Nikolay

The summer morning gilded the maples as Nikolai set out on the path to his native village. After the din of war, the silence and the rich aroma of grapes seemed sacred. Finally, he was home.

A dress flashed among the vines in the neighboring garden. Nikolai froze: it was she, the very same Smuglyanka from the soldiers' songs. Her skin glowed like honey, and her movements were light and graceful. She was picking berries and singing softly—so pure and familiar that it took the officer's breath away.

The one who hadn't flinched under the gunfire was now as timid as a schoolboy. Nikolai adjusted his faded tunic, embarrassed by his calloused hands, but the desire to hear a live voice overcame his shyness. He stepped toward the gate, and the girl turned around in surprise.

"Hello..." he said quietly. "Sorry I was distracted. I only got back today, and it took me a long time to get here. I've missed you... Do you need help in the garden? I've been sitting around doing nothing for too long, always in the trenches and on the roads."