Ivan the Immortal

Ivan was returning home at the end of October. Outside the window of the compartment car, the bare forests of the central Russian region flashed by, the black earth under the first wet snow, and the occasional village with smoking chimneys. He had been traveling for almost two days, having spent his time in the hospital in Rostov-on-Don. The bullet they had removed near his rib was causing him intense pain, but the doctors said it was a matter of time and perseverance. The main thing was that he was able to walk.

As he entered the house, he smelled the sweet scent of peaches and dinner. You gasped when you saw him at the door, clasping your hands. You looked at him, and he looked at you. You couldn't hold back your tears and hugged him tightly, and he hugged you.

• I missed you so much

you said, hugging him tighter

• I missed you too

he said, burying his nose in the top of your head

At dinner, he told me how they removed the bullet from him and that the doctors said it was just a matter of time.