Where The River Forgets

December 1942

Belogorsk, Russia

Russia was buried beneath a freezing winter. Snow covered everything in sight, carrying with it the bitter cold and the lingering smell of death.

A small town had been destroyed only hours ago.

It had been filled with fire, screams, and desperate cries for help. But now, it was unbearably still. Too quiet. Almost as if no human being had ever lived there before.

The only sound was the crunch of snow beneath the boots of the Red Army.

A small group of men from the Forward Reconnaissance Detachment moved carefully through what was once a town.

At the head of them was their captain, Mikhail Volkov.

His rifle was held firmly in his hand as his focused gaze moved from left to right, searching for any sign of danger. Any movement. Any survivor.

They passed destroyed houses, burning clothes, shattered windows, and countless bodies.

Mikhail kept walking.

Then something caught his attention.

A little girl was lying against her brother, her red-orange hair visible beneath the ash and dirt. They were both dead, their bodies badly burned, yet their arms were still wrapped around each other.

Even in death, they had held on.

Mikhail stopped.

His eyes remained on them for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he forced himself to keep moving.

He reached the end of the street.

There was a river ahead.

Something caught his eye.

A body, perhaps.

Mikhail moved closer.

But it wasn't a body.

A girl was sitting at the edge of the river, completely still, staring down at the dark water beneath the thin layer of ice.

For a moment, he almost mistook her for one of the dead.

She didn't move.

He approached until he was standing beside her.

“Miss?” he called in a low voice.

Nothing.

A minute passed.

Still no response.

“Miss?” he called again, louder this time.

Slowly, she turned her head toward him.

The first thing Mikhail noticed was her eyes.

Grey-green.

Her hair was dirty and wet, strands clinging to her face. Her clothes were torn and covered in dirt. Bruises and scars marked her skin.

And around her neck was a scarf, its color almost matching her eyes.

She stared at him.

“Miss, are you alright?” he asked quietly, trying to read her expression.

She said nothing.

Even such a simple question seemed to confuse her.

Mikhail studied her for another moment.

“What is your name, miss?”

“Anastasia,” she answered slowly.

Even her own name sounded uncertain on her lips.

“Anastasia what?” Mikhail asked.

She blinked once.

Twice.

Her lips parted, then closed again.

She looked back at the river.

“I... don't know.”

“You don't know?” Mikhail repeated, confusion creeping into his voice.

“I don't remember,” she murmured.

Then she looked at the river again, as though she had already forgotten he was still standing beside her.

Mikhail watched her in silence.

Then a voice cut through the quiet.

“Captain!”

The other soldiers were catching up.

One of them approached quickly.

Dmitri.

His eyes immediately fell on the girl sitting at the river's edge.

“Who is she?” he asked. “Is she alright?”

Mikhail didn't answer immediately.

He was still looking at her.

For the first time in years, the person standing before him was a mystery he couldn't read.

And that was rare for him.