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XXIX: Nine Houses Down the Street

❝I came back from the bridge bathed in tears.❞
—Gabriel García Márquez

November 24, 2058.

The present-day.

We're leaving tomorrow morning. A couple of planes will pick us up, and we'll get shipped off to a different station. Who knows where.

As for now, a majority of the soldiers are back at our temporary station, preparing for the transition. From what I've heard, Lafayette and his French unit won't be joining us at this new station. I think they are going back to France where there is a lot of tensions from within. Apparently, the people aren't so happy about France's contributions to the war. They want to stop sending assistance to other countries, annoyed by how it forces them to ration their own consumption.

If those French fuckers think sending over some fur-lined coats and chocolate is worth shit to the military, I'll give that all back to them in exchange for more guns and bullets.

But I'm not worried about that right now.

Considering tonight is our last night in Russia, and we have no idea when we'll ever come back, Alexander and I snuck away from our unit. We were stationed not that far from Moscow, which means we were awfully close to our hometown. So in the dead of night, we walked the short journey to our town.

There are barely any houses left standing, all having been burned down after the invasion. All that remains are piles of blackened rubble, covered in a thick layer of snow that continues to pelt down on us.

Just as I noticed when we first passed through our town, my street is one of the few that were left unharmed. I thought for sure when I ran away from the masked man — from him — he would set this street up in flames. I suppose not. I wonder, for a moment, what the Americans did with the hundreds of thousands of bodies. Some part of me knows that I wouldn't want to know.

Our boots make prints in the flawless snow, marking our trail for anyone who would be following us. As for now, we are alone.

I count the houses as we go, remembering my house was the ninth house down the street. I don't need to count — I know what my house looks like — but I used to do it often when I was younger and had yet to recognize the small differences between my house and the others on the street.

One, two, three.

In the third house lived an old widow whose husband died during the New Russian Revolution. She was promised a wonderful life in Moscow for her husband's courageous sacrifice for the cause, but that promise was never kept.

Four, five, six.

In the sixth house lived a young man who collected donations with the promise of finding a cure to a minor disease spreading between towns. One day, the man disappeared with all the money, and that promise was never kept.

Seven, eight, nine.

In the ninth house lived a young, beautiful, smart, and kind boy whose older sister promised to protect him at all costs. She promised him that she would never let anyone hurt him. She promised she would always come home, but that promise was never kept.

Alexander and I approach our old house reluctantly, our steps short and staggered. Alexander gnaws on his thumb knuckle, his violet eyes glinting with apprehension. He doesn't get nervous often. I take the lead, walking up to the front door, and swinging it open.

My heart surges with nostalgia at the sound of that familiar creek. The wooden door always sounded like it was one slam away from falling off. I breathe in the familiar scent of dust and old wood, finding the thick aroma strangely pleasing.