The Restless Guest

This story took place in a small seaside town — a place known not only for its beautiful sea, but also for its unique architecture, where Baroque, Moorish style, and modernism blended into a harmonious symphony of beauty.

The town’s population was remarkably diverse. Greeks, Italians, Russians, Jews, Romani — and many others — had all, at one time or another, called it home. Some eventually left, leaving behind traces in its culture and architecture. Others came to take their place, settling in and adding their own characters, customs, and traditions to the city’s spirit. Over time, their fates diverged. Wars, epidemics, famines, and natural disasters forced people of different nationalities and religions to seek happiness in faraway lands. Some later returned and tried to rebuild their lives. Few succeeded. Most accepted they could never return to the life they had once known, and again departed for the places where they had settled after their voluntary or forced exile.

Yet there were those who refused to seek another life in safer or wealthier corners of the world. They could not imagine living anywhere but their hometown. And when another hard time came — when neighbors sold their homes and possessions, preparing to leave — these people stayed, renovating their houses, buying furniture, and stocking up on the essentials of daily life, confident that better days would return.

And return they did. For those who are patient and believe that every dark streak in life will one day give way to a bright one, it often proves true.

After the last disaster — a time when hunger, war, and lawlessness ruled the streets — the city entered thirty long years of peace and prosperity. Many who had fled wished to return, and some managed to do so. But only a few were lucky enough to come back to their original homes. There were many reasons for this: some houses had been destroyed by war; others, still standing, were later demolished by wealthy investors to make way for shopping centers, hotels, or lucrative apartment buildings.

Among the remaining old houses, one stood out — built several centuries ago, seemingly for eternity, from a stone so durable that neither water, scorching sun, nor wind could damage it. Strangely, even in wartime, when destruction spread all around, this two-story house remained untouched, as if under a spell. It survived more than one war in the same mysterious way.

City authorities came and went, but they all shared one common ambition: to profit from selling land for new construction. Entire neighborhoods were demolished without regard for architecture or historical value. And yet, despite being both old and in a prime location near the sea, no authority ever laid a hand on this house. It became something of a local mystery.

In time, the weathered building turned into a landmark known far beyond the city, even abroad. Tourists would come to marvel at it and take selfies against its façade, but few ever imagined living there. It was old, unrenovated, and surrounded by gleaming new buildings rising like mushrooms — even right on the shoreline. No one seemed interested in the place.

That is, until one unusual incident changed everything.

One late evening, a strange man knocked on the door of the old house by the embankment. For several days before this, he had been seen in the small inner courtyard, sitting for hours on a bench beneath the cherry trees. As the sun set, he would rise, leave the courtyard, and stand before the house until nightfall, gazing at its windows.

The residents noticed him and began glancing out more often. He broke no laws, but his constant presence unsettled them. When leaving the house, they would study him cautiously, their eyes wordlessly asking: What do you want here? Yet none dared approach to ask directly. The stranger, for his part, never tried to speak to anyone. He only walked slowly around the house, again and again.

Finally, he seemed to gather his courage. He entered the courtyard, approached the door, and knocked gently.

A pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman answered. Behind her stood her husband, and in the corner of the hallway, a boy of about seven peeked shyly at the uninvited guest. At the dining table, one set of parents — perhaps hers, perhaps his — were drinking tea.

Every face held the same unspoken question: Why have you come?

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” the stranger began with a tentative smile. “I wouldn’t trouble you if it weren’t important. I just… I would so love to see the inside of this house — the house where I spent the happiest moments of my life. Please don’t worry, I’ll only take a quick look and leave right away. I’ll pay you well.”

He spoke quickly, as though afraid they would refuse and close the door on him.

“You see,” he continued, “my grandmother — whom I loved more than life itself — once lived here, many years ago. Oh, how happy I was to visit her on weekends!

Restless Guest — Part II

My parents were divorced, and my mother hated my grandmother. She would only reluctantly allow me to visit her, and only if my father managed to convince her. On those rare weekends, my father and I would arrive by taxi. The moment it stopped in front of the house, I would leap out and rush to the door, where my grandmother was always waiting on the threshold with open arms.

You know, she reminded me of a great, luminous moon — her smile so warm and kind. If you’ve ever sat by a river on an August night and watched the moonlight shimmer across the water, you might have felt it smiling at you, as though the moonlit path could lead you straight to your most cherished dream. Even now, whenever I see moonlight dancing on water, I think of her.

In the large sitting room there was a huge sofa. My father, my grandmother, and I would tumble around on it, laughing like children — not just me, but them as well.

Later, when I grew older and met my first love, my grandmother had already passed away. Her house then became our haven…

The hosts listened, spellbound. The guest’s face was so earnest and imploring that the hostess smiled warmly and said:

“Of course, come in.”

He stepped inside at once, removed his hat, and began to look around.

“There used to be a fireplace here,” he said, pointing to the wall on the left. “And over there — a bookcase. My grandmother had wonderful taste in literature, and she kept her favorite books right there…”

The elderly couple at the table eyed him with curiosity. The children watched with guarded suspicion. But the husband and wife seemed to feel a growing sympathy for their visitor.

“You must have come from far away?” the hostess asked.

“Yes,” he said. “A whole lifetime has passed since I left.”

“Do you have anyone left in our city?”

“No one.”

“And where are you staying? At a hotel?”

“Of course — where else? I have no one here anymore.”

The woman looked at him with renewed compassion. Catching her gaze, the guest suddenly asked:

“Listen… could I stay with you for a few days? I’ll pay well, I have money!” He quickly pulled out a thick roll of bills.

The husband and wife exchanged a startled glance, but before they could respond, he pressed the money into their hands.

“Here. Is that enough?”

“This is… a fortune!” the hostess exclaimed.

“Take it. I can give you more if necessary.”

It was clear the family was in need of money, and such an offer was hard to refuse.

“You know,” the guest went on, “this house has a remarkable — I’d even say magical — quality. It can accommodate almost any number of people, so long as they get along with each other. Haven’t you noticed?”

“No,” the woman laughed. “But when we have guests over for holidays, there’s always enough room for everyone.”

“Well then, make yourself comfortable,” she said after a short pause. She glanced at her husband, who still seemed unsure, but it was obvious she was the one who made the decisions in this home.

The guest was given a small room — the former nursery — while the owners moved into the living room. Their child was sent to share the old couple’s room.

“I used to prepare for exams here,” the guest said as he walked slowly through the apartment.

“Make yourself at home,” the hostess smiled. Her manner made it clear she liked him.

“You’ve been hanging around in the yard all day,” she added. “You must be hungry.”

“No, not hungry… but I wouldn’t refuse some tea.”

The old couple continued to study him with curiosity, and when he joined them at the table, they began asking about his life abroad.

“You seem to have settled in well there,” the old man remarked.

“I can’t complain,” the guest replied. “Everything is fine. Except… there’s no home.”

“Is it expensive there?” the old woman asked.

“It is. But in terms of comfort, I have everything. It’s just… there’s no feeling of home.”

“Foreign land is a stern old woman,” the old man said with a sigh. “When I was young, I traveled the world for work. But I always came back. I can’t live without this city.”

“And where did you live before?” the guest suddenly asked.

“In the mills. You’re local — you know what that is and where it is.”

“Of course. And how did you end up here? Have you lived in this house long?”

“Thirty years.”

“Thirty years ago I left my hometown…”

“And you never returned?”

“No. There was never time.”

“I see.”

The conversation slowly faded. The old couple, perceptive as they were, felt something about this man they didn’t quite like — though they couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Like a match burning out, the talk ended abruptly, and everyone retired to their rooms.

Alone, the former heir to the house undressed and lay down, but he didn’t sleep. The hosts thought they could hear him talking — whether in a dream or to someone unseen, they couldn’t tell.

The owners themselves didn’t sleep much that night. The guest seemed cultured and intelligent, and he had given them a large sum of money. But who knew what was truly on his mind? And the husband, noticing his wife’s obvious fondness for their visitor, was uneasy about these sudden changes in their lives.

“He’s… strange,” the husband muttered to his wife.

“Oh, stop it,” she waved him off. “You can tell from his clothes, his speech, his manners — he’s a cultured man, someone who has lived and seen much.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” the husband said darkly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she smiled faintly. “Do you really think...

Restless Guest — Part III

“I don’t think anything,” he replied. “I just didn’t like the way you looked at him.”

His wife secretly enjoyed her husband’s jealousy over a stranger.

“He’ll stay for a couple of days and then leave. What more can I say about him?” she said in a soothing tone.

The husband only sighed, choosing not to argue. He didn’t fall asleep until morning. A few days later, he — along with the old couple — realized their vague unease had not been misplaced.

Three days passed. Then a week. And the guest showed no sign of leaving.

The owner, feeling increasingly burdened, finally asked directly when he intended to move out.

“I’ll buy your house,” the guest declared suddenly. “Name your price — any price. You’ll be able to buy yourself a home anywhere you like.”

The owners stared at him, startled by the unexpected offer.

“People don’t really buy houses here,” the wife began. “They’re old, in need of serious repairs. You’d go broke fixing it up — it’s not a wise investment.”

“I’m not buying it as an investment!” the guest snapped, his voice tightening. “Don’t you understand? For you, this is just a place to live. For me, it’s the house where generations of my family lived. My great-grandfather built it. Here, my grandmother waited for my grandfather to come back from the front. My father grew up here. And here, I was happier than anywhere else in my life. I’ll never feel that way again — unless I’m here. Do something good: sell me this house. Make me happy again — and yourselves too.

“You see, this isn’t just any house. It speaks. It tells stories about its life. You don’t hear them. For you, they’re just the creak of an old floorboard or the slam of a window in the wind. But for me, it’s—”

“You’ve been told already: this house is not for sale!” the owner cut him off sharply.

“And I will buy it. For any price!” the guest insisted, his tone almost feverish. “Think about it.”

“We already have. Our children and parents have lived here for years. Why do you assume this house has no value for us? Our family began here. Our son was born here. This is our home — and it’s time for you to go.”

Eight pairs of eyes fixed on the guest. The boy — about eight years old — stared at him most intently.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the guest said to the child. “How old are you? Eight? Until I was eight, I was happy too. Then something went wrong. Even as a child, I often felt someone had stolen my happiness. I imagined that person as someone like you — a simpleton who slips into my life as if wearing someone else’s shoes.”

“Enough!” the boy’s grandmother suddenly burst out. “What are you saying?! Go to your room and pack your things. You’d better leave this house as soon as possible.”

The guest frowned, said nothing, and hurried to the small room he had been given, locking the door behind him.

“Hey, open up!” the owner shouted through the door. “I need to speak to you!”

No answer.

“Fine. Spend the night — but in the morning, you leave. And take your money with you. We can do without it. You’ve overstayed your welcome,” the owner said, walking away.

This time, instead of sympathy, he saw only disappointment and bewilderment on his wife’s face. The old couple muttered in their room, discussing the unwelcome guest’s departure.

But the next day, instead of packing, the guest began rearranging the furniture — even attempting to take over the living room. He failed in a brief skirmish with the owner, who was quickly joined by his father, mother, wife, and even their eight-year-old son. But they still couldn’t force the intruder out.

The guest locked himself inside his room and began building a barricade from whatever furniture he could find. The owners’ attempts to break through failed — the uninvited tenant fought back with the leg of a broken chair.

Both sides were exhausted, and a tense truce settled over the house until evening. But that night, the guest launched an unexpected counterattack: first knocking the owner to the floor, then — wielding the iron headboard of a bed — forcing his way into the living room.

When the owners tried to reclaim the space, they were shocked to find the intruder armed with a knife and a pistol. His behavior turned openly aggressive. In the part of the apartment he now controlled, he began drawing strange symbols on the walls, lighting candles, and burning some fragrant substance like Indian incense.

The owner and the old man armed themselves with an axe and a kitchen knife, but the guest had the advantage — a World War II Parabellum pistol with two loaded magazines. Now the owners were the ones barricading themselves.

Finally, after a hurried discussion, they called the police. Officers arrived and spent a long time negotiating with the “restless guest,” urging him to surrender. But he kept repeating that he had the right to return to his “previous life.”

In the end, he demanded to speak to the mayor — and to the mayor alone.

The mayor, already an elderly and heavy man, preferred to handle matters from the comfort of his residence. But this time, he made the trip. He was the only one the intruder allowed into the house.

The owners of the house had pinned great hopes on the mayor. But when he emerged from his meeting with the uninvited guest, he went straight to the waiting journalists and declared:

“This man, who has settled in someone else’s apartment, has endured much in his life. He has every right to a corner in the home where he spent the best years of his childhood. At the next meeting of the mayor’s office, I will raise the issue of officially granting him living space in what was once his family’s house.”

With that, the mayor turned and headed for his car, clearly signaling the press conference was over. But a young reporter with a microphone stepped into his path.

“And what about the people whose apartment this ‘deeply unhappy man’ has occupied?” she asked sharply.

The mayor shot her a look that was equal parts indignation and disdain, but he kept his composure. Enunciating each word, he replied:

“Don’t worry about the tenants. They still have two entire rooms. Besides, they have many relatives in the city. In the worst case, they can live with them.”

He then opened the door of his Cadillac, dropped heavily into the back seat, and ordered the driver to pull away.

Shocked, the public and the neighbors rallied in defense of the dispossessed family. It seemed certain that the intruder would be thrown out within hours. But then something utterly unexpected happened — the city police took the aggressor’s side. They cordoned off the building and kept the furious crowd at bay.

Some neighbors, both from the same floor and from above, tried to throw him out themselves. But as soon as they entered the apartment, the occupier came at them with a knife and, brandishing his pistol, forced them to retreat.

A fragile truce settled over the building. The outrage faded; only a few die-hard champions of justice kept collecting signatures for a petition to defend the residents’ rights. The rest of the neighbors grew quiet, and the unfortunate family became refugees in their own city — the elderly went to stay with some relatives, the child with others, and the parents left for a neighboring city to stay with friends.

Now the evicted family was ready to accept the money the occupier had once offered. But he no longer intended to pay. Having seized the entire apartment, he next went after the hallway and basement, taking them from the neighbors in a violent scuffle.

Even that wasn’t enough. He climbed to the second floor, claiming that as a child he had loved walking up those stairs and sitting for hours with the neighbors there, who once treated him to tea and sweets.

Meanwhile, the mayor’s office issued him an official certificate granting him rights to the property. The neighbors appealed to the court, and the court appointed a special commission to investigate and deliver a fair ruling.

But the occupier moved quickly. He bought a tank of paint, hired workers to plaster and repaint the house, and by the time the commission arrived, the place looked pristine. He shadowed the officials at every step, telling them how he planned to do a complete renovation, install solar panels, and bring in gas and running water at his own expense.

The commissioners listened, spellbound. By the end, they seemed to have forgotten entirely about the displaced families. Soon, the mayor’s office issued the occupier a new certificate granting him ownership of the entire house and full authority to arrange it as he pleased.

Flushed with triumph, the occupier slipped letters under his neighbors’ doors, demanding they leave voluntarily. Who knows how far his expansion might have gone — perhaps all the way to the city center — if not for what happened next.

One night, attackers smashed every window in the building, broke the water pipes, and, worst of all, set fire to a gas cylinder beneath his room.

The occupier survived but was left in a wheelchair. Sitting there, he spoke endlessly of “ungrateful neighbors” and “terrorism.” The mayor and the police chief expressed their complete solidarity with this “victim of terror,” vowing to help him in every way and to wage a “merciless fight” against terrorists.

Yet before long, the uninvited guest quietly returned overseas, where he still lives. Despite his disability, he became chairman of the Society for the Protection of Genetic Memory and deputy chairman of the Society for the Fight Against Global Terrorism.

He never came back to the city of his childhood. And he never spoke of it again.