The scent of roses still lingered in the hallway, mingling with the faint traces of perfume and laughter from a night that felt like yesterday. Just seven days ago, the apartment was filled with music, clinking glasses, the rustle of silk, and warm blessings whispered into the ears of two souls ready to build a lifetime together.
Anya stood barefoot on the cool wooden floor, her fingers gently tracing the edges of her wedding veil as it hung beside the mirror. She hadn't moved it. She couldn't. As if shifting it would erase the memory of Aleksandr twirling her under the fairy lights, whispering, "My wife," like it was a word made only for her.
They had married in late autumn. The leaves were just beginning to fall like blessings from the trees. Anya was radiant in ivory, Aleksandr beaming in his crisp suit. Their families had cried, danced, and blessed them until midnight. They were the kind of couple people dreamed of becoming.
The night of the wedding, they had sat on the balcony, fingers interlocked, speaking of their future.
"We'll go to Crimea for our honeymoon," Aleksandr said, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. "Rent a tiny cabin by the sea. Just you, me, and the waves."
"No work, no phones, no clocks," Anya added.
"Only love."
She had kissed him, her heart full, never imagining the world could be any different than it was in that moment.
But it changed. Fast.
Three days later, war was declared.
The news hit like a punch. The Russian president had authorized military action against Ukraine, citing threats, security, land disputes. But to Anya, the words were just noise. All she saw was her husband going pale as the draft notice arrived.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no. You're not a soldier, Sasha. You teach music. You don't fight."
"I don't want to fight," he whispered back. "But I have to go. It's mandatory."
Her arms wrapped around him like roots around a tree. "We just got married. You promised me time. You said we'd see the sea."
"I still promise you," he said, his voice cracking. "I'll come back. I swear it, Anya."
The night before he left, they didn't sleep. They lay tangled in each other, breath and tears and silence their only language.
At dawn, as he packed his duffel, Anya watched from the doorway, clutching the mug he always used. Her brother Dmitri helped Aleksandr tighten his boots; Dmitri had also received the order. Anya's mother stood in the background, hands clasped, praying under her breath.
Aleksandr turned to her one last time before leaving.
"I'll call you. Every time I can."
"And write."
"And write."
"You come home, Aleksandr Ivanovich."
He smiled, a smile laced with fear and aching hope. "To you. Always to you."
The calls came at first.
The first week, he called every two days. His voice was tired but warm. He spoke of the cold, the bad food, the boys who didn't know how to load rifles. But mostly, he spoke of her.
"I play that little tune on my harmonica every night. Remember the one I wrote for our first anniversary of dating?"
"I do," Anya whispered, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "I sing it in my head to fall asleep."
Week two, the calls came less.
"They moved us," Aleksandr said. "Closer to the front. It's louder here. Sometimes I can't sleep."
"I want to send you something," she said. "A sweater. Or chocolates. Or your cologne."
"Send your prayers. That's lighter to carry."
Week three, there were no calls. Only a letter, handwritten, the ink smudged from travel.
My dearest Anya,
Forgive me for the silence. We're deeper in now. Days bleed together. But I close my eyes and think of you brushing your hair in front of the mirror, humming off-key. It makes the mud disappear for a moment.
Dmitri is brave. He watches my back. We talk about you often.
I still dream of Crimea. One day, my love. I promise.
And then, nothing.
For almost a month.
Anya called hotlines, asked neighbors, even contacted local officers. No one knew anything. Her in-laws avoided her gaze. Her own mother wept quietly at night.
She stared at the door, waiting for him to return. Every time the doorbell rang, her heart leapt like a prisoner reaching for freedom. Every time it was someone else, her soul cracked a little deeper.
One night, she screamed.
She smashed the wedding photo frame against the wall, the glass shattering like her hope. "Why?! Why him?! Why any of them?!"
Her father-in-law placed a trembling hand on her shoulder. "We were all promised peace. But promises mean nothing in politics."
Then, on a frost-covered afternoon, a car pulled into the driveway. Anya looked out, and her knees gave way.
Dmitri stepped out, limping heavily, leaning on a crutch. One leg was gone below the knee.
She ran out barefoot into the snow. "Dmitri!"
He collapsed into her arms. He was thinner, greyer, no longer the cheerful boy who made jokes during her wedding toast.
Behind him were two more soldiers from the village. All silent. All broken.
Dmitri handed her a folded letter, the edges stained dark.
"He saved me," he said. "A drone struck our post. He pushed me into the trench. Took the blast. We couldn't save him. We couldn't even carry him out. We buried him in the forest. I marked the spot."
Anya opened the letter with trembling fingers.
My love,
If you're reading this, then I failed my promise. I'm sorry. I tried. I wanted a thousand days with you, not these few stolen ones. But know this — you were my home.
I dreamed of you every night. I saw us old, laughing, arguing about curtains. I saw children. I saw the sea.
Forgive me for not coming back. But remember me in the waves. In the music. In the stars.
Yours, in this life and beyond,
Aleksandr.
She held the letter to her chest and let out a cry so raw it froze the wind.
She screamed until her voice broke, until snowflakes settled on her bare arms, until every memory of Aleksandr felt like it was cutting through her skin.
And then she looked up at the grey, merciless sky and yelled, voice shaking with fury:
"They said it was for the land — but what do I see? Empty chairs at dinner, folded flags on coffins, names carved into cold stone! Tell me — was any of this really worth it?!"
The sky, like the world, remained silent.
Only the wind answered, howling through the trees like a requiem for the promises that war always breaks.
The End