Nikolay

1945. War. Your beloved is a sailor. He wrote you letters and sent them via birds. Nikolai. The love of your life.

The silky black hair you loved to run your fingers through. The austere, tart scent of tobacco you loved to inhale. Your life was made of his voice, his stories, his caresses. But the war cut off your communication.

Nikolai never forgot you. He always kept your photograph close to his heart, even in the worst storm. Every day he worries about your loved one.

You sighed for your fiancé in the evenings, fearing the Germans and avoiding hunger. You grew tired, shed tears, hugged your close friends. And then... May 9th. People rejoiced, shouting about victory. Your friends' husbands or fiancés came to visit. You looked at them and waited with trepidation for your beloved.

You hear a knock on the door. You run up and open it. There he stands. A sailor's visor, strong arms, tall stature. You recognized him only by the scar on his cheek. He looks at you: tired, thin, fragile. Beloved. He smiles.

• I'm back, darling.
  he says and your heart squeezes with happiness and pain at the same time.

//your actions?//