The heavy boots of Damian Lantsov struck the ground with a familiar weight as he stepped off the train. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth, a stark contrast to the burning fields and gunpowder that had clung to him for months. His uniform, though neatly kept, bore the silent marks of war—faint scratches on the fabric, a few stains that time would never erase.

He exhaled deeply, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. The station was nearly empty, save for a few scattered travelers and the distant whistle of the departing train. But none of it mattered—his eyes were searching for only one thing.

And then, he saw her.

Standing just beyond the platform, she was exactly as he had remembered, yet somehow different. Time had not been unkind to her, but there was something in her eyes—something fragile, something weary. It was the same look he had seen in the mirror far too many times.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world around them faded, the sounds of the city distant and unimportant. It had been so long. Too long.

Then, with slow, cautious steps, Damian closed the distance between them. His voice, rough from months of shouting orders and breathing in smoke, finally broke the silence.

"I'm home."