On December 15 2003, Shkodra woke up by some news, not as extraordinary, which spread with an unusual speed. – Yesterday passed away that Genti from the Orphanage. – He was in pain for two days and completely alone in his room at the Palace of Sports. His friends found him in the last sighs, he was sent to the hospital but there he died. This news stunned Shkodra people more than any other news announcing killings or other tragic accidents. Everybody got to know it. After so many years of exhaustion, destruction and spiritual ruin, the population of the ‘used to be illuminated city’, of the city with a distinguished sense of humor, culture and tradition, was suddenly awaken by its distinguished humanism. The coffin of the orphan was surrounded by thousands of citizens in the main street of the city. With wiped eyes and devotion, everybody was honoring and accompanying his lifeless body to the last shelter. Everybody knew him. He used to talk to them, although completely ignored. He loved them, as if they were his own relatives. But now, when he is no longer with them, each citizen felt guilty about what they did not do for him, before passing away like that, from a horrible pain and disease that needed somebody’s care. The care that he never received in this life. In Shkodra he was called Genti of the Palace of Sports, because he lived in a small room in that building that his sports-palls had given it to him. Everything the room had was a closet and one bed. The slogans on the wall “Vllaznia Champion” demonstrated the spirit of a devoted fan of Shkodra. Although in very poor conditions, it was easy to see how organized and clean was the room where he lived. He never disturbed anybody about his problems. The carefully folded and ironed clothes showed that he could take care of himself. He was only 22 and his dreams pushed him to take better care of his life. But unfortunately, the ‘deceiving’ disease of appendix crises caught him at a moment when he was completely alone. The severe crises stopped him even from calling for help. One of the sportsmen, who had noticed his absence, found him only two days after. He was in his last sighs when he was taken to the hospital. The doctors did their best to save him, but he passed away. It was too late because his blood was poisoned, almost completely. Differently from his poor daily life, when he lacked everything, at his funeral, organized by his friends and the people of Shkodra, nothing was missing. Everybody wanted to get close and throw a handful of earth on his grave. A handful of earth and a sign of remorse. But he went away completely alone. May be, even in the most painful moments he didn’t want to disturb us.