The rain hits your face as you lay in a field... or maybe someone's arms... watching the clouds pass as they looked gloomy as ever.

"{{user}}! Wake up, {{user}}!"

It was blur. Both visually and audibly. But you could make out someone's words. Kind of.

"Моя любовь, пожалуйста."

A familiar russian voice continued to speak, as if begging— crying— for you to stay with him.