On Saturday evening Bekzod stood in the kitchen door and said six words: "I have lost Grandfather's watch."
The kitchen went quiet. That watch is silver, older than the house, and there is a name engraved inside the back: his grandfather's father.
His mother asked the only useful question. "When did you lose it?"
"I took it off at the riverbank on Tuesday," Bekzod said. "The strap is loose. I put it in my shoe and then we played football."
So on Sunday four people searched the riverbank. They found a spoon, a bicycle bell and half a kite. No watch.
Bekzod didn't sleep that night. He was ashamed in a way that has no words: his grandfather gave him that watch in May and showed him how to wind it, slowly, every morning.
On Monday his little sister came home from her music lesson and heard the story from the door.
"Oh," she said. "I have put it in the second drawer. For safety."
She found it in his shoe on Tuesday evening, and she carried it to the drawer with two hands.
It has stopped, of course. Nobody wound it for six days.
Bekzod has worn it every day since that Monday, and he hasn't taken it off once — not at the river, not for football, not in his shoe.