---
Hot water streamed from the showerhead, cascading down Andre's body, filling the bathroom with thick steam. The mirror fogged up, blurring his reflection, and for a moment, he allowed himself to relax. But as always, when he glanced at his own chest—marked by thick patches of hair—he sighed.
"Still a caveman," he muttered to himself with self-deprecating humor. "Haven't evolved a bit."
No matter how heroic or refined a man might be in the cockpit, Andre felt a strange frustration looking at himself. Cleanliness, order, discipline—if you couldn't keep yourself together, how could you expect to command others?
Just as he closed his eyes to enjoy the spray, a gentle pair of arms wrapped around his torso from behind. Soft hands moved across his chest, teasing the hairs he'd just been complaining about.
"Ekaterina?" he turned, startled.
There she was—her damp figure standing under the water beside him, hair wet and clinging to her skin, lips glistening under the light.
"You didn't lock the door," she said with a playful smile. "And I forgot to give you my address. When I came back to tell you, I heard the water running... and thought, why waste it?"
Andre reached past her to adjust the showerhead, but his thoughts were no longer on plumbing. As her skin brushed against his and the water ran between them, Andre knew—resistance was pointless.
He lowered his head and kissed her deeply, pressing her gently against the cool tile. His arms held her as the water poured around them, the steam curling like smoke.
The storm broke with no warning—and no regrets.
(Five thousand words omitted…)
---
Later, wrapped together in the sheets, Andre lay with Ekaterina curled against him, his hands brushing gently across her bare back.
"Are you worried your family won't approve of us?" he asked softly, kissing her temple.
She shook her head. "No one can keep us apart. I love you, Andre. You're the only man I've ever wanted."
The bell outside chimed midnight.
"Sleep," she whispered. "The day after tomorrow is your ceremony. Tomorrow, I'll show you the city."
---
Moscow. The beating heart of the Soviet Union—its capital, its soul. Built along the banks of the Moskva and Yauza Rivers, it was a city as old as Russian memory itself. From Yuri Dolgorukiy's first fortress in 1156 to the spires of the Kremlin and Red Square, Moscow had seen the rise and fall of dynasties.
Andre had been here before, meeting engineers at the Sukhoi Design Bureau. But this visit was different. The streets were lined with red banners and slogans; the sickle-and-hammer flags fluttered from balconies and lampposts.
And this time, Ekaterina was his guide.
"To the southwest, there's the Kremlin," she explained as they strolled through Red Square. "North—State Historical Museum. East is GUM, the department store. And over there—Saint Basil's Cathedral."
Andre looked up at the onion domes, the pointed spires. His heart was heavy.
Years from now, this same square would see protests, confusion, and the quiet collapse of a nation. He remembered too clearly the images—men shouting, tanks rolling in, leaders retreating into silence. All sparked by conspirators, indecision, and fear. The great dream would fade.
"I want to see Lenin's tomb," he said.
For every Soviet citizen, it was a pilgrimage.
The tomb stood on the west side of Red Square—a solemn structure of red granite and black stone. Inside, silence ruled. Everyone walked single file, eyes forward, mouths closed.
Ekaterina followed behind Andre, sensing the weight in his posture.
Inside, the light dimmed. There he lay—Vladimir Ilyich Lenin—his body preserved, his expression calm. A yellow shirt, a red flag, familiar from every portrait and poster. He looked asleep, not dead, his hands poised as if ready to rise and lead once again.
Andre stood still. So many came here to honor him. Yet in the years to come, even this place would be threatened—his tomb nearly dismantled, the old leaders' graves pushed aside by political tides.
What will happen to our legacy? Andre thought. What happens when memory fades and history is rewritten?
He clenched his fists.
Not if I can help it.
---