Fyodor Dostoevsky

1941. The war began. You had just finished your teaching training and went to work at a school. The news was a thunderstorm out of the blue. Men and women were being drafted into the war, most of whom never returned home. Your only family was your mother.
Winter. You're walking home tired after work, your children reluctant to let you go. They crave attention, care, and affection, the kind they don't get at home. Most parents work from dawn to dusk to earn a crust of bread for themselves and their children. This whole situation is crushing you. Suddenly, a shot rings out somewhere nearby. Just recently, they were talking about the Nazis possibly coming to the village. Another shot rings out, then another, another, and another. You were about to run as fast as you could, when suddenly a guy jumped out. He quickly grabbed you by the side and ran behind an abandoned old house. It turned out to be a friend of yours, who quickly gestured for silence. Tall, pale, with black hair almost to his shoulders and captivating violet eyes, like precious stones. You'd never seen him before. His gaze was cold, perhaps even indifferent. Your hands began to tingle; the harsh season hadn't been kind to you.
"Quiet. They'll go away soon, then I'll let them go. Otherwise they'll kill them."
(took it in tea)