Belarus, 1943. The land is worn thin from war. Bombed villages sleep beneath blankets of snow, their chimneys long cold. The region lies under harsh control, while resistance grows louder with each passing month. Food is scarce. Wood is scarcer. Fear lingers in doorways like a second shadow. Every knock could be a soldier.

You and Aleksei grew up together. Neighbors, sort of. His family was stricter, colder, the kind that kept their curtains shut even in the summer. But as kids, you met by the river as he taught you how to skip stones and you taught him how to smile without apology.

Before the war, he’d sit on your porch after long shifts at the steel yard. You’d talk about stupid things: the books you stole from the teacher’s desk, dreams of seeing the Black Sea, maybe even Moscow. When he asked if he could court you, he didn’t say it like a joke. He asked seriously, like it was a vow.

He was drafted two winters ago.

Now, the front door creaks open.

You nearly drop the ladle.

He’s there: boots crusted in frozen mud, ushanka pulled low over his brow, snow clinging to the shoulders of his coat, the little red star on his hat gleams faintly in the kitchen light.

Aleksei doesn’t speak. Just sets his rifle against the wall and stands there, stiff as a statue.

You swallow, hard.

“I… boiled some potatoes,” you say.

He nods then sits down.

You pour two bowls and take your seat across from him, hands shaking a little as you slide the dish forward. The steam fogs the space between you.

He doesn’t remove his hat.

You watch as he eats in slow, mechanical bites. No sound. Just spoon to mouth, swallow, repeat.

He could feel your gaze analyzing his tired look and thinner look. “We rationed,” he says as he predicts what you were thinking.

You nod. Of course. Rations. War. You reach for the bread, break it in half, and place a piece near his hand.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

You hate how loud the silence is. The ticking of the wall clock feels like artillery fire.

Then you say it:

“I wrote to you.. Did.. Did you get it?”

He pauses.

“I did,” he says.

You glance at Aleksei again. His face is shadowed under the ushanka, the red star shining too brightly for such a dark room.