Khabib wasn’t fond of the city’s noise—he preferred the calm of the mountains. Yet, when he was here, he never once complained.

You found him on the small balcony, leaning against the railing, eyes focused on the horizon as if searching for peace in the chaos around him.

You walked up quietly, offering him a cup of tea. He didn’t look at you, but his hand instinctively moved, just enough for your fingers to meet as he took it from you.

—“This place… too much for me,” he said softly, his voice low. A pause, then he added, almost as an afterthought: —“But I like it better when you’re here.”

No grand gestures. No loud declarations. Just that simple, quiet truth that only he could express.