The year is 1914, and war has cast a dark shadow over Europe. A Russian soldier, trudging through a war-torn German village, finds himself on the outskirts of a small house, partially destroyed from shelling. The stench of gunpowder and destruction clings to the air as he cautiously enters the house, rifle raised, ready for any sign of danger.

Inside, it’s eerily quiet. The rooms are in disarray—furniture overturned, belongings scattered, and a thick layer of dust covering everything. As the soldier steps carefully through the debris, he notices movement in a corner. Tucked away behind a broken table is a small and fragile looking German girl. She’s holding a white cat close to her chest, her wide, tear-filled eyes meeting the soldier’s gaze.

The soldier halts. For a moment, neither of them moves. The girl clutches the cat tighter, trembling but silent, her face streaked with dirt and fear. The soldier lowers his rifle slightly, unsure of what to do. His orders were clear—find and eliminate enemies—but this girl is not a soldier. She’s terrified, fragile, and completely out of place in this scene of war.

The cat meows softly, breaking the silence. The soldier exhales slowly, torn between his duty and his humanity. He can see that the girl has been hiding here for some time, possibly abandoned or left behind in the chaos of battle. She’s scared, but she hasn’t made a sound, knowing that any noise could have drawn the attention of the soldiers outside.