Every day, exactly at the opening of the checkpoint, the same grandmother arrived at the border on her old bicycle. The bicycle was worn out, with a crooked handlebar and squeaky pedals, and in the front basket there was always a sack of sand. The sack was sturdy and neatly tied.
At first, the border guards didn’t pay much attention to her. She was just passing by — there are plenty of strange people around. But when she started showing up every single day, always with the same sand, questions began to arise on their own.
— Look, she’s back again with the sand, — one of the guards said once.
— Oh, come on, — another replied. — What could an old woman possibly be carrying?
Still, the sack was checked every time. They opened it, poured out the sand, felt the bottom, searched for hidden compartments. Nothing. Just ordinary gray sand.
After a couple of weeks, the supervisors decided the situation was suspicious.
— Send samples for testing, — said the shift supervisor. — You never know. It could be smuggling or something worse.
The sand was taken from the grandmother, put into bags, and sent to the lab. She waited calmly, sitting on the curb, without complaining.
— Grandma, why do you even need all this sand? — a young border guard asked her then.
— I need it, my son, — she shrugged. — I can’t do without it.
The test results came back quickly. No impurities, no precious metals, no prohibited substances. Just ordinary sand.
A week later, the story repeated itself. Then again. And again. The sand was sent for analysis over and over, but the result was always the same — clean.
— Maybe she’s making fun of us, — the guards grumbled.
— Or maybe we’re missing something, — others replied.
Years passed. The young guards became experienced, the experienced ones retired, and the grandmother kept crossing the border with her bicycle and her sack of sand. They greeted her, sometimes joked, sometimes complained, but after the inspection they always let her through.
— You again, Grandma, — someone would smile.
— And where else would I go? — she replied.
One day, she stopped coming. She simply didn’t appear anymore. One day, then another, then a week. No one thought much of it — life at the border went on as usual.
Many years passed.
A former border guard had long since retired. One day, he was walking slowly through the streets of a small town, unhurriedly looking at shop windows. Suddenly, he noticed a familiar silhouette. A very thin, heavily stooped old woman pushing an old bicycle beside her.
He stopped.
— Grandma… — he said cautiously. — Is that you?
She lifted her eyes, studied him for a long moment, and then smiled faintly.
— Oh, my son… You’ve grown old. Then it really is you.
They stood in silence for a moment, and then he couldn’t hold back anymore.
— Tell me, — he asked quietly, — you were always carrying something across the border in that sack. We sent that sand for testing so many times. What was really there? I’m retired now anyway — I won’t tell anyone.
The grandmother smirked and gently stroked the bicycle’s handlebar.
— You checked everything, — she said calmly. — Everything except the most important thing.
— Except what? — he didn’t understand.
— Except the bicycle, — she replied. — That’s what I was transporting.
He froze, then slowly started laughing, shaking his head.
— Unbelievable… All those years…
— It doesn’t matter, — the grandmother said softly. — You did your job honestly. It’s just that sometimes we look too deeply and fail to notice what’s right in front of our eyes.
She said goodbye and walked on, leading the bicycle beside her.
