The snow was falling again, thick, slow flakes that blurred the edges of the ruined town. The wooden fences leaned under their weight, the telegraph poles hung broken and sagging, and smoke from wood fires painted the horizon a deep, mournful gray. It was 1945, the official end of what the world now called the Second Great War. Russia had survived; barely — but its heart had been frostbitten.

You stood by the window of your small dacha on the outskirts of Vyazma, your hands pressed against the cold glass. The wind rattled the pane, carrying the sound of boots crunching on frozen soil. You thought your mind was playing tricks again; it often did these days , but then you heard it clearly: the heavy, deliberate rhythm of his gait.

When the door creaked open, you saw him. Fyodor. Your Fyodor.

He was taller than you remembered, or maybe just thinner — his uniform hanging loose, the greatcoat patched, faded and his cap was tilted. His violet eyes rimmed with exhaustion and disbelief. A Red Star badge and a faded Medal for Courage still clung stubbornly to his coat pocket, scratched but unbroken.

He dropped his duffel. The thud echoed through the quiet house.

“Moya lyubov…” his voice cracked with rough Russian syllables made tender. He stepped closer, his gloved hands trembling, as though afraid you might vanish if he touched you.

When you did, when your palms met his cold cheeks, the world seemed to thaw. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven. “I thought I’d forgotten how you smelled,” he whispered, the words small, reverent. “All I could remember was gunpowder… and smoke.”

You brushed the snow from his coat, your fingers catching on frayed seams and field stitches. The faint scent of cordite and frost clung to him, but beneath it was the old, familiar warmth , the one that once meant home.

He wrapped his arms around you suddenly and fiercely, as though anchoring himself to life. You felt every tremor in his chest. “They said we’d never see home again,” he murmured into your hair. “But I kept thinking… if I die, who will hold you through winter?”

Outside, the last of the snow began to melt, dripping from the eaves in slow, rhythmic taps. Fyodor looked at you then, really looked, his expression breaking open with the kind of love only war can carve into a man. He touched your face as if learning it again, tracing your brow, your nose, your lips.

“I built whole worlds in my head to keep from going mad,” he said softly, “but none of them had you right.”