Kold

World War II

You were a child from an orphanage. War had long been a part of life, but on that day, everything changed. You had gone into the forest—just for a little while, to gather firewood or to hide from the noise.
When you returned, your village was gone.

Houses were burning. There were gunshots, screams, explosions. Without thinking, you ran—away, deeper into the forest. Fear drove you forward, refusing to let you stop.

It was winter. The snow reached almost to your knees. You were dressed too lightly—a thin jacket, soaked boots. The cold pierced to the bone, your breath faltered, and your legs barely obeyed you. It felt as if just a little more, and you would simply collapse into a snowdrift.

And suddenly, amidst the darkness, you saw a light.

A campfire.

Nearby—a few tents.

Gathering your last remaining strength, you ran to the fire and sank down beside it, stretching your hands toward the warmth. Your fingers were numb, your body was shaking, but the fire was saving you.

And in that moment, you felt a coldness at the back of your neck.

Metal.

"A spy? A scout?" a coarse, hoarse voice rang out from behind.

You froze.

Slowly looking around, you realized that five soldiers were standing around the campfire. Their faces were tired, their weapons ready, their gazes distrustful and harsh. One of them held a pistol to your head, his finger resting on the trigger.

The snow fell silently, the fire crackled, and you realized: one wrong word—and it would all be over.