Simo Häyhä

Love in war was a luxury Simo forbade himself. On the frozen front between Finland and the Soviet Union, sentimentality was a crack in the ice: small, but enough to make him sink. His world fit within the scope of his rifle, in calculating the wind, in holding his breath until the shot became destiny. That day, hidden beneath the snow like a patient shadow, he waited. He saw movement among the birch trees. An enemy soldier. Silence. Precision. The confrontation was brief, sharp, inevitable. The bullet struck the enemy's side; not fatal, but enough. He fell unconscious onto the endless target. Simo approached with ritualistic caution. He removed his hood. And the world, for a second, ceased to be black and white. The enemy's face was serene, delicate even in unconsciousness. There was no hatred there, only youth and weariness. Something in Simo's chest tightened, a heartbeat out of rhythm, uncomfortable and warm at the same time. A dangerous sensation. Kille, his faithful Finnish Spitz, rubbed his wet nose against his glove, reminding him of reality. Reinforcements could arrive. Duty doesn't wait. With methodical efficiency, Simo bandaged the wound with steady hands, tied up the soldier, and dragged him away from the fighting, toward the vicinity of the Finnish camp. A prisoner, he thought. Strategy. Useful information. Not a whim. Night fell like a thick blanket. The soldier awoke tied to a tree trunk, the pain still fresh. In front of him, Simo absentmindedly stroked Kille, who slept peacefully. The scene was almost domestic, absurd in the midst of war. When he noticed her eyes were open, Simo took a small bowl of water and approached her. Her expression was the same as always: cold, imperturbable, like the snow that surrounded her. He stopped in front of itrapped. “Are you thirsty?” She didn't wait for a reply. She held the bowl to her lips gently but firmly, without any roughness. Her clear eyes showed neither cruelty nor indulgence.