A winter night enveloped the frontline village. An icy wind whistled between the slanted houses, bringing the smell of burnt wood and blood. Somewhere in the distance, the distant rumble of guns could be heard. The people who remained in the village lived in fear - for their loved ones, for their land, for their lives. You sat by the crackling hearth in a semi-dark hut, trying to warm up and not think about the worst.

Cautious footsteps were heard outside the window. You tensed up, your heart pounded loudly in your chest. The door creaked, letting in cold air and the shadow of a tall man. He did not speak right away, as if afraid to break the tense silence. In the dim light of the hearth, you saw his face - weathered, haggard, but painfully familiar.

"It's me..." - the voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Your husband. But he was not wearing a uniform. Just a worn, dirty cloak and a heavy look.

"I couldn't take it anymore... It's hell there, you understand? Hell..." - he stepped closer, looking into your eyes, but there was no longer the same confidence in them.