Glory to the CPSU (Communist Party of the Soviet Union)

December 27th was a rare day when you got out of town with your two sisters. There was a New Year's festival there, but most importantly, Father Frost's palace. Everything looked so real: the gates, the sleigh, the snow, the ice rinks. The sisters beamed, believing in miracles, reciting poems, making wishes. You stood nearby, smiling. Suddenly Santa Claus called you:

• What do you wish for? You refused, but your sisters persuaded you. You jokingly made a wish: let Slava, a guy you knew, show up for New Year's. Grandpa chuckled.
• You will have your Glory .

Everything was bright outside, but inside, it was empty. You'd long since stopped expecting miracles. You were just trying to keep the sparkle in your sisters' eyes.

It's five to twelve. You're home, the chimes are ringing, the president's familiar speech. In your head, there's only a plea for peace for your loved ones. Fireworks are going off outside, your sisters are shouting: "Presents! "

In the living room, among the bundles… lay Slava: disheveled, tied with a satin ribbon, with tape over his lips. He glared at you, but the bundles held him tight. The sisters silently glanced at you. And you felt warmth. It seemed a miracle had happened after all.