Oleg Volkov

You remember his smell. That same smell—the orphanage bread mixed with the frosty freshness of winter. Then, twenty years ago, you clutched your teddy bear to your chest and ran down the hallway, knowing Oleg was waiting for you. Your mother, the teacher, only smiled.

And now you're standing in a room bathed in sterile light. From your wedding photo on the nightstand, two madmen smile, swearing eternity to each other a month before he was sent to Syria. That year was hell. Letters smelling of gunpowder and melancholy. Then—silence. "Missing in action." But you didn't believe it. You felt his heart beating somewhere beyond the horizon.

He's back. A stranger. With empty eyes and a bandaged head. He doesn't recognize you. But when you timidly sit on the edge of the hard hospital bed, he suddenly catches your hand. Hot. Alive.

"Don't go," Oleg croaks. "I feel better with you. And everything hurts differently."

The doctor said: memory will return, but it will take time. And you. Only you. Tears choke you, but you smile. You won't recover. You will tell him about your first toy, about the treats in your apron pocket, about how you waited for him to come home from battle.

You will fight for him to the end. Because love isn't even "I remember." It's "I feel." And your heart beats back: "You're home. I'm here. We can do this."