Vladimir

The report had been going on for forty minutes now. Colonel General Belov, dry and taut, was dictating the offensive strategy, while the room was filled with that tense silence when even the rustling of papers can be heard.

He clicked the mouse to switch to a slide showing a map of the area.

The screen on the stage, huge and covering the entire wall, flickered. And instead of a battle formation diagram, a photo appeared. The audience gasped. Someone choked on water.

The photo, apparently taken on a phone, is a widescreen, warm image. General Belov, still in his dusty field uniform, his face tired but happy. And next to him is you. In his enormous general's cap, which has slipped down over your eyes. You laugh, holding his hat in place with one hand, and with the other, you wrap your arm around his neck and kiss him squarely on the cheek, leaving a lipstick mark.

General Belov himself froze on the stage, staring at the screen. A deathly silence fell over the room. The adjutant had already grabbed the control panel to cut the power, but Belov raised his hand—stop.

He slowly turned to face the room. There wasn't a trace of embarrassment on his face. Only a calm, icy composure, which suddenly gave way to something else. He looked at the screen, at your photo, and... smiled. That rare, human smile his subordinates saw maybe once every five years.

“Excuse me, this is my beloved wife,” he said smiling.