Chapter Text
The afternoon sun slants through grimy windowpanes, dusty beams overpowering the nearly exhausted oil lamp sitting atop a scarred oak table. Your eyes scan the newspaper in front of you, barely registering the heavily censored reports of France’s successes in the Chemin des Dames offensive. You set the paper aside before finishing off the last dreg-filled sip of your coffee with a grimace.
The rattling of a knock against your front door cuts through the comfortable silence. You make your way to the entrance, floorboards groaning under each step. The entryway’s air carries the faint chill of the tail-end of winter that slips through gaps in the frame as you open the door.
In front of you stands Henri, your neighbor from the nearby field, a broad-shouldered man born in Alsace with a face lined by years of hard labor.
“Dimitri,” He greets you, the traces of his German accent adding a brightness to your name that was never present when you yourself said it. “I just heard news from my cousin in Reims.” He lifts a bundled package wrapped in a cloth sack in one hand, the smile tugging at the corner of his lips softening his grim expression. “Let us discuss it over drinks.”
“Henri, come inside,” you say with a nod as you step aside, a flicker of worry stirring in your chest. News from Reims is rarely good nowadays.
The man’s face brightens at the invitation and he steps inside, adjusting his grip on the sack. Following close behind you, he boasts about getting his hands on real German Altbier courtesy of his cousin, rather than that “bière de ménage swill” he always sees you drinking. You lead him into the kitchen, the corners of your lips twitching into a slight smile despite yourself.
He unpacks the beers--twelve in total--and stuffs most of them into your icebox with a satisfied grunt, leaving four on the table. You both settle into mismatched chairs, diagonal to one another at the table. Henri cracks open two bottles, holding one out to you as he takes a long pull from the other.
You take it and mirror his sip, savoring the way the beer fizzes to life on your tongue, cool and frothy against your lips.
Henri sighs contentedly. “That’s better,” he says, leaning back in his chair. The two of you sit in silence for a while, enjoying the comfortable quiet.
Placing his half-empty bottle on the table, Henri says, “The gendarmes have started making rounds in the villages nearby.” He shakes his head and chuckles bitterly. “They’re convinced the Germans have planted spies near the front lines.”
You hold your tongue and pick at the label on your bottle, the paper curling under your thumbnail. You feel the worry from before slowly seeping back into your chest.
Henri glances at you, then out the grimy window behind you where the light is starting to soften. “Alina’s scared. She jumps at every sound, every knock on the door. I tell her we’re just farmers, nothing to hide, but...” He trails off, taking another sip of his beer. “Hard to convince her when I don’t even believe it myself.”
Silence stretches for a moment, broken only by the distant sounds of artillery and the soft thunk of your bottles on the table. You search for words of reassurance, but they feel clumsy coming from your mouth. “That’s... hard. I’m sorry.”
Henri looks up, surprise flickering across his face at the sympathy in your tone before it softens into a warm, genuine smile. “Ah, Dimitri. Thank you.” He pauses, studying you over the rim of his bottle. “You know how it is, though. Your folks came from farther east than us. I’m sure you know the feeling of people looking at you sideways.”
His words hang gently in the air, not demanding a response. You hesitate, but the beer has loosened your tongue just enough. “Da. Since things started going south in La Courtine, the suspicion’s gotten worse. No one says anything, but the eyes are the same.”
Henri nods slowly, considering your words. “Exactly. We just want to live. Tend the crops, watch Celeste grow without her learning to fear uniforms.” He drains the rest of his beer in one go before setting it down with a soft thud. “These days, even that feels like I’m asking for too much.”
You take another sip, and the malty bitterness lingers on your tongue. In this moment, the kitchen feels less empty. Henri’s gentle voice always fills the space with friendly conversation when he’s here, an unexpectedly welcome contrast to your usual silence.
Henri glances at the newspaper sitting on the table and straightens a little, as if remembering something. “And with the fighting pushing people out of places like Craonne and Corbeny... My cousin says he’s seen whole families on the roads. If some end up coming this way--” He meets your eyes, his voice earnest, “A roof, maybe a bit of food. It’d mean everything to them. I know you like your quiet, but give it some thought.”
The thought of footsteps and unfamiliar voices filling your private space settles uneasily on your mind. It’s not like you’d be helpless if anyone came to your doorstep with bad intentions, that broken shotgun under your bed has always been enough to scare off trespassers. But the noise...
Your first instinct is to rebuff him, but his tone gives you pause. Your stomach twists into a guilty knot, leaving you with the feeling that rejection isn’t an option. You manage a hesitant nod. “If they come... I’ll see what I can do.”
Henri’s posture relaxes, and he reaches out to give your arm a friendly squeeze. “That’s all I ask. Thank you.”
Your conversation is interrupted by a soft rapping on the front door. Both of you turn your heads. Your breath catches for an instant, but Henri’s face lights up. “Ah, that’ll be Celeste.”
Relieved, you nod and stand with him as he heads to the door. He opens it, revealing a girl no older than ten, grinning brightly at the sight of her father. As if anticipating her attack, Henri opens his arms right as she launches herself at him. He catches her with a grunt, swinging her up as her arms wrap around his neck.
“Papa! Mama says you’re taking forever, dinner’s ready.”
Henri laughs, turning back to you with his usual warm smile. He shifts his daughter’s weight to one arm and reaches out with his other hand to grip your shoulder firmly. “Stay safe. Always keep your papers on hand.”
You nod and return his smile with one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Take care.”
With a final goodbye, the father-daughter pair heads out. The door clicks shut behind them, and the house falls back into its familiar stillness.
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The sun finally dips below the treeline, painting the sky in deepening tones of orange and purple. You linger at the kitchen table in silence, nursing the last quarter of your third beer. A fuzzy warmth has spread through your body, leaving you with a pleasant buzz as your thoughts drift lazily.
A sudden knock snaps you out of your haze. It comes softly at first, then sharper, more urgent. You freeze before slowly putting your beer down on the table. The sound comes again, and beneath it, a familiar voice. You don’t catch the words, but two syllables leave you feeling like you’ve been doused in cold water.
“Mitya!”
“Veronika?” A name you haven’t called in years pulls itself from between your lips. You blink. Then you stand too fast, sending the chair clattering backwards. You push your way through the kitchen door and cross the hall in stumbling strides, fingers clumsy on the latch. “Veronika, hold on--”
The door swings open, revealing an empty porch.
Night air rushes in, cool and damp, causing you to shiver as you stare at empty air. There’s no one on the other side of the threshold. No sound of fleeing footsteps cutting through the silence of night. Just an empty road, stretching into nothingness.
You step outside anyway and stumble toward the dirt road, bare feet on wet mud and grass. “Veronika?” The name comes out softer this time, pleading. You take a few uncertain steps, scanning the shadows between the trees. For a moment, you smell a powdery floral scent. Her favorite perfume.
Then the scent is gone, and an ache takes its place. Sudden and crushing, as if someone just punched a hole straight through your ribs and started to squeeze your heart. Your legs buckle, and you drop to your knees. The mud soaks through your trousers instantly. The wet fabric clings to you like frigid fingers trying to drag you into the ground. You pitch forward, barely catching yourself with your hands.
Your breath hitches, then grows erratic, dissolving into frantic gasps that don’t fill your lungs. You press a shaky, mud-covered hand to your chest, trying to hold everything inside before it can fall out of the gaping hole growing there. The world narrows to the hammer of your pulse and the icy stabs of cold air barely making it to your lungs. As your other arm starts to lose strength, you give up on trying to hold yourself together and let your hand fall back to the ground, clawing at the mud.
Minutes pass like this, though it feels like hours. You struggle to catch your breath, until the gasping gradually eases into something steadier. You stay on all fours a little longer, forehead almost touching the ground as you try to force your body to stop trembling.
Finally, the strength returns to your limbs, and you shakily push yourself up from the ground. You take a moment to regain your balance before shuffling back inside. When you make it through the door, the house feels much larger and emptier than before. You lock the door out of habit and lean back against it, then let yourself slide to the floor. Looking down at your hands, you inspect your muddy palms and dirty nails before wiping them on your pants. Lifting your head, you glance around the entryway in a daze.
For some reason, you can’t seem to recall what made you run out of the house in the first place.
Bracing your hand on the door, you push yourself back onto your feet with some effort. You steady yourself against the wall with one hand and stumble to the bathroom. You push your way through the door, then carefully sit on the edge of the tub. You swing your legs over and twist the handle above the faucet, using the cold water to wash away the mud caked onto your hands and feet. Once the water runs clear, you dry yourself off and make your way back to your bedroom.
Beside the bed, the lamp is burning low. You click your tongue at the realization that you’ve wasted several hours’ worth of oil. Hopefully there’s some available in Reims tomorrow.
A framed photograph waits on the bedside table, exactly where you left it. You pick it up, thumb brushing the glass over her face. “Vera,” you murmur, voice rough. The mattress dips under your weight as you sit on the edge of the bed, tightening your grip on the frame.
Your eyes burn as a familiar pressure builds, but nothing comes. You wait for it anyway, hoping for some kind of catharsis. You set the frame back down and dig the heels of your palms into your eyes until a kaleidoscope of blue and white blooms behind the lids. Eventually, you let your hands fall into your lap with a defeated sigh.
Frustrated, you push yourself up from the bed with a little more force than necessary. You pull off your shirt and strip down to your boxers, then cross the room and put on a long-sleeved shirt from your closet. After dousing the light on the bedside table, you fall back onto your side of the bed, pulling the quilt over your body.
Within seconds of closing your eyes, the darkness drags you into a dreamless sleep.