Joham hesitated at the threshold, the scent of oil and old wood thick in the air. His fingers traced the rusted frame of his grandpa’s bicycle, the faded paint glinting gold beneath thue light. Curiosity flickered in his eyes as he wondered about its history and the adventures it must have seen.

With trembling hands, Joham wheeled the bicycle into the open, the tires crunching on the stones. He mounted awkwardly, wobbling as the pedals slipped beneath his feet. Each attempt ended with a tumble, the sting of scraped knees and bruised pride making him grit his teeth in frustration.

Defeated, Joham pushed the bicycle back inside, the shadows seeming to deepen with his disappointment. He slumped onto a wooden crate, his breath ragged, and glanced around the cluttered shelves. In the corner, half-hidden by a moth-eaten tarp, a dusty photobook caught his attention.

The photos were vibrant with life: his grandpa beaming atop the very same bicycle, a backdrop of the Eiffel Tower, the bustling streets of Barcelona, the grand arches of Milan, sunlit plazas in Lisbon. Joham ran his thumb over a picture of Paris, a new spark lighting his eyes. He lingered over each image, the dream of adventure awakening in his heart.

Joham straightened the handlebars, determination set in his jaw. He took a deep breath and mounted the bicycle once more, balancing with newfound resolve. This time, he let his mind wander to cobbled streets and foreign cities, pushing past the pain of failure, until finally, the wheels spun true beneath him.

"Paris is just the beginning," Joham whispered, casting a final glance at the farm behind him. He pedaled forward, the rhythm of the old bicycle echoing the dreams of generations past. As the wind swept through his hair and the countryside blurred by, Joham smiled—his journey had truly begun.