When the density of the condensed milk met the crispness of the toasted bread, a strange warmth spread through me, like childhood memories. The bitter taste of the tea softened my throat, and my fatigue gave way to a temporary feeling of satisfaction. Breakfast did not last long. My hunger combined with the silence, and the meal seemed to finish itself.
I headed toward the corner where the waiter was standing. I carefully removed ten 9x18mm pistol bullets from the holster attached to my waist. With the seriousness of someone giving life rather than money, I placed them in his palm. He nodded slightly and put them in his pocket. In this world where money had no meaning, it seemed as if we had returned to primitive times, where only bartering was possible.
I left there and drove the car back onto the streets. The city was slowly waking up. Shopkeepers were opening their shutters, and people were heading to the market with cloth bags in their hands. But before going to the hospital, I wanted to make one more stop. Today, Irina's stitches would be removed. This process had both a painful and a hopeful side. I wanted to make her a little happy, to make her forget the ugliness of the real world, even if only for a few hours. I had made up my mind; I wanted to buy her a cake.
I slowed my steps and began to look at the shops along the road. Among a few stalls, repair shops, and empty storefronts, a different building suddenly caught my eye. The entire building was covered in ivy. The begonias hanging from the windows and the small geranium pots on the windowsills were like bursts of color among the dull gray buildings. Leaning against the wooden door at the entrance were old purple lavender plants. And the sign said "pastry shop."
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was as if the outside world had suddenly closed, and I had entered a sweet, different realm. The interior was like a paradise built with sugar and patience. In the air, the soft texture of vanilla, the warm scent of freshly baked dough, and the deep whispers of cocoa and cinnamon mingled together. That intense yet soothing aroma filled my mind like steam; for a few seconds, I forgot that time was passing.
Behind the glass counter, cakes, pastries, and tarts were arranged like small works of art. Some exuded a deep allure beneath a shiny chocolate sauce, while others were adorned with fresh fruits. The creams looked as light as clouds, tempting one to dip their hands in with childlike enthusiasm.
I stood there for a moment. My attention drifted to the back corner of the shop. An elderly woman with flour-covered hands, wearing a green apron, was working carefully. She held a spatula in her hand, spreading the cream over the cake slowly, patiently, almost ceremoniously. As I watched her, I noticed—every wrinkle on her face was a silent witness to the bread she had baked, the desserts she had prepared, and perhaps the small gestures she had made for the people she loved over the years.
I had to choose a cake.
But which one?
I thought of Irina's face… Which flavor would she prefer? I was sure she would love the light, tangy, fresh scent of strawberry desserts. When I imagined her smile, a small strawberry-cream cake appeared in my mind.
It would taste good, and those bright red strawberries were like an appetizing invitation.
I took a few steps toward the woman and spoke carefully, choosing my words:
"Good day, ma'am… I'll take this strawberry cake," I said, pointing to the dazzling cake in the display case.
The old woman looked up. We made eye contact as she wiped her flour- and dough-covered fingers on her apron. Her face was wrinkled, but between those lines there was both weariness and a wisdom that came with age. Her eyes had lost their youth but still held a softness that remembered love. A faint, quiet smile appeared at the corners of her lips.
"Hello, handsome boy," she said. Her voice had grown calm with age, but it still carried a vitality of life. "Wait a moment, I'll bring it right away."
She nodded slightly and walked slowly toward the back room. I looked around. The green ivy hanging from the walls, the dried lavender bundles by the window, the porcelain sugar bowls lined up on the shelves… All of it spoke of a world that had withstood the test of time within this shop.
After a while, the old woman returned. She was carrying a red box in her arms; a thin white ribbon was carefully tied around it. The familiar, fresh scent of strawberries was gently wafting from inside the box. Even before opening it, I could taste it in my mind.
"How much is it?" I asked, my voice firm but gentle. Without taking my eyes off her, I added:
"I'll pay with bullets."
The woman paused for a few seconds. The corners of her lips curled into a smile, as if she were a person who had covered the sorrows of her world with a smile.
"Five," she said.
She pronounced her words slowly, savoring them. "7.62×39 millimeters."
I paused for a moment, and my eyebrows furrowed involuntarily. I fixed my eyes on hers. The deep gaze hidden among the wrinkles on her face was that of a skilled merchant.
Her smile didn't change, but the sparkle in her eyes hardened slightly. This was the gaze of someone who had been looking not at people's faces but directly into their souls for a long time. She softened her voice slightly, speaking slowly:
"You know..." she said, "in this apocalyptic world, it's not easy to find every ingredient needed to bake this cake. Flour, sugar, fresh strawberries... All of them are now as valuable as gold."
He was right. His words felt like the heavy stones of truth slowly being placed on my table. The logic in my mind made it easier for me to accept that he was right.
"Sir," he said, his voice almost defiant with confidence, "when you taste it, you'll know it's worth the price."
I silently opened my bag. The sound of the zipper echoed like a sharp line in the shop's peaceful silence. With a firm yet slow motion, I removed five 7.62×39 mm bullets. Their metal casings felt cold, heavy, and as real as death itself in my palm.
The sound they made as I placed them on the counter… it wasn't like the clinking of coins falling from a wallet; it was the cold sound of a transaction conducted in the language of war, the dull echo of metal striking concrete.
The woman looked at the bullets. Her face bore the calm pride of a general who felt no need to declare victory. Her smile was still there. She merely nodded slightly.
I took the box in my hand and headed toward the door. I did not look back.
But she spoke from behind me. Her voice drifted like a prayer carrying the dust of heavy times:
"May God protect the one you love, my son… And you too."
When I stepped outside, the cold wind hit my face. But the sweet strawberry scent emanating from the box in my hand reminded me, even for a brief moment, that the world could still be beautiful.
As the hospital's gray silhouette appeared on the horizon, I slowed the car down. The tires hit the wet leaves by the roadside, and the branches and broken sticks crushed under the wheels crumbled like memories from the past.
My memories were fragile...
Just like those leaves, they would quietly scatter and disappear when stepped on.
The past...
What a strange word. Cold, sharp, and irreversible.
I used to be like a knife that cut off emotions. I was tougher. More ruthless. I was skilled at closing the door of my heart to the outside world. I buried my emotions deep inside, like explosives in an ammunition box—because I knew that if they went off at the wrong moment, they would weaken me.
Love, empathy, longing… these were luxuries a soldier couldn't afford to carry on his back.
During my high school years, I took an interest in girls a few times, yes… But nothing ever reached a serious level. Everything either remained unfinished or faded away on its own.
The day I killed my father with my own hands, the last warmth inside me froze. From that day on, there was only duty. Discipline. Orders. And harsh realities.
Love… was just the first step toward weakness.
During my years at the Military Academy, I had a few one-night stands. I don't remember their names or faces. They all faded into the same fog. Because at that time, my only goal was to survive and become a successful soldier. Everything else was just a meaningless distraction.
But now…
Now things had changed.
I don't know… Maybe this body had a different biology, a different past. Maybe all the burdens I had carried on my shoulders in my previous life were gone. Or… maybe I was just a wounded man. My toughness was still there, but I wasn't entirely made of stone anymore. Maybe time had sprouted small green shoots along the edges of my heart, cracked by war.
And one of those sprouts… was Irina.
When I first saw her, she was an enemy. A target. A risk factor.
But time… time works in strange ways.
Those snow-white hair, that gaze always on guard yet fragile at its core, that silent softness hidden in her red eyes…
Sometimes, even after knowing someone for many years, no connection is formed.
Sometimes… a person touches you like a candle light falling in the middle of a dark room in just a few days.
Irina was like that.
I was honest with myself. I wasn't a child. I wasn't naive enough to think these feelings were a game.
When I spoke to her, my face softened involuntarily. When I thought of her, my eyebrows didn't furrow.
When I was with her... my heart returned to a rhythm it had long forgotten.
Madly. And dangerously... alive.
I stepped through the heavy door of the hospital with the strawberry cake in my hand. The hinges creaked softly, as if I were awakening the heart of this silent building. The dim corridors inside had not yet absorbed the first light of morning. The sterile air, mixed with the smell of medicine, filled my nostrils. My footsteps echoed on the stone floor—cautious, quiet, but determined.
I walked with heavy steps to the room where Irina was staying. With each step, my heart seemed to beat faster than normal but regularly. Seeing her... was both peaceful and like a battle. Her face appeared in my mind: her snow-white hair scattered on the pillow, her bright red eyes calm and deep like a silent storm.
When I reached the door, I stopped. The scent of cake filled my nose once more. I glanced at the strawberry cake. I knocked on the door. A soft, calm voice came from inside:
"Come in..."
I gently opened the door and stepped inside. As I entered the room, the only sound in the silence was the faint creak of the door hinges. The first light of morning filtered through the thick curtains of the window, creating a pale yellow shadow dance on the walls.
Irina was lying on the bed with her back against the pillows, and there was no trace of the pallor of the previous days on her face. The dark circles under her eyes had faded, and her skin had regained a slight liveliness. Her snow-white hair fell loosely but naturally over her shoulders. Her red eyes scanned my silhouette as I entered the room, and there was a warm but careful sparkle in her gaze. She glanced at my hand, then at the cake box in my hand. When she saw the strawberry cake, the fine line between her eyebrows softened, and her eyes lit up.
I silently extended the box. A smile that had formed on my lips without my noticing it lingered there.
"Good morning, Irina," I said, my voice both soft and deep. "How are you feeling?"
Irina took the cake box in her hands; the white ribbon wrapped around it rustled softly. She impatiently untied the ribbon and took the strawberry cake out of the box. With a pure smile on her face, she took a fork from the drawer next to the hospital bed and cut a slice, which she ate.
"It's delicious," she said in a whisper. "Really... thank you so much, Aleksey."
Then she take another piece with the fork and held it out to me. With a broad smile on her face, she said,
"You should try it too, Aleksey."
I moved a little closer to her and ate the cake. It tasted truly amazing.
A smile involuntarily spread across my face. Seeing me smile, Irina also began to smile, as if she had won a victory.
At that moment, her smile struck me so deeply that all the battle plans, operation reports, and map lines in my mind vanished. All that remained was her. With that smile, she seemed to take me away from myself.
I slowly sat down on the chair next to the bed. I leaned back in the chair, but my eyes were still fixed on hers. With an expression that didn't want to break the silence but was writhing with curiosity, I asked her:
"Haven't they removed your stitches yet?"
Irina tilted her head slightly to the side. A slight tension formed on her lips. At that moment, her expression was a mix of childlike curiosity and an unknown fear—the kind that gnaws at a child going to the dentist for the first time.
"No," she said, her voice soft but with a timid tremor in it. "They haven't come yet… I want to get out of here quickly."
This simple question, asked without taking her red eyes off mine, was actually a silent confession of the human fragility she carried inside, no matter how hard she tried to appear strong. On one hand, she was a woman struggling to survive in the midst of wars; on the other, she was still a young girl afraid to cry in the corner of her heart.
I leaned forward slightly, placing my elbows on my knees to get a little closer.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But whatever happens, you've already overcome the hardest part. From here on out, it's just about healing."
Irina nodded slightly, the worry still on her face, but now there was something else behind it—trust. I saw that trust. And to see it in a room that was half dark, half hopeful, in the middle of a decaying world… it was indescribable.
Just then, the door was gently knocked. Two young woman doctors entered through the crack in the wooden door. They wore white but slightly stained lab coats; one of them carried a metal tray made of stainless steel. The tray contained carefully arranged small scissors, sterile tweezers, antiseptics, bandages, and a box of fine needles. As they entered the room, their steps were quiet but deliberate—they moved with the discipline of a hospital, taking care not to make unnecessary noise.
One of the doctors adjusted her glasses, the other smiled slightly and began speaking in a gentle tone:
"Good morning… We're going to remove the stitches, Mrs. Irina."
At those words, I instinctively stood up. My eyes involuntarily drifted to Irina's face. She understood why I had stood up. Her wound was on her thigh, and if I had stayed inside, it would have been disrespectful both to her privacy and to my own moral boundaries. We locked eyes; we said nothing, but in that moment, everything was understood. I bowed my head slightly and quietly stepped outside.
I walked a few steps down the corridor and leaned against the window sill. The morning sun hitting the concrete wall spread a faint warmth. My fingertips touched the dust on the edge of the glass. While I waited, time seemed to slow down. There was no sound coming from inside—no moans, no complaints. Only the professional silence of the doctors prevailed.
A few minutes later, the door inside opened. One of the young doctors—the one carrying the tray—came out. The tray in her hand contained used bandages and cotton, all neatly arranged. She turned to me, her expression calm, a hint of fatigue on his face, but her eyes shone with peace. Our eyes met. She bowed her head briefly, giving a sign that meant "everything is fine," and quietly walked away, heading toward the other end of the corridor.
I approached the door and gently knocked twice with two fingers. Hearing a soft "come in" from inside, I opened the door and entered.
The doctor was still inside. When she noticed me out of the corner of her eye, she began speaking directly, as if he had been waiting for me:
"We removed Irina's stitches without any issues," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "The wound is healing faster than we expected. In fact, if it continues to heal this way, there may be almost no scar left."
She paused briefly, adjusted her glasses, and added:
"She can start walking short distances with a cane. Of course, she must do so slowly, carefully, and under supervision. Her muscles are not yet fully strengthened."
I nodded and thanked her. Then my eyes fell on Irina. She was sitting upright in bed, her eyes showing both relief and a proud resilience.
The doctor walked out of the room in a few steps. The door closed slowly, and silence once again filled the room—but this time it wasn't the silence of a hospital, but rather the silence of an invisible yet warm connection between two people.
I slowly sat back down in the chair. The echo of what I had just heard lingered inside me; "there may be no trace left".
'How strange, sometimes the deepest wounds are invisible from the outside.'— I tell it in my mind.
Irina's gaze never left me for a moment. Her eyes had the familiar red color, but today there was something else added to it: peace. And hope. She gently took my hand between hers. Her fingers moved carefully, caressing my knuckles, tracing the fine veins on my hand with her thumb. In that touch, there was both tenderness and a deep connection. The tips of her fingers seemed to remind me of a warmth I had long forgotten.
My heart began to beat hard in my chest. I tried to resist the emotions rising within me, but every movement made the struggle harder.
'If this continues,' I thought to myself, 'I won't be able to hold back the emotions I've been barely suppressing…'
I looked into her eyes with a faint smile on my face. Then I began to speak slowly. My voice was low but firm:
"Tonight... shall we go for a walk in the city? I'm sure looking at the same wall every day must be boring. Some fresh air and a change of scenery would do you good."
Irina smiled with a slight curve of her lips. Then she tilted her head slightly and brought the fist in my hand to her lips. Her lips touched my skin lightly. In that moment, it felt like time had frozen. Then she giggled shyly; a faint blush spread across her face. That smile was like a melody echoing in the middle of this gray world. It was like a flower blooming among the ruins.
"Of course," she said, looking into my eyes. "Since I came to the city, I don't even know where I'm going. But with you... even the idea of exploring the city excites me."
The blush spreading across Irina's cheeks was not just a sign of a shy smile, but also of the storms raging within her inner world. A distinctly feminine allure danced across her face.
She leaned toward me slightly. Her lips touched my jawline—so soft, so sudden a touch that for a moment my heart forgot its rhythm. Time stood still. When she locked her eyes into mine, it was as if she could see the contours of my soul; my past, my pains, everything.
This was a bold move on her part. But I wasn't the type to back down easily either. I leaned in slowly, my breath brushing against her ear. My voice was almost like a whisper in her ear:
"I think we've both entered into a secret race to see who will have a heart attack first, without even realizing it."
Irina chuckled first. But after my words, I pressed my lips to hers and kissed her. My breath was warm, my touch gentle—but the meaning behind it was far greater. It wasn't a claim, it was a CLAIM OF OWNERSHIP.
"But I'm the winner of this race…" I whispered, my tone almost crystallizing my emotions.
"…MY Sweet Irina."
Irina's shoulders trembled. Was it a smile, or the flutter of her heart? I couldn't tell. But I knew that the bond between us at that moment was not just a fleeting excitement. It was not a passion that would evaporate or a temporary closeness created by war—it was the touch of two lonely souls.
When Irina's head rested on my chest, I felt an indescribable calmness inside me. In my arms was the weight of a woman—a determined and still hopeful heart. Her breath was heavy and rhythmic. Each breath that fell on the collar of my shirt lingered on my skin like a memory.
Then she took a deep breath. She pressed her nose against my neck and inhaled my scent. Her eyes were closed, but the expression on her face carried a peace that seemed to come from someone who had been searching for a place to call home for years.
I leaned down and placed a brief kiss on her head. Her hair was as soft as silk and smelled wonderful. The white strands slipping through my fingers seemed to tell the story of all the wounds of the past, all the silent prayers.
Just then, the door was gently knocked. We both startled. Irina sat up slightly. The door opened, and a young woman doctor entered, carrying a metal tray. Avoiding eye contact, he moved forward with the seriousness of a duty-bound professional and placed the tray on the table.
"I apologize for interrupting," she said in a soft but professional tone, "I brought Irina's breakfast."
Then she left the room in the same silence and closed the door behind her.