The days after my release blurred into a monotonous haze of numbness and aimless wandering. Moscow,once a city of grandeur and culture, now seemed like
a labyrinth of despair.
The streets were flled with people carrying on as if their very existence was a burden too heavy to bear. Bombed-out buildings leaned precariously, their hollow shells echoing the lives they had once sheltered.
Every corner seemed to whisper stories of loss, of dreams snuffed out by the relentless machinery of war. I walked without purpose, my thoughts drifting darker with each step.
I saw hopeful faces, the kind that once might have inspired me-young couples huddling together, trying to find solace in each other's arms; a woman cradling her child, whispering lullabies that could barely drown out the sounds of distant gunfire. But hope was a dangerous thing. It had become a luxury few could afford, and those who dared to hold onto it were often the first to be crushed by the weight of reality.
I passed a group of men and women gathered in a small courtyard, a makeshift camp for refugees displaced by the endless fighting. They huddled around a flickering fire, sharing scraps of bread and strained smiles.
One man, younger than the rest, was speaking passionately, his voice rising above the crackling flames. I moved closer, catching fragments of his words."We have to keep going," he said, his eyes burning with defiance. "They can take our homes, our families, but they can't take our will to survive." His words, meant to inspire, only filled me with a bitter cynicism.I had heard such speeches before-on the battlefield, in the trenches, from commanders who sent us into the maw of death with promises of victory that never materialized.
Hope, in my experience, was a cruel trick, a hollow comfort that only delayed the inevitable, I watched as the small crowd nodded in agreement, clinging to his optimism as if it were a lifeline. But l knew better.
The world had no mercy for the hopeful, I turned away, feeling the crushing weight of my own helplessness. Every day was a battle just to keep moving, to find some reason to continue. I had tried to find purpose in writing, in documenting the truth, but even that felt like a lie now.
My words had changed nothing; the war raged on, indifferent to the stories l tried to tell. I was tired of fighting against the tide, tired of pretending that things could get better.
The thought crept into my mind slowly, almost as if it had always been there, waiting for the right moment. The thought of ending it all. The idea of letting go of the constant struggle, of silencing the noise in my head once and for all.
What was the point of living in a world so broken? The war had stripped me of everything-my ideals, my hope, my sense of self. There was nothing left to hold onto, nothing that made sense anymore.
I found myself standing on a bridge overlooking the Moscow River. The water below was dark and sluggish, reflecting the bleak sky above. I leaned against the railing, staring down at the cold, murky depths.
The river seemed to call to me, offering a quiet, final escape from the torment of existence.
The thought of slipping into the water, of letting it all fade away, was almost comforting. But as I stood there, lost in
the depths of my despair, a sound caught my attention.
It was faint at first, almost drowned out by the noise of the city-a melodic hum, a gentle song carried on the wind.
I turmed, following the sound to a
small, dilapidated church tucked away at the end of the street. It was a mirade that the building still stood; religion had been all but outlawed, its practitioners hunted down and punished.
Yet here, in the heart of a city that had forgotten God, a lone preacher stood before a handful of people, his voice rising in song. He was an older man, his face lined with the marks of age and hardship, but his eyes were bright and filled with an unmistakable joy.
He wore a simple black robe, frayed at the edges, and clutched a worn Bible to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Despite the ever-present
threat of persecution, he stood boldly, preaching to anyone who would listen, his words a stark defiance against the despair that hung overthe city.
I watched from a distance, unable to tear my eyes away. The preacher spoke of love,of hope, of a God who had not abandoned his people, even in their darkest hour. He smiled as he spoke, a warm, genuine smile that seemed completely out of place in this city of sorrow.
His congregation was small, just a few men and women, each wearing the same haunted expressions I had seen all over Moscow. Yet they listened intently, drawn to the preacher's words as if he were
offering a lifeline to their drowning souls.
"How can he be so happy?" I wondered aloud, my voice barely a whisper. In a world where everything was being torn apart, where even the smallest act of faith was
met with punishment, how could this man stand there, smiling as if he had not a care in the world?
The preacher's voice rose, filled with a fervent conviction that sent a chill down my spine. "God is not dead," he dedared, his voice cutting through the noise of the city like a bell." He is alive, and He is with us, even now. In our suffering, in our pain, He walks beside us."
I felt something stir within me, a flicker of
something I hadn't felt in a long time. Was it anger?Was it envy?Or was it…hope? I had spent so long convinced that faith was a lie, that the idea of a loving God was nothing more than a cruel joke. But here
was a man, smiling in the face of persecution, radiating a joy that seemed untouchable.
How could he believe so fiercely in a God that I had long since declared dead? l stepped closer, drawn to the preacher's unwavering confidence. He seemed to glow with an innerlight, a peace that l couldn't comprehend. I watched as he embraced his small congregation,offering words of comfort and encouragement.
It was as if nothing-no war, no threat, no suffering-could steal his joy. As the congregation dispersed, the preacher caught my gaze. He didn't speak but his eyes held a quiet invitation, a silent challenge to everything l had come to believe.
I turned away, feeling the weight of my despair but also something else, something unfamiliar and unsettling. Could he be right?Could God truly be alive, even in this ruined world? Or was he just another fool, dinging to a comforting lie? l walked away, my mind a tangled mess of questions and doubts.
I still felt the pull of the river, the allure of ending it all, but the preacher's words lingered like a stubbom ember refusing to die. I couldn't help but wonder, as I wandered back into the desolate streets: "Is God not dead?"