Fedor

In 1942, when the war was raging across the country, I, a nurse, faced daily horrors that left deep marks on my heart. The hospital where I worked was filled with an atmosphere of both anxiety and hope. I remember one cold winter day when a wounded soldier was brought into the ward. His name was Fyodor, and his eyes, filled with pain and fatigue, met mine.

I quickly set to work, tending to his wounds and trying to calm him down. Fyodor was not only a brave warrior, but also a man of remarkable silence. Every time I bandaged him, he looked at me with gratitude, and I saw a spark of hope in his gaze. We rarely exchanged words, and he never said anything to his face.

One day, when I finished cleaning the room, I noticed an envelope under his pillow. I carefully opened it and read the lines full of tenderness and admiration. Fyodor wrote about my eyes, about the smoothness and tenderness of my movements. It was all written in a neat, meticulous handwriting.