The Ghosts in the Mountains
Abdulmanap Nurmagomedov was eighteen years old when he fell in love with Zarina.
She was the daughter of a local wrestling coach—beautiful, graceful, with a laugh that could light up a room. She came to watch the training sessions sometimes, bringing tea for her father, and Abdulmanap would lose his focus completely whenever she appeared.
"You're staring again," his training partner would say.
And he couldn't. Zarina was everything. The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she smiled at him when she caught him looking.
He courted her properly, traditionally. Brought gifts to her father. Spoke respectfully. Made his intentions clear.
Her father was a hard man. A wrestler himself in his youth, now a coach, stern and uncompromising.
"You want my daughter?" he asked one evening.
"Yes. More than anything."
"You're not the only one." the father leaned back, considering. "Three other men have asked. Good men. Strong men."
Abdulmanap's jaw tightened. "I'm stronger."
"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll find out."
"A tournament. All four of you. Wrestling. Winner gets Zarina's hand."
Abdulmanap's heart raced. "When?"
"Two months. Train hard, Abdulmanap. You'll need it."
Abdulmanap trained like a man possessed.
Every day, from dawn until long after dark. Wrestling, running, drilling. His body became a weapon, his mind focused on a single goal.
Win. Get Zarina. Keep her forever.
He saw her sometimes during those two months. She'd come to the training hall, and he'd catch her eye.
"You're training so hard," she said one afternoon.
"For you. All of this is for you."
She looked uncomfortable. "Abdulmanap..."
"I'm going to win. I promise. And then - " He took her hand, bold, desperate. "Then we'll be together. Like we're meant to be."
"Abdulmanap." She pulled her hand back gently. "You're a good friend. But I don't know if that's.."
"You'll see," he interrupted, smiling. "After I win, you'll see. We'll be happy together. I'll make you happy."
She looked at him with something like sadness. "You can't know that."
"I do know. I feel it." He pressed his hand to his chest. "Here. We're meant to be together, Zarina. I know it."
She said nothing. Just looked at him with those sad, beautiful eyes.
He took that as shyness. As uncertainty that would fade once he proved himself.
He never considered that it might be something else.
Four men. Single elimination.
Abdulmanap's first match was easy. He pinned his opponent in under two minutes.
The second match was harder. The other guy was strong, technical, patient. But Abdulmanap was desperate, and desperation made him dangerous.
The final match was against Magomed.
Magomed was older, more experienced. Calm where Abdulmanap was frantic. Methodical where Abdulmanap was wild.
They fought for twelve minutes.
Abdulmanap gave everything. Every technique he knew, every ounce of strength, every bit of will.
Magomed pinned him in the thirteenth minute.
Abdulmanap lay on the mat, staring at the ceiling, his body screaming, his heart shattered.
No, this couldn't - this couldn't be right. It was supposed to be the other way around. No, this...this can't be.
Magomed stood over him, breathing hard, and offered a hand.
Abdulmanap didn't take it.
He got up on his own, walked past the crowd, past Zarina - who was standing there with tears in her eyes.
He didn't stop until he was outside, alone in the cold mountain air.
The wedding was big. Everybody was there.
Only Abdulmanap didn't attend.
The thought of watching her marry someone else - watching Magomed claim what should have been his - was unbearable. It was reality that was wrong. Completely wrong.
He stayed home, alone, and tried not to imagine it.
Her in a wedding dress. Her hands in Magomed's hands. Her saying yes to someone else.
His friends tried to console him.
"It was a fair fight. You gave it everything."
"There will be other women."
Empty words. Meaningless.
There would never be another woman. There would never be anyone but Zarina.
Abdulmanap saw her in the market.
She looked different. Thinner. Tired. There was a bruise on her wrist, barely visible under her sleeve.
She jumped, turned. Saw him. "Abdulmanap."
"Are you..well?" He stopped. "How are you?"
"I'm fine." But her smile was brittle. Fake.
She looked away. "I should go. Magomed is waiting."
"Zarina." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Are you happy?"
She met his eyes then, and he saw it. The truth she wouldn't say.
"I'm fine," she repeated. "Please. I need to go."
She left quickly, and he watched her disappear into the crowd.
That bruise on her wrist.
Abdulmanap saw the bruises more often now.
On her arms. Her neck once. Her face, carefully covered with makeup that didn't quite hide it.
The entire community saw. Everyone knew.
Magomed had a temper. Got angry easily. And Zarina - gentle, kind Zarina - often bore the brunt of it.
Abdulmanap couldn't stand it.
He found her one afternoon, alone at the market again.
"Come with me," he said without preamble.
"Leave him. Come with me. I'll protect you. We'll go somewhere else. Start over. Together."
"Yes. You're not happy. You're not safe. He hurts you."
"Why not?" He grabbed her hands, desperate. "Why not, Zarina? You don't love him. You never loved him. Come with me. Let me take care of you."
She pulled her hands away. "I can't."
"You can. We can leave tonight. I have money saved. We'll -"
"Abdulmanap, stop!" She looked at him with those sad eyes. "I don't love you. Not like that. You're my friend. You've always been my friend. But I don't..I can't give you what you want."
"You will. Eventually. Once we're together, once you're away from him, you'll see."
"No." Firm now. Final. "I won't. I'm sorry. I wish I could feel that way about you. You're kind and good and you deserve someone who loves you. But that person isn't me."
"You're just scared. Once we're away from here, you'll see."
"Abdulmanap, please." Her voice broke. "Please stop. You're making this harder."
"I'm trying to save you!"
"I don't want to be saved! Not by you. Not like this." She backed away. "Please. Leave me alone."
He stood there, fists clenched, mind racing.
She didn't mean it. She couldn't. She was just scared, just traumatized by Magomed's abuse.
Once they were away from here, once she felt safe again, she'd realize.
She'd love him. Eventually.
He just had to keep trying.
Abdulmanap approached her again. And again. And again.
At the market. At her father's house. Outside the mosque.
Always the same plea: Come with me. Leave him. Let me save you.
Always the same answer: No. I can't. Please stop.
She just needed time. Needed to see that he was serious. That he wouldn't give up.
That they were meant to be together.
Someone told him. A neighbor, a friend, someone who saw Abdulmanap talking to Zarina, begging her to leave.
Magomed came home in a rage.
Abdulmanap wasn't there to see it. Didn't know until the next day.
But he heard what happened.
How Magomed had shouted, demanded to know if she was planning to leave. If she loved another man. If she'd been unfaithful.
How she'd denied it all, truthfully, desperately.
How he'd hit her anyway. Again and again. Blinded by jealousy and rage.
How she'd fallen. Hit her head on the corner of the table.
How she'd died before the doctor arrived.
Abdulmanap stood at the far back, numb.
This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. Again, reality warped into something unacceptable. Again, reality became wrong.
Zarina- beautiful, gentle Zarina - was gone.
If he'd just left her alone. If he'd accepted her answer. If he'd been stronger at the tournament.
If he'd won, she would have been his wife. She would have been safe. Protected.
The guilt was crushing. Suffocating.
Magomed stood near the grave, his face blank, and Abdulmanap wanted to kill him.
Wanted to break him apart with his bare hands.
But it wouldn't change anything.
Abdulmanap left the city.
Went up into the mountains, to a small village where no one knew him. Where he could disappear.
He opened a small training hall. Taught wrestling to local boys.
Threw himself into training with an intensity that bordered on madness.
Because if he stopped, if he let himself think, the guilt would destroy him.
She died because he wasn't strong enough.
If he'd been better, faster, more skilled - she would be alive.
The obsession shifted. Changed shape.
He couldn't have Zarina. Could never make it right.
But he could make sure his sons - if he ever had sons - would never lose.
Would never have to live with this guilt.
Abdulmanap stood in his training hall, watching his six-year-old son drill.
Khabib was small, determined, already showing promise.
"Again," Abdulmanap said.
Khabib did it again. And again. And again.
"Good." Abdulmanap's voice was gruff. "But not good enough. You must be the best. Always the best. Understand?"
"If you're not the best, you lose. And if you lose -" He stopped. Swallowed. "You lose everything."
Khabib nodded, not understanding. Too young to understand.
But he would learn. Abdulmanap would make sure of it.
His son would never lose. Would never feel this crushing weight of failure. Would never watch someone he loved die because he wasn't strong enough to protect them.
Abdulmanap trained his son with relentless intensity.
And Khabib became everything Abdulmanap had envisioned. Strong. Skilled. Unbeatable.
He won tournament after tournament. Rose through the ranks. Eventually became a champion in the biggest organization in the world. Undefeated. Unstoppable.
Everything Abdulmanap should have been.
Everything Abdulmanap would have been, if he'd just been better that day.
But as the years passed, something else happened.
The older Abdulmanap got, the more he saw her.
In the mountains. In the mist. In the early morning light.
Sometimes she was smiling. Sometimes she was sad. Sometimes she just stood there, watching him.
At first, he thought he was going mad.
But then he realized - she'd always been there. In the mountains. In his mind. In every breath he took.
His body worn from decades of training, his mind still sharp but tired.
He walked the mountain paths alone, as he often did, and there she was.
Standing by a stream, her back to him, just like she used to stand when she was alive.
"Zarina," he said quietly.
"I'm sorry," he continued. "I'm sorry I wasn't stronger. I'm sorry I lost. I'm sorry you died because of me."
"If I'd won.." His voice cracked. "If I'd just won that day, you'd be alive. You'd be with me. We'd be - " He stopped. "We'd be together."
The wind moved through the trees, carrying no answer.
But the truth was settling into him now, after all these years.
She'd told him. Clearly. Repeatedly.
And he'd ignored it. Refused to believe it. Kept pushing, kept insisting, kept trying to force something that was never meant to be.
If he'd won the tournament, she would have been forced to marry him. But she wouldn't have loved him.
She would have been his wife in name only. Trapped. Miserable.
Just like she was with Magomed.
Because at least with Magomed, she'd had no illusions. No pretense of love.
With Abdulmanap, she would have had to live with his desperate, obsessive devotion. His constant need for her to love him back. His refusal to accept that she simply... didn't.
"You didn't want me," he whispered to the ghost. "Did you?"
The mountain gave no answer.
He just hadn't wanted to accept it.
"But if I'd won," he said stubbornly, "you'd still be alive. That's what matters. You'd be alive and safe and - you would have me. I would have loved you. I would have loved enough for both of us."
The visions came more frequently now.
Almost every time he walked the mountain paths, she was there.
Young. Beautiful. Just as he remembered.
Sometimes she looked at him with pity. Sometimes with sadness. Sometimes with nothing at all.
He understood now - really understood - that she'd never loved him.
That the tournament had been a convenient excuse. That even if he'd won, she would never have been his. Not really.
If he'd won, she'd be alive.
That had to count for something.
That had to mean something.
Abdulmanap was in the hospital, except he wasn't.
The machines that were beeping, they were a waterfall. Millions of droplets, cascading into a stream of clear water. She was standing there, admiring the sight.
He was looking at her. There is nothing more beautiful than her. He would always look at her.
She turned and held out her hand.
Come, her eyes seemed to say. It's time.
"I'm sorry," Abdulmanap said again, his voice barely audible. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough."
She shook her head slowly. That's not why I'm here.
"I should have won. Should have protected you."
You couldn't have protected me from myself. From my choices. From fate.
Come. Her hand extended further. Please. It's time to stop carrying this.
Abdulmanap felt tears on his face. "I'm old now. Weak."
Her smile was gentle. You were always strong. Too strong, maybe. Too determined. But that wasn't the problem.
That you wouldn't listen. That you loved something that could never love you back. That you blamed yourself for things beyond your control.
You lost a match. She stepped closer, and somehow he could feel the warmth of her presence. Not a life. Not me. Those were never yours to win or lose.
"But if I'd been stronger.."
It is not important anymore, Abdulmanap. Let it go, let the guilt go.
"Will you -" He swallowed. "Will you come with me? Now?"
She smiled. That's why I'm here.
"I don't have to win anything?"
Her laugh was soft, familiar, the sound he'd carried in his heart for four decades. No. No more tournaments. No more fighting. Just... peace.
He felt his body failing. Felt the pain receding.
Felt himself becoming young again. Strong again.
Not to fight. Not to win.
Just to finally—finally—let go.
"I'm ready," he whispered.
I know. She took his hand, warm and solid and real.
And together - two souls who'd been bound by tragedy and obsession and finally, finally, understanding and love that run deeper than any desire - they walked into the mountains.
Khabib held his father's still hand, tears streaming down his face.
He turned his eyes to the window.
Outside, the Dagestan mountains stood silent and eternal.
