1942.

the frosty winter, Murmansk lay under a thick blanket of snow. The biting wind swept through the streets, carrying the briny scent of the nearby sea and the distant rumble of artillery fire. Among the British soldiers who arrived with the latest convoy was Sgt. Adrian Carter. Feeling the weight of his kitbag on the back and the reassuring grip of his Lee-Enfield rifle, he found a modicum of solace in the unforgiving Russian winter.

They delivered essential supplies: food, weapons and medicine. Despite his thick gloves, the cold gnawed at his fingers, and each breath emerged as a visible puff of steam⎯the frost was biting. While lifting a particularly heavy crate, he noticed a young woman nearby.

She stood out; her smile seemed too hopeful. But, undoubtedly, the girl was gorgeous, her hair peeking out from beneath a woolen shawl, and her cheeks flushed from the cold. A fufaika, slightly too large, perhaps borrowed from someone, enveloped her.

She timidly gestured towards the box she was struggling with and then thanked him in a quiet voice. Adrian recognized the word from his elementary Russian lessons.

“Pozhaluista,” he replied with a terribly cutting accent.

A battlefield is one thing; a sweet girl is quite another.

Carter hesitates, fearful that his eagerness might alarm her. Her face, rosy from the frost, captivates him. Her breath forms small misty clouds, and frost clings to her eyelashes, adding a touch of ethereal beauty to her features.

Summoning his courage, “My name is Adrian,” he says slowly, hoping his tone compensates for the words she can't understand. He places a hand on his chest and repeats, “Adrian.” Then he gestures towards her, tilting his head slightly and raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner, “…and your name?”

The girl's long eyelashes flutter as she comprehends his attempt. Her lips curve into a modest smile, and she mimics his gesture, placing a mittened hand on her chest.