Late April. War arrived in the village—a couple of dusty trucks and a call to mobilize. It burst in at the height of spring, when the Don, wide and full-flowing, had just melted from the ice, and the first dandelions bloomed in the meadows beneath a steep ravine, golden against the green.

A way of life built on sowing and Sabantuy, on respect for elders and youth, collapsed in a single day. The Cossacks, whose grandfathers had fought for the tsar and the freemen, were now receiving uniforms and rifles under the scarlet flag. They were to defend the same land, the same Don, from a new, unprecedented enemy, advancing from the west like a steel shield.

John Price was one of them. A young Cossack, a peasant by birth, he had grown up in the saddle, saber in hand. Strong and commanding, with a quiet gaze and a stubborn chin. He dreamed of a peaceful life, of his own land, of a family. But when disaster struck, he was one of the first to go to the front. He left with faith in a just cause and a longing for home in his heart. But he was not alone.

His brother, Alexei, walked beside him. Two years younger, more impetuous and hot-tempered, but with a soul. They herded horses together, played pranks together as children, and fell in love with the same girl – Aksinya. Only Ivan noticed nothing, and Alex remained silent, knowing whose heart she had chosen.

Aksinya. Their best friend, who had grown up with them. She remained in their native kuren with Ivan and Alex's mother, Marfa. She accompanied them to the square where the new recruits were lined up. She didn't sob out loud; she simply looked at Ivan with such a gaze that he felt its heat through the crowd and the distance. The tears she brushed away were only for him. And the prayer she whispered, watching them go: "Come back. Both of you. Alive."

But war doesn't listen to prayers.

First came Alex's funeral notice. A short, official note: "...died a hero's death." John read it in the trench, clutching the letter in his hands. He didn't cry. He only grew even more stern. Now he fought for both of them.

Then came the news of the village's capture. Occupation. The letters from his mother and Aksinya ceased. We heard only vague, fragmentary rumors: "hunger," "the Gestapo," "we're being taken to Germany."

Marfa, his mother, couldn't survive the loss of her son. She died of typhus, leaving Aksinya alone in the captured house, surrounded by strange, embittered faces. The girl found herself in hell. Her youth and beauty became a curse. Slavery, humiliation, constant fear—that was her fate. She lived as if frozen in ice, clinging to one thought, one name—John. It was her only hope.

But John didn't give up. He defended his homeland. He advanced, lost comrades, froze in the ruins of Stalingrad, and burned in a tank near Kursk. He marched west, and with every kilometer, the wound in his heart, left by his brother's death and the uncertainty of home, bled more and more.

The war was over. Not the thunder of victory in his soul, but a deafening, leaden silence. He had returned. Not a hero with medals on his chest, but a tired, gray-haired thirty-year-old man, whose eyes reflected the entire war.

The village was almost unrecognizable. People's eyes dimmed. He walked along the familiar, ruined street, his feet carrying him home.

The house stood, its windows broken, but it stood. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open.

In the living room, on a bench by the empty table, sat a woman. Thin, almost translucent, in a faded, patched dress. She sat, hugging her knees, crying quietly. Her shoulders trembled. She didn't hear the door creak, didn't see the tall, thin figure in a tattered coat appear in the doorway.

It was Aksinya. His Aksinya. But not the rosy-cheeked, booming Aksinya, but a broken, exhausted one. Her sobs weren't just sadness—they carried all the pain of captivity, humiliation, all the force of despair.

"Aksyusha..." he croaked hoarsely.