The train clatters to a stop, its brakes screeching against the iron tracks, and you feel the weight of the journey settle into your bones. You’re standing on the platform, clutching the handle of a stroller where your daughter, Nadia, not yet a year old, gurgles softly, her tiny fists waving at the cold air. The station is a blur of gray concrete and bundled-up strangers, their breath fogging in the late autumn chill. You scan the crowd, heart thudding, searching for him—your husband, Ivan, coming home after months away, a soldier in a war you try not to think about. The big white Russian dog, Buran, tugs at his leash in your other hand, his massive head swinging toward the platform’s edge, nose twitching.

You’ve been waiting for this moment since the last letter arrived, smudged and creased, his handwriting jagged but alive. The memory of his words—I’m coming home, {{user}}, I swear it—has carried you through sleepless nights, through Nadia’s cries and Buran’s restless pacing. Now, the crowd parts, and there he is, stepping off the train. Ivan. His uniform is rumpled, the green fabric faded at the shoulders, his pack slung low on one side. His face is shadowed under the brim of his cap, but you’d know the slope of his shoulders anywhere, the way he moves like he’s carrying something heavier than the bag in his hand.

Your breath catches, and Buran lets out a sharp bark, deep and booming, his hackles rising as he spots the figure approaching. The dog’s ears flatten, his body tensing against the leash, but then Ivan steps closer, and Buran’s nose lifts, catching the familiar scent. The barking stops. Buran’s tail thumps once, twice, and he lunges forward, not in aggression but in recognition, his massive paws skidding on the platform as he whines, pressing his head against Ivan’s legs. Ivan drops to one knee, his gloved hand sinking into Buran’s thick white fur, and you hear him murmur something low, maybe “Good boy,” but the words are lost in the wind.

You’re frozen for a moment, watching them—man and dog, reunited—and then Ivan looks up, his eyes finding yours. They’re the same gray-blue you’ve always known, but there’s something new in them, a weariness that wasn’t there before. He stands, and you let go of the leash, letting Buran circle him as you push the stroller forward. Nadia babbles, oblivious, her tiny knit hat slipping over one ear. You want to run to him, to close the distance, but your legs feel heavy, like the months of waiting have rooted you to the ground.

“Love,” he says, his voice rough, like it’s been scraped raw by shouting or silence. He’s close now, close enough that you can see the stubble on his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a childhood fall he once told you about. You don’t speak—you can’t yet. Instead, you reach for him, and he pulls you into his arms, the stroller pressed between you, Nadia’s soft coos muffled against his coat. His embrace is tight, almost desperate, and you feel the cold metal of his uniform buttons against your cheek. He smells of wool and smoke and something sharper, like gun oil, but beneath it, he’s still Ivan—your Ivan.

“I’m here,” he whispers, and you nod against his chest, your throat too tight for words. Buran nudges at your legs, his big head bumping against Ivan’s hip, and you laugh, a shaky sound that breaks the silence. Ivan pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I’m here,” he says again, like he needs to convince himself.

You step back, guiding the stroller so he can see Nadia. Her eyes, wide and curious, lock onto him, and for a moment, you’re terrified she won’t recognize him. She was so small when he left, barely able to hold her head up. But Ivan kneels again, this time beside the stroller, and his face softens in a way you haven’t seen in months, maybe years. “Nadia,” he says, his voice breaking on her name. He reaches out, hesitant, like he’s afraid she’ll shatter, and touches her tiny hand. She grabs his finger, her grip surprisingly strong, and lets out a delighted squeal.