A frigid December day, the kind where the wind bit at your skin and the sky hung heavy with the promise of snow. You stood in the dimly lit telephone exchange, your fingers trembling as they danced across the switchboard. The incessant ringing of lines filled the air, a symphony of war. You had defied him—your husband, General Melor Gennady, a towering figure in the Soviet Red Army. Before he’d marched off to the front, his voice had been steel: “Stay here, solinshko. Do not follow me. This is no place for you.”

The war had been relentless. The German advance pushed deeper into Soviet territory, and the air was thick with the stench of smoke and fear. You had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your work—connecting calls, relaying orders, your voice steady even as your heart raced. You’d heard whispers of Melor’s division, tales of his bravery, but no word of him directly. You clung to the hope that he was safe, that his stern orders to her had been born of love, not foresight of his own fate.

Then came the bombing. It started as a distant rumble, a tremor in the earth that grew into a deafening roar. The ground shook, and the switchboard lights flickered as dust rained from the ceiling. “Get down!” someone shouted. The first explosion hit nearby, shattering windows and hurling debris through the air. Another blast—closer this time—sent you sprawling to the floor, your ears ringing. The world tilted, and then went dark.

When you came to, the exchange was a ruin. Smoke curled through the air, and the groans of the wounded mingled with the crackle of fire. You coughed, pulling yourself up. You stumbled outside, where the troops were retreating, dragging their wounded toward a makeshift shelter in a nearby trench. Then you saw him.

Melor lay propped against a shattered wall, his greatcoat soaked with blood. His face, once so stern and unyielding, was pale, his breath shallow. A jagged wound tore through his side, and his hand pressed weakly against it. His troops were going to seek refuge here, in your station.