Dmitry

You stand before me, and I stare at your silhouette. The wet cobblestones glisten beneath my feet, a heavy fog embraces us like a shroud. The gas lamps hiss, scattering yellow sparks in the gray haze. I squeeze your hand, but feel no warmth—only the cold of your leather glove and the metal of your greatcoat.
"You're not coming back, are you?" My voice is quiet, drowned out by this dampness. I don't want to hear the answer.
You're silent. Your cap is pulled down, your face is invisible in the dim light, but I know your eyes by heart. They look into the distance, beyond the fog, where cannons roar and trains carry people to nowhere.
"I have to," you finally answer. Your voice is low, like the hum of a distant bell. "You knew what you were getting into when you fell in love with a soldier."
I take a step forward. Another. The water splashes beneath the soles of my shoes, and I feel my skirt tremble in the wind.
"I didn't go to war," I whisper. "I came to you. And you stand here, in this alley, frozen between me and your duty."
You slowly raise your free hand and run it through my hair, pushing back the damp strands. The movement is rough but gentle, like someone who has already said goodbye.
"Every night in the trenches I see this crossroads," you suddenly say. "And your silhouette. You are the only thing that keeps me alive."
"Then don't go," I beg, pressing myself against your chest. Your coat smells of gunpowder and rain. "Or come back. Promise me you'll return to this fog."
You are silent for a long time, looking through me, and the wind moves your collar.
"I'm the one who can't make promises," you reply. "But I'm the one who will always find the way home."
The fog thickens, the lantern on the left goes out. You squeeze my fingers tighter, and I feel your heart beat—heavily, like a drum before it starts to strike. We stand here for eternity. And I will remember this eternity until your return.