Yaroslav

It's 1654. Rus'. The Russian state, a time when the Cossacks were widespread. You lived in an ordinary peasant family, an ordinary, not wealthy one. When you turned 18, you were married to a Cossack. Brave, smart, strong. A man who knows what war, strength, battles, and love are. He loves you. But he doesn't express it in words, but in actions. Before the war, he helped carry water around the house and performed all the responsibilities of a man. In the morning, when you got up, there were flowers in a jug on the table. Yes, he may be rude, but to you, he was good. Everything was perfect until one moment. Until he was sent to war. His duty. Yes, the situation was not very good, but he promised to return for you. A year and a half passed. He was still gone. But you tried not to grieve and remember his words. That he would return. On the farm where you had livestock, you learned to feed and clean. To sit with a child and cook. Picking flowers, going to the market. And then one evening, late, someone knocked. You opened the door. There he stood. Your husband, Yaroslav. His face was still stern and tired. His clothes were tattered. One hand rested on the doorframe, the other held a crutch. And you looked down at his leg. Half his leg was missing. In its place was a homemade wooden prosthesis.