The snow fell for days without reprieve, tramping down into something gray and flinty—a scar of ice sealed over the city's heart. Ilya soon realized that in this era, time wasn't measured by the steady tick of a clock. It was measured by the agonizing length of bread lines, the rising pitch of the radio broadcasts, and the hollowed-out exhaustion in the eyes of every passerby.
He began walking with Anna.
It wasn't a conscious choice. They simply drifted together, moving in the same direction. From the bakery to the tram stop; from the tram to the factory district. That stretch of frozen road became a sanctuary—a sliver of time that belonged only to them.
Anna didn't speak much, but her presence was a quiet hum in the static. She would point to a charcoal-blackened chimney in the distance, noting that her mother worked there. When they passed the towering red propaganda banners, she would read the slogans under her breath. Her voice, however, never held the iron-clad certainty of the loudspeakers.
"They always say things will get better," she remarked once, her breath blooming like a white ghost in the air. "But I don't remember a time when the world wasn't holding its breath."
Ilya remained silent. He knew the truth. He just couldn't find the words to ruin her.
What he couldn't bring himself to say was: This is the best it will ever be.
Sometimes Anna caught him drifting, his eyes fixed on something she couldn't see.
"You're always looking at something far away," she said, studying his face. "Is it your hometown?"
Ilya nodded, then slowly shook his head. "It's… something that hasn't happened yet."
Anna blinked, then let out a soft, melodic laugh. "That must be exhausting."
There was no mockery in her voice, only a strange, grounded kindness. She simply pulled her scarf higher against the biting wind and kept walking. For a fleeting second, Ilya allowed himself a dangerous, seductive thought: What if the history books were wrong? What if the war never came?
They grew used to the rhythm of each other. Sometimes they leaned shoulder to shoulder on a street corner, listening to the crackle of the state broadcast. Occasionally, Anna would fish a small, hard candy from her pocket, break it cleanly in half with a sharp snap, and hand him a piece without ceremony.
"Factory distribution," she'd whisper, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "Don't tell a soul."
The candy was sweet, but it left a bitter stone in Ilya's chest. He knew what these small "distributions" meant. The machinery of a total war economy was already grinding into gear, hidden beneath the surface.
One evening, they stood by the Moscow River. A thin, translucent sheet of ice covered the water, reflecting the city's dim, sickly yellow lights. In the distance, the low, steady rumble of military trucks vibrated through the soles of their boots—an unending caravan of steel.
"There are more soldiers lately," Anna noted, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"Do you think… there'll be war?"
The wind cut through his coat like a knife. In Ilya's mind, the dates and cold facts flashed with ruthless, digital clarity: German mobilization. Border incursions. Intelligence ignored. The fatal miscalculation of June. It was too close now. He could practically smell the cordite.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "If it does happen… what will you do?"
Anna was silent, watching the ice. "Keep living," she said finally. "What else is there?" She turned to him, her gaze unwavering. "What about you?"
Ilya didn't answer immediately. For the first time, he understood that history wasn't a page in a book. It was the person standing in front of him.
"I'll stay," he said.
Anna offered a small, fragile smile. "Good."
In that moment, Ilya realized the terrifying truth: He was no longer an observer. He was a participant.
June arrived with an unnatural clarity. The weather warmed, and for a heartbeat, the city seemed to exhale. Children chased one another in the dust of open lots, as if normalcy were a prize they could finally catch.
But the broadcasts sharpened. Blackout curtains were draped over windows like funeral shrouds. People whispered in the shadows—and were quickly silenced by the weight of the air.
Ilya stopped sleeping. In the dark, he replayed the date over and over like a prayer for a god he didn't believe in. June 22, 1941.
The countdown was at zero.
Then came the order: Anna was reassigned. Not to the front, but to a supply transfer station on the city's outskirts.
"Just temporary," she told him, trying to keep her voice light, though her hands trembled as she packed. "They say it's safe. It's just logistics."
Ilya felt his stomach drop. He knew what those stations were. Railways. Fuel depots. Supply hubs.
The first targets.
"I don't want you to go," he said, the words slipping out before he could check them.
Anna froze. She had never heard that raw, desperate edge in his voice before.
"Ilya," she said softly, stepping closer. "This isn't something we get to choose." She reached out, her fingers warm and solid against his palm. "Wait for me."
The day she left, the sky was a cruel, mocking blue. As the train pulled away, a plume of steam rose, swallowing the platform in a white haze. Ilya stood among the grieving crowd, watching the rusted carriage door shut on the only light he had found in this century.
Then, the broadcast came.
There were no slogans this time. No talk of Five-Year Plans. Only a short, chilling announcement that seemed to drain the color from the world:
"German forces have crossed the border."
The crowd went deathly silent for one heartbeat. Then, the world broke.
Ilya stood frozen, a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The war had finally torn away its mask. And Anna was already standing directly in its path.