hints.

Just… near each other.

We’d walk after class, share earbuds, argue about movies,

and drink coffee on the steps of the library.

Sometimes she’d take my hand.

Sometimes I’d wrap my arms around her when she was cold.

It wasn’t called love.

It was closeness — without promises.

I remember once she said,

“You’re different. With you, it’s quiet. Even when the world screams.”

And I wore that sentence inside my chest like a medal.

Silently.

Gently.

Two months passed.

Autumn crept into the campus.

Leaves crunched underfoot.

Students hurried — some after coffee, some after someone else.

And Nicole began to disappear more often.

“Sorry, can’t hang out. I’ve got exams,” she said.

Then it was “a project.”

Then “Jason’s party.”

But I knew it was Ted.

An upperclassman.

Captain of something.

With a signature smile and hands

that were used to holding more than just a beer — sometimes, two girls at once.

I saw her laughing beside him.

Kissing his neck.

Letting him lift her like a trophy.

I watched.

And said nothing.

I told myself,

“You knew. She’s free.

And you… you were just the one she relaxed with when she needed a break from her real life.”

But my heart refused the verdict.

I went to the shooting range.

Put on the protective headphones.

Gripped the gun.

Aimed—

but saw no target.

I saw him.

His smirk.

His hands on her waist.

His laughter — when she said things she used to say to me.

Bang.

Cold. Clean.

Inside — fire.

And at night, I prayed.

Not for love.

Not for her.

For myself.

“Oh Allah… Forgive me.

Not for loving—

but for hating.

For envying.

For wanting what isn’t mine.

Give me the strength to forgive. Or forget.”

I kept studying.

Said hi to her in the hallway.

Smiled.

She smiled back — softly, almost sadly.

As if she sensed it,

but couldn’t stop what had already started inside her.

She had gone somewhere

where I was a stranger.

But inside me,

the Nicole of those first weeks remained.

From quiet evenings on the bench.

From soft touches.

From words we never got to say.

Some people can’t love.

Not because they don’t want to.

But because no one ever showed them how.

Sometimes I thought:

Maybe it’s not about me.

Maybe it’s about her.

Maybe Nicole never truly felt love.

Maybe to her,

love was just closeness, touches, likes,

a “you’re so pretty” whispered at a party.

Maybe she learned warmth was physics, not soul.

I watched her laugh with him.

How easily she fell into his arms.

How she later walked out of his room

with a tired face and eyes that seemed to have lost something.

And I didn’t feel anger.

I felt… pity.

For her.

For me.

For us.

My inner monologue lasted for nights.

Why do I think about her?

Why does it hurt,

when there was nothing between us

but friendship and a couple of hugs under a streetlamp?

Why do I pray for her

while she’s laughing in someone else’s embrace?

Why do I want to protect her—

even from herself?

I started to understand:

This isn’t about having.

Not about her being mine.

I just wanted her to know

what it feels like to be truly loved.

Without transaction.

Without performance.

Without bedroom preludes replacing real conversations.

Nicole confuses touch with closeness.

She gives her body

without knowing what it means to give her heart.

And I…

I think I gave mine away—

without asking.

Without a contract.

Without return.

In a dream, I once told her:

“You’re looking for love in the wrong places.

In the wrong arms.

In the wrong eyes.

And you keep coming back with empty hands

because none of them sees you.

The real you.”

She looked at me and said nothing.

Then she vanished.

I’d wake in a sweat.

Go splash my face with cold water.

Because the heart

burns hotter than the pulse.

I am a prosecutor — inside myself.

I accuse her of recklessness.

I accuse myself of weakness.

I accuse fate — for giving me a feeling without a future.

But deep down… I’m not asking for punishment.

I’m asking for a chance.

If she ever wakes up—

from her world,

from his words,

from those empty connections—

I want to be the one who says:

“I’m still here. Watching. Silent.

But waiting.”

Chapter 3. A Clean Result

Love doesn’t always end in drama.

Sometimes — it ends in silence.

You look at a person… and you no longer wait.

Ted was gone.

At first, Nicole simply stopped showing up with him.

Then she deleted all their photos.

Then — she told me.

“He went back to his ex.

Or left for her.

What’s the difference.”

She shrugged.

But her voice trembled.

And her eyes—

for the first time — really saw me.

We didn’t talk about the details.

I didn’t feel jealous anymore.

Something inside me had already let go.

We started walking again.

Like before.

Only… not like before.

I drove her to the clinic.

Didn’t ask why.

She was quiet, looking out the window.

On the way back, as we parked, she suddenly said:

“Kuwait. You can congratulate me.”

“For what, Nicole?”

“I’m HIV-negative.”

And she smiled wide — like a kid who just got an A.

“Really… thanks for the ride.”

I looked at her.

The word HIV dropped between us like a pebble in water.

No splash.

But deep.

“Congratulations,” I managed to say.

She laughed.

“Well, you know how it gets at parties… chaos, one-night love stories.

In the morning, no one remembers who was next to them.

So yeah — I was worried.”

I didn’t know what to say.

I smiled — politely.

Because she was happy.

Because I didn’t feel anything anymore.

Day by day, Nicole began to glow again.

Not outwardly — inwardly.

She grew calmer. Deeper.

She started asking about me.

She listened. Held eye contact longer.

Sometimes she just sat beside me, saying nothing.

And I saw — she looked at me differently now.

Only it was too late.

Not for her.

For me.

I realized: the love was gone.

I didn’t love her anymore.

I cared. I respected. I stayed close.

But nothing clenched in my chest.

The heart isn’t a switch.

You can’t just turn it back on

because things are suddenly right.

I could tell — she wanted to understand what she had lost.

But I…

I no longer wanted to be found.

A month later, she said she was transferring.

“New campus. New city. New me,” she smirked.

She left for another state.

New college. New friends.

New admirer.

She wrote once or twice.

Then disappeared.

Nicole was no longer part of my life.

Just part of my growing up.

Sometimes, you think you’ve met love.

But then you realize—

you’ve met yourself.

Chapter 4. After Her

When love leaves,

it leaves a trace.

Not always a scar.

Sometimes — just light.

Brief, like a sunbeam slipping through a window.

But you remember it.

Nicole left.

No drama.

No goodbye kisses, no movie-scene farewells, no “write me” promises.

She simply… stopped being around.

As if everything — those days, that time — had only ever belonged to campus.

To that autumn.

And when the snow came,

it melted everything away.

But I still thought of her.

Sometimes in the library.

Sometimes at the gym, when the music pounded in my ears and the thoughts—

in my heart.

Sometimes when I saw a girl in her style:

a sweater with a soft neckline, lace-up boots, hair in a messy bun.

I knew it wasn’t her.

But part of me still looked.

I used to wonder:

What if it had all been different?

What if she had chosen me from the start?

What if we hadn’t gotten lost in parties, in other people’s hands, in other people’s mistakes?

What if — back then — she had just paused

and asked herself:

What do I feel?

Because she was radiant.

Kind.

Beautiful.

There was so much life in her.

So much laughter, care, light.

She just moved too fast.

First the leap.

Then the thought.

I don’t blame her.

Maybe that’s how she survived—

starting fresh.

New state.

New roommate.

New boyfriend.

New Nicole.

A lot of people do that.

Run away — just to feel alive again.

And does she think of me?

Sometimes I want to believe — yes.

That somewhere, when she hears an accent like mine,

or sees black tea without sugar,

she remembers:

“There was one. Special. Quiet. Strong. Different.”

But even if she doesn’t—

it doesn’t matter.

Because she was real.

In that fall.

In that November.

In that laugh,

when we drank coffee in the rain.

Memory can be dangerous.

It holds your hand tighter than any real person.

It doesn’t let you forget.

Doesn’t let you forgive.

But I have to.

Forgive myself — for falling.

Forgive her — for not understanding.

Forgive the world — for not always aligning with our wishes.

I know this now:

If you really look,

there is nothing to condemn.

If you don’t judge—

you love.

But the court of conscience doesn’t forget.

It’s the strictest one.

And it tells me:

“Nicole was just a girl. She wanted to be happy.

That’s all.”

I no longer wait for letters.

No longer search for her profile online.

I just live.

With this experience.

With this light.

With this lesson.

And you know what…

I’m still grateful.

Because love—

even without reciprocation—

is still light.

And light is never to blame

if you couldn’t hold on to it in time.

Chapter 5. Jeanne

If love has ever burned you,

you’ll be afraid of warmth.

Until you meet someone

whose warmth doesn’t scorch—

but heals.

Sometimes Kuwait thought:

if only he’d known,

if only he’d had time to think—

maybe Nicole would still be around.

But those were thoughts,

not feelings.

Habit—

not love.

And then she appeared.

Jeanne.

He first saw her in the campus café.

She was standing by the vending machine,

torn between cappuccino and hot chocolate.

She wore a bright yellow jacket,

jeans with patches,

and her hair — dyed a cool platinum blonde — was tousled

like the wind had styled it that morning.

The next day, her hair was green.

And somehow…

it felt right.

Her eyes were green too—

piercing, like spring leaves—

and they held all the raw honesty of life,

no filters.

She moved like a dancer,

or a runner.

Toned, graceful.

Long legs. Light steps. Warm skin.

When she touched your shoulder,

there was no flirting in it.

Just… naturalness.

And that made it feel even closer.

Jeanne was bold.

She laughed loudly.

Told stories so well

even the professors smiled.

“You know why I’m always late?

Because I’m part Karlsson-on-the-Roof, part Marilyn Monroe.

One eats jam, the other loses her heels.

I’m both.”

She had the magic of being normal.

Not perfect.

But every day around her

felt real.

Alive.

At first, Kuwait held back.

He knew what feelings could do.

He knew how easy it was to mistake gratitude for love,

light for reflection.

But Jeanne never asked for anything.

She just was.

She sat beside him.

Listened.

Teased him.

Stole his coffee and added caramel.

“Everything should be sweet sometimes, Kuwait.”

He began to wait for those moments.

It wasn’t a storm.

It was like learning to breathe again.

Without fear.

Without guilt.

Without expectations.

Jeanne never asked about his past.

Never compared.

Never overanalyzed.

And one day, as they sat on the grass after class,

she quietly laid her head on his knee.

“With you, I feel calm,” she said.

“And warm. The kind of warm that doesn’t scare me.”

He looked at her—

at the laughter tucked into the corners of her eyes,

at the smudged mascara from the wind,

at the ease in her movements,

at her shirt that smelled faintly of citrus shower gel.

And he understood:

Love isn’t about who.

It’s about how.

How she looked.

How she laughed.

How she never asked—

but made you want to give everything.

For the first time in a long time,

Kuwait didn’t pray to forget.

He gave thanks.

Silently.

Inside.

Thanks that the world could be soft again.

That his heart could still breathe.

And that love could come—

not as a blow,

but as quiet.

Warm.

Certain.

And real.

Chapter 6. First Touch

She didn’t change my world.

She stepped into it—

and suddenly, everything fell into place.

Jeanne often touched his shoulder,

laughed out loud,

rested her head on his knee.

But he never rushed.

He was learning how to live beside someone—

not to fall blindly in love.

And she felt that.

They walked together.

In the rain — Jeanne would dance, arms wide open, like a child.

In the modern art museum — arguing about what was genius

and what was just a joke.

In the quiet of the library—

where their eyes met more often than the pages turned.

And one evening—

no plan, no setup—

Jeanne sat a little closer than usual.

He watched her hair (this time a soft copper tone)

fall gently over her cheek.

She was telling him about a silly dream she had.

Then suddenly — she stopped.

He turned.

They looked at each other.

For a long time.

And then—

he touched her lips.

Slowly.

Quietly.

The way you don’t touch a body—

but a feeling.

Jeanne didn’t flinch.

Didn’t turn it into drama.

She simply responded—

calm, warm.

As if she had been waiting.

As if she knew.

They said nothing after.

Just stayed close.

There was nothing to say.

Everything had already been said—

in the rhythm of their breath.

From Kuwait’s notebook:

“You don’t teach me how to love.

You simply exist—

and love becomes possible.

I’m not afraid to touch you.

With you, I want to be a hero.

I want to be alive.”

From Jeanne’s journal:

“He doesn’t call me “sunshine’

and doesn’t send long texts.

But he notices when I’m tired.

He brings me coffee when I go quiet.

He tucks my hair behind my ear

like he’s protecting it from the wind.

And for the first time,

I feel that love isn’t a racing pulse—

it’s steady breathing.”

Chapter 7. The Ocean Within Us

When I touched her—

I could hear my soul singing.

And she answered in the same melody.

They went to the ocean.

Just like that — no date, no occasion.

They rented a little wooden cabin not far from the shore,

with a blanket that smelled of sea salt

and windows tapped gently by the morning wind.

On the first night, they sat on the beach.

Bare feet in the cold sand.

A warm jacket shared between them.

The sky was black, but full of stars.

The moon — full and glowing.

Jeanne lay with her head on his chest.

He ran his fingers through her hair,

which smelled of shampoo and night.

“Imagine,” she said,

“that we live here. Always. In love.”

“For how long?”

“Forever — but slow.”

He didn’t answer.

He just turned her toward him.

And kissed her — truly — for the first time.

Not fast.

Not hungrily.

But as if everything he wanted to say

could only be said like this.

Her lips were soft, pink, sweet — like summer.

And in that kiss, there wasn’t just taste.

There was voice.

There was soul.

Tongue touched tongue.

At first, shy. Then — braver.

And between them — no more air.

Only the heat of skin.

And the silence that holds you like a blanket.

He felt her hands sliding over his neck.

Felt her breathing quicken.

Felt her body seeking closeness.

They lay side by side,

looking up.

And suddenly — they both laughed.

From happiness.

From the impossibility of holding on to it all—

but the deep desire to remember.

“Do you hear it?” she whispered.

“Hear what?”

“My soul.”

“Is it singing?”

“No.”

“It’s merged with yours.

Now it only sings together.”

Then came hands.

Bare. Warm.

He touched her thigh, her waist.

She traced his stomach, his shoulders, his lips.

And none of it was for passion’s sake.

It was for truth.

The truth lived in skin.

The truth lived in breath.

The truth — was them.

In the morning, they woke up wrapped in each other.

Not like two bodies.

But like one soul stretched across two forms.

He stroked her back.

She kissed his fingers.

And no one was in a rush.

Love is not just in the embrace.

Love is when you hold someone

as if you, yourself, long to be held—

and for the first time,

you are allowed to be.

Closer:

Jeanne once said:

“You know how to tell it’s real?”

“How?”

“If after the kiss, you don’t want more—

you just want to stay.

In the silence.

In their feet.

In their words.

In their mistakes.

In their losses.

In their laughter.”

He nodded.

They no longer needed proof.

Each day was not a beginning—

but a continuation.

Chapter 8. The Silence of the Yurt

Love isn’t just kisses under the moon.

It’s when someone holds your hand

while the world crumbles beneath your feet.

They didn’t live together.

Each had their own room on campus, their own mornings, their own coffee cups.

But the evenings — were shared.

Kisses at the door. Notes slipped into backpacks.

Jeanne brought him food. Left little bottles of shampoo.

Smiled when he was tired, and rubbed the back of his neck.

She never called herself his fiancée.

But everything about her felt like a wife.

No status. No ring. But all the soul.

Then one day, a call came.

The voice was dry:

“Colonel Alimov. Killed in the line of duty.

Your uncle.”

Kuwait stared at one spot for a long time.

Then started packing.

Jeanne didn’t ask questions.

Only said:

“Am I coming with you?”

He nodded.

Bishkek met them with neon lights and silence.

In the courtyard, a yurt had been set up.

A yurt heavy with the scent of tears, ayran, incense, and loss.

Women cried.

His uncle’s wife didn’t scream.

She moaned softly — like wind in the steppe, brushing over aching grass.

Kuwait stood, holding a photo.

His uncle’s smile. His insignia.

He remembered learning to shoot with him,

how he taught him to read the Quran,

how to drink tea the eastern way.

But now — it was over.

The body was returned.

The case — closed.

“Weapons smuggling. A train.

Officers dead.

The Ministry is silent. It’s all classified.”

“Your uncle? Too close to it.

So they decided to… bury it. Quietly.”

“And justice?” Kuwait asked.

“Maybe shut up your righteous little mouth

before you end up with charges?

Out of respect for the dead, they didn’t accuse him. Be grateful.”

He cried for the first time in years.

Into his fist.

On the rooftop.

At night.

Jeanne came and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

Sat beside him.

Said nothing.

Then softly:

“We’ll stay. A month.

You need to live this.

All the way through.

So later — you can live.”

And they stayed.

Jeanne helped the women, washed dishes, carried water,

started learning Kyrgyz.

The elders looked at her with respect.

The younger ones — with admiration.

“Kuwait, she’s like one of ours — even if the hair color’s different,” someone joked.

He just smiled.

A month later, at dawn, they sat on a hill.

He said:

“I don’t want to live without you.”

She replied:

“Then live with me. Always.”

There was no proposal.

They just got married.

Quietly. On his native land.

No dress. No hall.

Just a yurt, some bread, two rings.

And eyes that held eternity.

Then — back to Chicago.

But not together.

As one.

One name.

One story.

Chapter 9. Where “Always” Begins

Sometimes happiness isn’t in the ring.

It’s in how he holds your hand

while the mullah recites the prayer,

and you see a whole life in his eyes.

The morning was cold.

The air smelled of flatbread, jasmine, and mountains.

The mullah read the nikah — the marriage prayer.

He spoke words that made the heart tremble,

as if they weren’t sounds, but promises to one’s soul:

protect. forgive. stay.

Kuwait held Jeanne’s hand.

Her nails were pale.

Her lips — barely painted.

But her eyes… they shone. Like never before.

The next day — a small wedding.

A yurt. Woven rugs. Hot plov. Laughter. Dancing.

His uncle’s wife smiled for the first time in weeks.

An old neighbor said:

“Jeanne’s one of us now. A true kelin.”

Jeanne nearly cried.

But not from sadness.

From being truly accepted.

A week later — their honeymoon.

Not the Maldives.

But an old house by Issyk-Kul.

An aging garden. Coffee with jam.

Kuwait read her poetry in Russian.

She answered with English lines.

They kissed in the rain.

Warmed themselves by the fire.

Their love wasn’t flashy — but it had rhythm. Deep and steady.

Ten days later — back to Chicago.

New documents.

Kuwait received U.S. citizenship.

“You’re officially American now,” Jeanne teased.

“I’ve always been human,” he smiled.

They bought a home with a mortgage.

Small, with a balcony.

It smelled of fresh paint and hope.

Both joined the District Attorney’s office.

Jeanne — already working civil cases.

Kuwait — just an intern, but right in the heart of things.

He studied case files, joined investigations, and started publishing in a legal blog.

He said:

“I couldn’t save my uncle.

But now — I’ll speak.

Softly. Clearly. Legally.

But all the way.”

In the evenings, they drank tea.

Sat under the glow of string lights.

Sometimes — they argued.

Sometimes — laughed.

And every evening ended the same way:

With a kiss,

A whisper,

Gratitude,

In their shared home.

Love doesn’t save you from everything.

But with it, you’re no longer afraid to begin again.

Chapter 10. Morning by the Shore

Happiness isn’t loud.

It’s when you stand by the window

and hear someone singing

while flipping pancakes —

and you know:

this is your person.

Morning.

Their home in Chicago was bathed in soft light.

Outside — a breath of crisp air.

Inside — the scent of butter, honey, vanilla, and something that smelled like home.

In the kitchen — Jeanne.

Barefoot, in a long shirt barely covering her hips.

Her hair loosely braided, flour on her cheek,

a soft, lazy tune on her lips.

She hummed as she stirred the batter:

“Oh darling… I want to hold you… forever…”

He stood at the doorway.

Watching.

Holding his breath.

Her body moved like music —

alive, lithe, free.

Each motion — a quiet dance.

He walked up behind her,

placed his hands on her waist.

She didn’t flinch — just smiled.

“You snuck up on me like a lion.”

“You smell like sunshine and dough.”

“I’m a woman. That is my natural scent in the morning,”

she laughed, leaning over the skillet.

He caressed her thigh.

Brushed her shoulder with his lips.

She tilted her head back gently.

Not lust.

Not haste.

Happiness.

“You’re my wife,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“Sometimes I still don’t believe it.”

“Then touch me. Make sure I’m real.”

His hand found her stomach,

then moved lower.

He kissed the nape of her neck.

And everything inside him quieted into warmth.

Later, they walked to the lake.

Michigan was like a mirror.

They sat on a wooden pier,

legs swinging in the air.

Jeanne took out a sketchbook.

Drew clumsily, like a child.

He scribbled short poems beside her sketches.

They dreamed aloud:

of a house on a hill,

a dog,

children,

evenings full of songs.

“If you could choose one thing forever,” she asked,

“what would it be?”

“You. In the kitchen.

In a shirt.

With flour on your cheek.”

“And you?” he asked back.

“You. Silent.

When you look at me like it’s the first time.”

Their lips found each other.

Slowly.

Not like in the movies.

But like in life —

with breath, with eyes,

with a body that says:

“I’m here. I’m yours. You’re mine.”

Love isn’t grand gestures.

It’s warm hands on a waist.

It’s the tea he pours for her,

so her voice doesn’t grow cold.

The Prosecutor’s Autumn

Kuwait. Chicago. October.

Leaves whispered underfoot

as he walked through the park

in his prosecutor’s coat,

carrying not just documents —

but human stories.

He was no longer a boy.

Not a man searching for himself.

He was someone who knew:

truth isn’t always light.

Sometimes it’s a knife.

Sometimes — a prayer.

Sometimes — silence.

Autumn in Chicago was fragile,

like sorrow made of glass.

Jeanne was away on a work trip.

The house smelled only of coffee

and her forgotten scarf.

He was alone.

One plate on the table.

And a silence in his chest

so deep, it could be heard.

He opened the window.

Leaves drifted down.

The city murmured.

Inside — strange peace.

He wrote in his notebook:

“If I could choose…

I wouldn’t be a hero.

I’d just be a man

holding someone’s hand

in October.

Judging no one —

except himself.”

Fates passed through him

like wind through the park.

Some broke.

Some returned.

He didn’t save everyone.

But sometimes — at least one.

And he walked on.

Carefully. Steadily.

Leaves beneath his feet.

A woman in his heart.

A past he’d let go.

And a truth worth keeping silent for.

Kuwait was a prosecutor.

But more than that —

he was a man.

With eyes the color of earth,

and a heart that knew:

Autumn isn’t about endings.

It’s about breathing —

as long as there’s someone

left to love.

The Prosecutor’s Inner Journal

Kuwait Alim

Chapter 1: Case No. 187. Autumn. A Girl Without a Name.

Date Opened: October 4

Case Type: Homicide. Abduction. Rape. Presumed concealment of a body.

The police transferred the case to the prosecutor’s office due to its complexity and public outcry.

Victim’s Name: … (officially unidentified)

Suspects: Two known. Neither detained.

Entry 1.

Today I looked at the photographs.

A girl. Young.

Last video: lobby camera. 11:14 PM.

Then — a black hole.

No body. No weapon.

Just a phone trail, blood in the trunk, and silence.

I held her bag in my hands — found in a vacant lot.

Lipstick. A comb.

A note: “Call me if you get scared.”

I thought:

Who did she call when she was truly afraid?

Her phone shut off at 11:27 PM.

Forever.

Entry 2.

Police questioned two individuals.

One — a rideshare driver she met online.

The other — an ex-lover. Four calls, 17 seconds each.

Both are clean — formally.

But their voices…

The first — trembling.

The second — ice-cold.

Forensics confirmed: blood in the trunk was hers.

A critical amount.

But without a body — this is not legally murder. Not yet.

Entry 3.

I signed the orders:

Expand the search perimeter.

Check every quarry, cesspool, landfill, dacha.

Request cell tower geolocation data.

Reschedule interrogations for morning. No more soft tone.

Sometimes I hate myself —

that my life is not poetry,

but fragments of tragedy, bound by procedural deadlines.

Entry 4.

I met the girl’s mother.

She came in, unsure of what to do.

Her scarf was thin, scented with smoke and grief.

She sat on the edge of the chair and said:

“If she’s dead, just tell me. Don’t lie.

I know how to bury.

Just not into emptiness.”

I said:

“We’re searching. Until the end.”

Entry 5.

Late at night, I walked home.

Leaves rustled underfoot.

And only one thought stayed with me:

Where are you, girl?

Where did they hide you so no one could find you?

And how is he — the one who did this — so silent?

I’m a prosecutor.

I’m not supposed to feel.

But I prayed:

that by morning, we’d at least be one step closer to the truth.

The Prosecutor’s Inner Journal

Kuwait Alim

Chapter 2: Interrogation. “I just gave her a ride.”

Date: October 5

Time: 10:05 AM

Location: Prosecutor’s Office, Interrogation Room

Subject: Azamat N., 29 years old. Driver. Met the girl via app.

Status: Not detained. Invited for questioning.

Entry 6.

He showed up in a black hoodie that read: “Nothing to regret.”

Sat down calmly.

Eyes — cloudy.

Hands — dry, fingers twitching slightly.

I let the silence do the work.

“You know why we asked you in?”

“Yeah… I guess. That girl?”

“Which one?”

“You know… the one I drove.”

He already knew.

He was pretending not to.

Entry 7.

“You were with her on October 3. Confirm that?”

“Yeah. Picked her up near the mall.”

“Where were you headed?”

“She said she just wanted to drive. Talk.”

He paused. Waiting for me to nod.

I didn’t.

“Cameras show you drove out of the city. Explain.”

“She asked to. Herself.”

“Footage shows your car stopped for 28 minutes on the highway.”

“I… don’t remember. Maybe a bathroom break.”

“Twenty-eight minutes is long for a ‘bathroom break.’”

“I didn’t time it.”

Entry 8.

Here came the first shift.

I opened the file.

Inside: trunk photos. Blood traces. Lab reports. DNA match.

I didn’t give him time to breathe.

“Do you understand that this girl’s blood was found in your trunk?”

“I… I don’t know how…”

“Do you think she climbed in there and bled out by herself?”

He said nothing.

Eyes darted.

Breathing quickened.

“I only gave her a ride, I swear. She got out.”

“Where?”

“I… I don’t remember. Somewhere on the highway.”

“Name the girl.”

“Well…”

“You don’t even know who you ‘just gave a ride to’?”

He didn’t break immediately.

He lied by reflex.

But truth was already rotting under his tongue.

Entry 9.

I stood up.

Got closer.

Laid the photo in front of him — the one from the elevator. 11:14 PM.

Her eyes. Her smile.

Not knowing she was walking into nothing.

I said quietly:

“That was her last smile.

You were the next person she saw.

Now tell me what happened after.”

He looked at the picture.

Then dropped his head.

And whispered:

“I didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”

Entry 10.

The confession was incomplete.

He spoke of a “fight,” of “panic,” of “being scared.”

He didn’t name the place.

Didn’t say whether she was alive or dead.

But I knew — lying was pointless now.

We had forensics.

Soon we’d have cell geolocation.

Then — a warrant to search private properties.

I stepped out.

Sat down.

Drank some water.

Jeanne had texted:

“You’re silent. That means it’s heavy.

Don’t let this case devour you.

Come home not as a prosecutor — but as my person.”

I closed my eyes.

Sometimes, truth is a blade.

But someone has to hold it right.

The Prosecutor’s Inner Journal

Kuwait Alim

Chapter 3: When the Earth Speaks

Date: October 7

Status: Warrant issued.

Location: Plot outside the city, near the railway line.

Basis: Partial confession + soil analysis from car trunk + geolocation.

Team: Prosecutor’s office, forensics, medical examiner, police.

Entry 11.

The morning was gray.

Low clouds. Damp air.

We drove out at 6:40 AM in a black SUV.

On site: an old shed, a rusty trailer, a ditch overgrown with weeds.

The silence was so deep,

you could hear the shovels breaking into the earth.

Cold clay.

Prosecutor’s shoes sinking.

Kuwait stood a little off to the side — not interfering.

But every minute — a blow to the chest.

“We’ll find something. Or we won’t.”

“If not — silence again. If yes — hell begins.”

Entry 12.

08:14 AM

One of the officers walks away. Lights a cigarette. Can’t take it anymore.

08:17 AM

A forensic tech raises his hand.

“Got something.”

They found a piece of fabric.

A hand. Plastic. A bag.

The smell — so strong even the wind stops.

Kuwait doesn’t turn immediately.

He closes his eyes.

Counts to six.

Only then steps forward.

“Not here. Don’t open it here.”

“DNA confirmation?”

“Urgent.”

Entry 13.

Official report: “Partial remains of a female body, wrapped in polyethylene and cloth.”

A delicate ring on her hand, with a tiny stone.

Broken nail polish.

Kuwait notes every detail.

Because she needs nothing now.

But he still needs truth.

He speaks evenly,

but behind his eyes, something whispers:

“You found her.

But now — you have to live with that.”

Entry 14.

Later, he’ll write the report.

Sign the protocol.

Issue instructions.

Arrange for her body to be released to the family.

But in between — he stands on the roadside.

Gloves still on.

The air smells of death and wet grass.

A young investigator approaches:

“You were silent the whole time, Kuwait-bey.”

“I wasn’t silent,” he replies.

“I was listening to the earth.”

Entry 15.

That evening, he returns home.

Takes off his coat.

Washes his hands — twice.

Jeanne wraps her arms around him from behind.

He flinches.

She whispers:

“You’re still alive.

Don’t let the dead empty you.”

He replies:

“I just want at least one mother

to bury a body — not a shadow.

With a name.

With earth.

With goodbye.”

Finding a body is not a victory.

It’s a full stop in the silence.

And Prosecutor Kuwait knows:

Tomorrow, there will be another case.

Another silence.

And once again — the earth.

Chapter 4: A Day to Simply Be a Man

Case No. 187 has been passed on to the senior prosecutor.

Trial — in a week.

And for now — a day without reports, without streets wrapped in yellow Do Not Cross tape.

Just running, water, the smell of grilled meat… and a woman he loves.

Morning.

Kuwait runs in circles next to Jeanne.

Their breath syncs. Their steps in rhythm.

In his ears — music, where the bass melts into her laughter.

Suddenly she speeds up:

— “What’s wrong, prosecutor? Falling behind?”

He just grins and catches up.

Later — the pool.

Cold water tightens the skin,

but she laughs like a girl.

He dives in —

and under the surface, runs his hand along her leg.

She gasps. Splashes at him.

— “You always dive in the most unexpected places, Kuwait-bey.”

— “I’m always searching for pearls, Jeanne-khanym.”

After the shower — breakfast.

Ayran, eggs, warm bread.

On the table — a pomegranate.

She peels it clumsily, and her fingers stain crimson like petals.

He watches the juice slide down her wrist.

Alive. Real. His.

— “Will you be my defense attorney at the tournament?” he asks.

— “If you lose, I’ll tell the judge you were under the spell of a woman.”

— “A spell?”

— “Have you seen me in a swimsuit? Of course a spell!”

Evening.

They drive out of the city.

At the base of a small waterfall, they set up a blanket, a chair,

a couch under the open sky.

A small fire crackles.

On the grill — lamb. Spices sizzle. Smoke climbs into the stars.

Jeanne lies on the blanket, her hair spilled around her like sunlight.

He watches her more than the skewers.

Later, they sit side by side.

He pours tea into clay cups.

— “My grandmother once told me,” Kuwait says,

— “My uncle Umar told her: ‘Mama, I’ll marry the most beautiful girl.’”

Jeanne smiles:

— “And what did she say?”

— “She laughed. ‘The most beautiful?’”

“And he said: ‘So beautiful that when I see her — I’ll faint. Like a movie star.’”

— “And did he marry her?”

— “He did.”

— “Was she like a movie star?”

Kuwait chuckles softly.

— “Grandma said, “No.”

But when she asked him,

“So, my son, did you marry the most beautiful?”