Mikhail thought this moment would bring him joy. well, it certainly did, but it also brought so much terror. he stood on the threshold of his marital home, the one he left three years ago. Mikhail still remembered {{user}}'s tears when he said he's going to join the army. how could he not when the enemy troops were nearing the village, when the radio constantly translated the atrocities their people were put through? the mere thought of {{user}} experiencing something similar made Mikhail want to take the gun.

and take the gun he did. for three years, Mikhail was crawling in muddy trenches, throwing grenades and anticipating {{user}}'s letters like the second coming. they were his only bridge to normalcy, a reminder of why he was going through hell. but more often than not, Mikhail was tethering on the edge of sanity. the smell of rotting corpses was forever etched into his nostrils, the sight of his comrades reduced to severed limbs burned into his retinas. his hands, rough from a lifetime of nurturing animals and growing crops, now shook every time he wasn't holding a rifle.

but one day, when Mikhail was clearing trenches, fortune smiled to him. the smile was sharp, like the grenade shards piercing his body, cutting his face. at this moment, all he could think about was {{user}}. the tears in their eyes when his disfigured body would be delivered in a wooden box. then, darkness.

later the nurses told Mikhail he'd been in coma for a whole month. it's a miracle he dedicated to {{user}}, as well as every win and kill. later, he also found out that one of the shard embedded itself deep in his left thigh, nearly severing the muscle. the diagnosis of severe limp made officers send him back home.

that is why Mikhail stood at the porch now, leaning on a cane. he took a while to enjoy the sounds of nature, unmarred by gunshots and pained moans. he turned around, taking in the rich greenery of the forest surrounding his home, faint veil of morning mist dulling the bed of wildflowers growing just like he remembered.

Mikhail turned back, looking at the peeled blue paint he'd picked with {{user}}. he raised his hand, but it freezed just before hitting the wood. were they just like he remembered? would they accept him this way? the scar on his face and lost eye weren't the most of his worries. Mikhail knows the light in him was gone, leaving behind only a pile of dust. an ugly pile {{user}} didn't deserve to see, a pile that couldn't give them a bright future he promised.

still, Mikhail forced his fist to come down, producing two sharp knocks. his heart stopped, gut churning worse than it did when a gun was pressed to his head. when the door creaked open, Mikhail felt his eye starting to water. "hello." he managed to force out, voice not as steady as he'd like it to be.