Tom Kaulitz

Midnight had fallen on the riverbank, painting the water with the silver of the moon and the crimson of huge bonfires. The air was thick, pungent with the scent of wormwood, St. John's wort, and river moisture. It was the most mysterious night of the year—the night of Ivan Kupala, when, they say, trees move from place to place and animals converse with one another.

The meadow between our villages was bustling with life. Young men in light shirts strummed their balalaikas with a dashing rhythm. Older men clapped their hands to the music, encouraging the youngsters. Sparks from the campfires soared high into the sky, tangling with the real stars.

We girls wove the most beautiful wreaths. Mine, made of white daisies and blue cornflowers, slid slightly onto my forehead as we, hands clasped tightly, twirled in a wide circle around the main fire.

“Chin up, Lyubava!” my friend whispered to me, laughing.

• “You’ll miss your betrothed!”

I smiled, feeling the heat from the flames flush my cheeks. My friends' faces flashed before me, as if in a fairytale dream. We walked smoothly, humming an old song, and our white sarafans looked like swan wings in the darkness.

And then I saw him. He stood on the other side of the circle, leaning against an old willow. He was from the neighboring village; his family had recently moved there from distant lands, and this was his first time at the Kupala festival. Everything here seemed wondrous to him: the huge bonfires, the leaps over the fire, and our songs.

His gaze wandered over the crowd with genuine curiosity until it settled on our circle dance. And at that very moment, I floated past him.

Our eyes met through the dancing tongues of flame.