This Is Where I Met You
written by: Keti Gabinashvili
The roots of the oak ran deep into the earth. A pale, ink-blue dawn hovered above the forest. She moved forward as if someone were waiting for her—crossing hollows with hurried, almost summoned steps, dry branches cracking beneath her feet. She walked with the stubborn resolve of someone who would not turn back.
Wait for me. Just wait, she muttered inwardly—as if threatening someone. As if angry at someone.
“No… have you ever heard of such a thing? Has anything like this ever happened?
What are you—no longer even human? Or… have you stopped being God as well?”
She stopped, leaning her weakened arm against a tree, and lifted her eyes to the sky.
Sunlight filtered through the branches.
Ah… how beautiful it is, one might think. How perfectly arranged—this mountain, this forest, the fields, our veined rivers… even this tender grass…
She drew a deep breath—
and something inside her broke.
A boiling sob rose from within her, so violently that for a long moment she could not catch her breath. At last, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, blew her nose into the hem of her dress, and then—in a different voice, sharper now, almost fierce—she raised her hand toward the sky:
“You have no justice left—do you hear me? None at all! What did he ever do to you? Has your justice collapsed for this child? What am I supposed to do—how do I save him?”
The last question seemed meant for herself.
Then, quieter:
“What am I supposed to do…?”
She looked inward, as though she had wandered into someone else’s courtyard and now wished to examine every corner of it. One by one, she searched through everything—every hidden crevice, every cobweb, the rotting floorboards, the smoke-darkened walls, the weakened foundation, the door torn from its hinges…
She herself had lost her ground.
The roof of her life had collapsed,
and now it was raining inside her.
***
Even the walls seemed to cover their ears, as if trying to escape the fury lodged beneath that roof. Plates shattered. Glasses. Crystal vases. Wedding gifts—one after another.
Every impact echoed through her.
Strength drained from her body.
She wept until there were no tears left.
With emptied eyes, she stared ahead, silently begging God—though she no longer remembered what she had once wanted to ask for.
And still, the days resembled one another like twins.
“Alright, my dear… don’t break your heart… let me be the one to die for you…”
Marta stroked her head with a palm cracked like drought-stricken earth, weeping herself.
***
“Father! Father!”
Someone was calling.
“Calling?” Beso glanced at the clock, surprised. “Who would come at this hour?”
“He sent word: bring me bread and wine. You have no use for them anymore.”
“What?”
Beso stood, frowning, switched on the light in the entryway, and looked toward the gate.
Silence lay outside.
“Is someone there?” he called.
Only frogs answered.
“Who’s there?” he shouted louder.
No reply.
He opened the door.
“Where was he?”
“Right there—by the laurel.”
“By the laurel?” he repeated his son’s words.
He took the Kalashnikov from behind the door and scanned the yard with the alertness of a trained man. The gate was locked.
After a moment, suspicion settling in, he turned back inside.
Lazare sat at the computer.
“Are you sure someone was here?”
“Yes. He was calling for you.”
“This would drive a man mad…” Beso muttered, shrugging, and lay down.
Not even ten minutes passed before Lazare stood again.
“He’s calling out again.”
Beso lowered the volume on the television and listened.
“Do you hear anything?” he asked his wife.
Before she could answer, Lazare leaned out the door:
“Come in… come in…”
Then he turned back:
“He won’t come in. Says—let him come out… I’ve always been here.”
Beso and his wife exchanged a glance and stepped outside.
The night lay stretched across the yard, breathing.
“Can’t you see him?” Lazare laughed.
“Who are you making a fool of, you brat?”
The blow came suddenly. Lazare staggered, his glasses falling to the ground.
Liza rushed forward, shielding him.
“He was joking—what’s wrong with you?”
“Joking? That’s what you call this?”
“I didn’t lie—I swear! I heard him—he’s still there, waiting… he said maybe you’ll come out…”
Beso’s hand froze midair.
He stood there, looking from his son—clearly no longer joking—to his frightened, confused wife.
“Go to bed,” he said quietly.
***
No one spoke until morning.
Lazare lay curled in bed, clutching his knees to his chest. By the window, old Marta whispered prayers to the Virgin Mary. Liza lay turned toward the wall, replaying the night again and again—no, Lazare had not been joking. No one joked in this house. Life was too harsh, too merciless for laughter.
Beso lay staring at the ceiling, searching for reason—and finding none.
Morning did not break the silence that had settled over the house.
Lazare moved about quietly, avoiding his father’s eyes. Marta did not leave her room. Liza set the table with trembling hands, trying—trying very hard—to make everything appear as it should.
Beso did not touch his food.
He sat, elbows on the table, staring at the empty plate in front of him.
“Come here.”
Lazare approached with hesitant steps.
“Now tell me properly—what did you see last night?”
“I swear, I didn’t lie.”
“That’s enough!” Beso roared, slamming his palm against the table.
“Don’t open your mouth like a coward every time. How many times have I told you—you’re a man.”
He crossed himself, then gave a small nod for the boy to sit.
Lazare perched on the edge of the chair.
“I know you didn’t lie. Now think—what did you see?”
“A man. He was calling your name. Said—bring bread and wine.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Was that all he said?”
“And then… when you got angry… he laughed.”
“He laughed?”
“Yes. A lot. And then he said—”
“What?”
“He said—there’s nothing left for me here. It’s all arranged.”
“What’s arranged?”
“I don’t know.”
Beso sat in silence for a while, his hand pressed to his forehead.
Then he leaned closer.
“Listen to me carefully. You know me, don’t you? You know I will find out everything. Whoever it is—I’ll dig him out of his grave if I have to. I will find out everything. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Then it’s better for you to tell me now.”
His teeth clenched.
“Did you do anything stupid?”
“No.”
“Are you taking something?”
“No!”
“Or maybe someone gave you something?”
“No!”
Silence.
***
“Go outside, son… see your friends,” Marta pleaded softly.
“I don’t have friends.”
“What do you mean you don’t?”
“I don’t love anyone.”
“No one?”
“Only you.”
Marta smiled through tears.
“That’s what you think now… but one day—”
“I’ll be right out!” Lazare suddenly shouted.
Marta clutched her chest.
“He’s here.”
***
He searched the room. Found it. Wrapped it in his jacket.
He crossed the yard, passed through the gate, and went to the pigsty.
The door resisted—then gave way.
A wave of heat and stench burst out.
He stepped inside.
Locked the door.
The pigs pressed against him; he pushed them away.
Then—
A crack.
Sharp.
Final.
The pigs screamed.
Thrashed.
Slammed against the door.
Until it was over.
***
“He was such a good boy… never once talked back to me. Quiet—always quiet. He’d sit at that computer all day. Sometimes I’d tell him—go out, see your friends, take the car… but he wanted none of it.
Suicide? Impossible.
My son?
What did he lack?
What was I living for, if not for him?
No… someone called him out. Someone led him away.
They say he was talking to his grandmother… that someone called out to him.
Who was it?
I don’t know.
But even in the grave he won’t hide from me.
I’ll find him.
Whoever he is—
I’ll find him.”
- This Is Where I Met You - July 28, 2026
