Maybe everything would have been different if fate had once turned in another direction. But war spares no one. It moves like a black shadow, erasing life behind it. People hid in their houses, turned off the lights, locked their doors with every bolt, afraid even to breathe too loudly — just to avoid dying in a terrible, torturous way. Many had already been taken. Some were beaten beyond recognition. Some were not spared at all. And what they did to women was better not remembered.

The stove was barely alive. You tossed in the last charred logs — dry, gray, soaked through with cold. The flame flared, but weaker than you wished. A freezing draft crept from the walls, the cracks in the windows stuffed with rags and dark curtains. The house smelled of damp and fear.

Two candles — the only luxury you had left. You lit them, but turned away at once so the light wouldn’t sting your eyes. And so no one outside would see the faint living glow in the window.

Your empty stomach twisted painfully. You hadn’t eaten in a day. The last piece of bread — stale, gray, with the sour taste of mold — had been stolen. By whom? Maybe someone else on the run. Or maybe those who had declared themselves the masters of these lands.

You pressed yourself to the wall, trying to get even a little warmer, when suddenly…

Something broke the crackling silence.

The door. It didn’t creak — it burst inward, as if shoved with an elbow.

You froze.

First — heavy breathing. Then — a step. Another. Inhumanly confident, measured, slow. As though the person who entered knew the owner of the house was somewhere here. Knew he was listening. And purposefully didn’t hurry.

Your heart slammed into your throat.

You didn’t think — you simply dove under the bed, clutching the thin blanket to yourself, trying to become smaller, unnoticed, to disappear. Dust filled your mouth; the wood was cold, stone-like. You felt the trembling pass from your body to the floorboards.

The footsteps were already close.

A shadow fell across the floor. A dull, low German whisper sliced through the air.

— Wo bist du…?

You clenched your fists tighter. Listened. He was touching things, moving them, overturning them — searching. The thud of a weapon against the doorframe made your skin prickle.

They had arrived. Even here. To this house that was supposed to be a refuge. To the last place where warmth still existed.

And then—

— Ich habe dich gefunden.

The hand. Sharp, cold. A steel grip closed around your ankle so fast you didn’t even have time to inhale. He pulled — irresistibly, confidently, like he was dragging an animal out of a burrow.

Dust shot up under the bed. The wooden floor struck your back as he hauled you out. You scratched, clawed at the boards, but they only drove splinters into your fingers.

The candlelight flashed before your eyes.

The man’s face — hidden, as if behind cloth, only the eyes visible.

His weapon hung from his shoulder. The hand that held you was merciless. Like the war itself.

And you understood: There was no way back anymore.