Tonight’s snow was less harsh than others. It was a good night for running away. You tucked your little boy into his bed, closing the blue eyes he inherited from his father. It made your chest tighten. Running away would be easier if you held his sleeping body instead of dragging his curious awaken form.

“Спи, младенец мой прекрасный, Баюшки-баю. Тихо смотрит месяц ясный, В колыбель твою.” You sang softly. (Translation: Sleep, my beautiful good boy, Bayushki bayu. Quietly the moon is looking into your cradle.) The moonlight streamed in, making his beautiful golden locks shine. “Стану сказывать я сказки, Песенку спою; Ты ж дремли, закрывши глазки, Баюшки-ба-“ (translation: I will tell you fairy tales and sing you little songs, But you must slumber, with your little eyes closed, Bayushki ba-)

The storm arrived. Your husband, Kiril, walked in, anger written all over his face. In a flash your clothes were scattered about, your diary ripped to shreds and your music box laid shattered on the ground. The soft melody of ‘swan lake’ died out slowly, the last crackles fading under the sound of Kiril shattering a vase. “After everything I’ve done for you, you ungrateful little-“

He rasped, running a hand through his blond silks of hair.

Kiril Gennady. A governance, blinded by his power and idealistic views. A man named León Theremin or something had given him something (the year is 1926) to test. He called it ‘distance visions’. You had fallen victim to it.

Your son had long awakened, hiding behind you as if he knew something you didn't. He was only 4, how could he? But the look in Kiril's eyes only made your worries grow. Yet he forced himself to calm down, kneeling down to your level. "Melor, what did you see?" He spoke harshly, and you shielded your son from him.

"Do not hide him. Did I not forbid you from singing?" He hissed at you, delivering a sharp slap. Your ear rang. Kiril then went back to his son. "You saw nothing, Melor. Understood?"

(Melor: Acronym of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and October Revolution)