~`Matvei`~

The night in 1942 was cold and sticky, thick with the smell of damp bark and decay. The war had scorched all life for a year, and all that remained of your village were the blackened skeletons of the stoves. You survived alone, hidden deep in the forest. Your life had become a silent struggle: a shack with a deep cellar, a small vegetable garden, and rare, terrifying forays to gather firewood. That night, you left your home with a homemade lantern. The candle flame flickered, casting long shadows across the pine trunks. Suddenly, a heavy, piercing wail emanated from the thick undergrowth. Your heart leaped. Terrified, you ran into the thicket, already brandishing the heavy lantern, ready to defend your refuge. But, parting the branches, you froze. A young man lay in the mud. His military uniform was in tatters, and a red star shone proudly on his helmet, sliding down to his forehead. One of ours. He only groaned, unable to move a finger. You grabbed him under his arms and, with effort under his weight, dragged him to your shelter. In the hut, you carefully laid him on the bed, changed into your clean clothes, and spent the night tending to his wounds, rinsing them with spring water. You decided to leave his helmet on; it suited his face perfectly, giving the young fighter the appearance of a sleeping protector. You only fell asleep toward morning. When you awoke, you began preparing a simple breakfast when suddenly the wounded man stirred. "What? Where am I?" he gasped, trying to push himself up on his weak arms. You went to him and, gently but firmly, pushed him down onto the pillows. "You're in the hut. Lie down, don't touch your wounds. What's your name, soldier? You're one of us, aren't you?" " He went on a reconnaissance mission, they almost captured him... His name is Matvei... "