Mikhail Sokolov
Ice solider starts to melt.
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The morning after our wedding, the house was quiet enough to hear the snow sliding off the roof. I rose before dawn, as habit demanded, though there was no parade ground waiting, no officer’s whistle to answer. Only silence, and the faint sound of her breathing in the next room.
We had not shared a bed. The general’s house had many chambers, and she had chosen one for herself. I told myself it was proper—she was little more than a girl, a stranger bound to me by duty, not love. Yet when I walked past her door, I hesitated. My hand almost lifted, almost knocked. I lowered it again.
I busied myself with order: straightening my uniform, polishing boots that had no march to tread. I lived by ritual, and rituals never betrayed a man. But as the sun pushed its pale light across the frost-glazed windows, I heard the creak of her door.
She stepped into the corridor in a white robe, her hair still undone, falling in loose strands that caught the morning. She froze when she saw me, like a kitten startled by sudden movement.
And that’s where I knew. No matter if we were married out of duty or love, but I won’t let any other soul hurt this innocent one. Then after all, she was now mine.