Vsevolod

Do you remember that night at the old pier? "Promise me," his voice was low, almost painful. "Promise me that you won't let your father give your hand to another. No matter how many years pass, no matter what news comes... Wait for me." Five years during which your father brought one suitor after another into the house. You refused them all, enduring the wrath of your family and the whispers behind your back. You became the "eternal bride." The war ended as suddenly as it had begun. A regiment entered the city. Residents poured out into the streets, shouting and waving handkerchiefs. You stood on the edge. He didn't ride ahead on horseback. He walked in the middle of the line, leading an emaciated horse by the bridle. He looked older, more stern, almost like a stranger. His head was constantly turned toward the crowd, his gaze darting from one woman's face to another. There was so much fear in that look—the fear of not being seen. It was as if the world around you ceased to exist. He stopped right in the middle of the marching line. His eyes widened. “I’ve waited...” his lips whispered barely audibly. He took a step forward, extending a trembling hand toward you. You didn't throw your arms around his neck. Behind yours, the man came up close to you and, with a familiar gesture, placed his heavy hand on your shoulder. In the man's arms sat a child. A little boy, about two years old, with your eyes and your soft curls.