"Grandfather!" Dinara ran to him and embraced him.
"Kenzhem, my little one," the old man smiled, hugging his granddaughter. "How glad I am to see you."
Then he turned his attention to Ermek and warmly embraced his son. Finally, his gaze settled on Alexei. Something in that gaze—attentive, scrutinizing, as if looking into the very soul—made Alexei feel uncomfortable.
"And you must be Igor Nikolaevich's grandson," said Rustam, extending his hand. "I see his features in your face. The same eyes, the same chin."
"Alexei Sorin," Alexei introduced himself, shaking the old man's dry but firm hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Rustam-aga."
"You knew my grandfather?" he asked, surprised by how accurately Rustam had identified his relationship.
"Oh yes," the old man nodded. "Igor Nikolaevich was a good man. Honest. A true friend." He gestured for everyone to enter the courtyard. "But we'll talk about that over dinner. You must be tired and hungry from your journey."
They entered a spacious courtyard where a table had been set under a canopy of grapevines. A plump middle-aged woman in a traditional dress and headscarf was busy with preparations.
"This is Aigul, my helper," Rustam introduced her. "She has been taking care of me since my wife, Dinara's grandmother, passed away ten years ago."
Aigul nodded warmly to the guests and returned to her tasks. Bakyt, saying goodbye, left on his own business, promising to return in the morning.
They sat down at the table, which was already laden with traditional Kyrgyz dishes—beshbarmak, manty, boorsok, kurut, jam, and, of course, apples and peaches grown in Rustam's garden. The old man poured strong black tea into bowls.
"Eat, drink," he invited. "Help yourselves to everything God has provided."
During dinner, the conversation revolved around everyday matters—life in the village, harvest prospects, relatives' health. Rustam asked Dinara about her work at the museum and Alexei about life in St. Petersburg. It seemed the old man deliberately avoided the topic of the medallion and the pursuit, as if waiting for the right moment.
When the meal was finished and Aigul had cleared the table, serving fresh tea, Rustam finally got down to business.
"Ermek told me by radio about what happened," he said, looking intently at Alexei. "About the medallion, about Karabaev's men." He shook his head. "I knew this day would come. I've been preparing for it for many years. But it still caught me off guard."
"What do you mean?" asked Alexei. "What day?"
"The day when the medallion would return to Issyk-Kul," Rustam replied. "The day when the final chapter of a story that has lasted eight centuries would begin."
Alexei felt the medallion on his neck seem to respond to these words—becoming warmer, heavier. He took it out from under his shirt and placed it on the table in front of Rustam.
The old man did not touch the medallion but looked at it with reverence mixed with anxiety.
"So it is indeed the one," Rustam said quietly. "The very one your grandfather found in 1954 and then hid from everyone."
"You knew about my grandfather's find?" Alexei asked in surprise.
"Of course," Rustam nodded. "I was there when Igor found it in the cave. I was twelve years old, helping the expedition as a guide. I saw how the medallion first glowed in his hands."
"Glowed?" Alexei repeated. "You mean… literally?"
