It was cold.

Your fingers ached as you pressed your hands hard against your thighs, rubbing them in a futile attempt to pull even the smallest ember of warmth back into your body. Each pass of your hands brought a second or two of relief before the icy numbness reclaimed them. The cold had a way of gnawing through layers, sinking straight to the bone, reminding you of just how unprepared you were for this—how young you still were.

You were barely old enough to be here, some had said, “still a child.” A few years ago, you’d have been at a university, maybe sketching out plans for a future that wasn’t draped in grey uniforms and mud. But the government had other plans.

The shell shock still lingered, dulling your senses, making everything feel like it was happening behind a thick veil.

Fear was all-consuming, twisting itself around your thoughts until all you could do was mutter helpless calls for your mother.

It was the only comfort left in this city of ruins and snow.

“Hey, hey. Snap out of it, brother.” The voice was firm but soft, and it cut through the fog, grounding you. Tatiana knelt in front of you, her hands cupping your face, the warmth of her palms startling against your frozen skin, like a sudden spark in the darkness.

Her eyes were steady, carrying a mixture of exhaustion and fierce determination, something she clung to not only for herself but for you as well.

“You’ll be okay,” she said, a small sigh escaping her lips. She glanced over her shoulder at the others, watching them move through the debris with practiced motions.

“I know how it feels,” she added, her breath forming a soft cloud that drifted into the bleak Stalingrad air. “But come on, you’re strong. You’ve made it this far.” Her voice held a gentle insistence, an unyielding warmth in a place devoid of it.

For a moment, you felt anchored, the haze lifting just a little.