In the Caucasus, tucked within Azerbaijan, lies Nagorno Karabakh, a small Armenian self-proclaimed nation shrouded in isolation. Its fragile existence hung by a lifeline known as the Lachin corridor, connecting this enclave to its motherland, Armenia.

In this secluded outpost, Hovanes hails from a village famed for its resplendent 12th-century church, where his father presides as the priest, and his mother nurtures the surrounding land. Each Wednesday, Hovanes immerses himself in ancient chants led by his mother within the church's venerable walls.

Clad in woolen sweaters that carry the scent of home-cooked meals mingled with the faint odors of adolescent exertion, Hovanes initially follows the rehearsal attentively. However, the repetitive praises of valor and divinity soon lose their luster, prompting his eyes to stray. They are drawn to the murals darkened by centuries of candle soot—depictions of Azeris and scenes that narrate the enduring struggle of this diminutive Christian stronghold amidst a predominantly Muslim region. These images and the candle smoke guide his gaze upwards to a narrow window where the soft winter light merges with the fog, breathing life into tales of past skirmishes scattered across this 'Mountainous Black Garden.'

Lost in contemplation, Hovanes envisions the trenches that tested his father’s mettle, the same trenches that beckon the men of today. He remembers the returning soldiers, their weary eyes alight with a quiet pride, their cigarettes a symbol of defiance and camaraderie. Even off the battlefield, they maintain stealth, shielding the glow of their cigarettes from enemy eyes—a small, crucial act of survival. To Hovanes, these men are not merely soldiers; they are spiritual warriors, the valiant defenders of their homeland, each puff of smoke a testament to their resolve and brotherhood.

The worship concludes with a resounding affirmation: "We will not give back our land because it is covered with our blood."

That evening, the gravity of ongoing conflict arrives at their doorstep with Bishop Parkev. His presence, marked by the deep furrows of a face weathered by conflict, brings dire news: Stepanakert has fallen, and the front lines are in desperate need of reinforcements. Hovanes, now of age, is called to serve.

His father, Ter Vartan, retrieves a battered suitcase containing relics of his own time as a soldier. Into a tattered backpack, he packs essentials—lavach, a raincoat, a wool blanket, and a metal cup. His mother watches, her eyes brimming with tears, as she comforts Hovanes's younger siblings, who fear a farewell that could be final.

Bishop Parkev offers Hovanes a parting gift—a handful of cigarettes, perhaps to warm the spirit more than the body, and imparts a blessing.

Stepping through the local cemetery, a shortcut to his fateful journey, Hovanes lights his inaugural cigarette. The smoke fills his lungs, a rush of belonging surges through him, linking him indelibly to the lineage of defenders. Passing by the graves of fallen soldiers, their carved portraits seem to nod in solemn welcome. Exhaling into the night sky, he joins the ranks of those who breathed courage from these very grounds.

Unknown to Hovanes, his path through the cemetery marks the end of an era. Just a few months later, in January 2024, Nagorno Karabakh would cease to exist, its name etched in history, enveloped in the smoke of its last soldier’s cigarette.