WHEN GHOSTS RETURN

Bakhmut, October 18, 2022

The cold was not a season.

It was a weapon.

It moved through fabric and skin with quiet persistence, settling into the bones where heat could no longer reach. The ground was dark and unstable, swallowing boots first, then anything that tried to remain standing.

Dmitry remembered the heat before anything else — brief and violent — at the instant the blade tore deeply into his thigh.

Then came a long withdrawal from sensation, as if the world had begun to recede rather than end.

There was copper in his mouth.

Pressure in his chest.

The indistinct weight of collapse happening both around him and within him, without distinction.

Then came the absence of the only sound that mattered.

No commands.

No movement nearby.

No response from the line that was supposed to hold.

Only the certainty that followed, stripped of everything unnecessary:

No one was coming.

He died there, in that trench.

What returned home was not continuity, but function — a body that still obeyed, still moved, still followed instructions out of habit rather than intent.

He returned home without recognition, as if proximity to life alone were enough to belong to it.

But what remained inside him had not followed the same rules.

Memory does not reconstruct cleanly under pressure.

It fractures.

And what is broken does not return intact.

It becomes something sharper than it was before.

KOSTROMA, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

July 16, 2023

Nearly three months had passed since Dmitry had been repatriated.

The doctor checked the medical record before looking at Dmitry.

“How is your leg?”

Dmitry glanced down briefly.

“Better, doctor.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

The doctor made a note.

Outside, the muffled sounds of the city came through the window — a few cars passing, a distant horn, and indistinct voices from the street.

“And the nightmares?”

Dmitry remained silent for a few seconds.

“They stopped.”

The doctor studied him.

“Completely?”

Dmitry held his gaze.

“Yes.”

The doctor returned to the medical record but did not write anything for several moments.

“Your mother says you have been different since you came back.”

Dmitry’s expression did not change.

“Different how?”

“You barely speak. You avoid leaving the house. You spend most nights awake.”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

The doctor leaned back slightly.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

Dmitry looked away.

The doctor closed the medical record.

“You went through something most people will never experience.”

Dmitry remained silent.

“I did my job,” he added flatly.

The doctor watched him for a long moment, letting the words hang in the air.

“Is that how you see what happened?”

Dmitry looked down briefly, running a finger along the seam of his trousers.

“There’s nothing more to talk about, doctor.”

The doctor studied him, searching for a crack in the soldier’s armor, but Dmitry offered nothing further.

With a quiet sigh, the doctor put down his pen.

“Get some rest. We’ll talk again next week.”

Dmitry nodded.

He stood and picked up his coat. For a moment, he remained beside the chair, as if he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

He put on his coat without looking at the doctor.

“Take care, Dmitry.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Dmitry opened the door and left.

____

The following months passed slowly.

Recovery continued.

His leg stopped being a concern.

Training resumed little by little.

First, the simpler exercises.

Then the full routine.

Running.

Physical conditioning.

The shooting range.

His body responded before he even realized it.

Dmitry returned to service.

To those around him, it was a simple story.

A wounded soldier.

A period of recovery.

A return.

Nothing more.

But some things never appeared in the reports.

DAVYDOVSKY DISTRICT, KOSTROMA

November 2, 2023 — 7:18 A.M.

The pale morning light filtered through the bedroom window.

A bed, a wardrobe, and a small shelf occupied the room. A CSKA Moscow poster hung on the wall. Several medals and a small trophy rested on the shelf.

In one corner, his military jacket hung over a chair, with his service boots beneath it.

Three firm knocks sounded against the bedroom door.

“Dima, come on. Breakfast is ready. Don’t make me call you again.”

Dmitry remained lying there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

“I’m coming.”

His mother’s footsteps moved away down the hallway.

Dmitry let out a quiet sigh, rubbed a hand over his face, and got out of bed.

He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and splashed cold water over his face before returning to the bedroom.

He picked up his long-sleeved blue-and-white striped shirt from the chair and pulled it on as he left the room.

He walked downstairs barefoot, adjusting the hem of his shirt as he went.

The cold floor beneath his feet didn’t bother him.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee already filled the kitchen.

His mother was finishing setting the table when she heard his footsteps.

She looked up.

Dmitry entered the kitchen. His fair skin contrasted with his blond hair, kept short in a military cut. His blue eyes appeared even lighter beneath the pale morning light.

She watched him silently for a few seconds.

There were still moments when she needed to see him walk into the kitchen to convince herself that he was really there.

Home.

She smiled.

“Good morning, Dima.”

“Morning.”

Dmitry pulled out a chair and sat down.

His mother placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

At the same instant, Dmitry turned his face away.

The movement was abrupt, almost instinctive.

His mother froze for a brief second.

Dmitry noticed her reaction and lowered his eyes.

“Sorry, Mom.”

She did not answer immediately.

She simply held his face gently and kissed his forehead.

Dmitry slowly exhaled, comforted by the touch.

She ran a hand through his hair before returning to the other side of the table.

“Did you sleep well?”

Dmitry picked up his cup.

“I did,” he said, taking a sip before adding, “but that gate kept squeaking all night. Didn’t help much.”

She sighed, feigning exasperation.

“I knew it.”

Dmitry looked at her.

“You did?”

“I’ve been waiting for someone to fix that hinge for days.”

Dmitry raised his eyebrows slightly, putting on an innocent expression.

“Someone?”

She lifted her own cup.

“Exactly. Someone who knows how to use tools but always says he’ll do it later.”

A faint smile appeared on Dmitry’s lips.

“I’ll fix it today.”

“I figured you would.”

She placed a plate of several golden syrniki in front of him, served with smetana and jam.

“Now eat before they get cold.”

“Thanks.”

She sat down across from him.

For a few moments, the kitchen settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the soft hiss of the kettle still warm on the stove.

“Pavel called last night,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair aside before taking a sip of coffee.

Dmitry looked up.

“What did he want?”

“To talk to you.”

She paused briefly.

“He said it was important.”

Dmitry hesitated for a moment.

“Did he say why?”

“No. He just insisted that he needed to talk to you.”

Dmitry nodded slowly.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

She set down her cup.

“Because it was already past midnight, Dima. You needed to rest.”

Dmitry looked away.

“He’s probably going to complain.”

“I’m sure he will.”

She sighed.

“So call him today and deal with it before he decides to show up here without warning.”

“I’ll call him later.”

“Do that.”

Before Dmitry could cut into the next piece of pastry, three firm knocks echoed through the house.

The two of them looked toward the entrance.

His mother frowned slightly.

“Are you expecting someone?”

Dmitry looked toward the door.

“It must be Pasha.”

She sighed as she stood.

“For God’s sake, I hope it isn’t him.”

She untied her apron and left it over the back of the chair.

“Finish your coffee. I’ll get the door.”

Dmitry remained seated, bringing the cup to his lips as she walked toward the entrance.

He heard the sound of the doorknob turning.

Outside, a man in a dark coat stood waiting in silence, holding a document folder in one hand.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. I’m looking for Dmitry Anatolyevich Mikhailov.”

His mother studied the stranger for a moment before turning back toward the house.

“Dima... it’s for you.”

Dmitry set his cup down and walked toward the door.

The man pulled a brown envelope from the folder.

“Official correspondence. I just need your signature acknowledging receipt.”

Dmitry took the envelope.

In the upper-left corner, the official crest appeared above the sender’s name, printed in rigid lettering:

Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation.

He broke the seal and pulled out the sheet of paper.

His blue eyes scanned the first few lines.

Then stopped.

His mother took a step closer, attentive to the sudden silence.

“Dima... what is it?”

Dmitry did not answer immediately.

He held the document for a few more seconds before finally raising his eyes.

“An order for transfer.”

She frowned.

“Where to?”

“Moscow,” he whispered.

The silence that followed felt different from everything that had come before.