stoic · sniper · historical · winter war · guilt · tragic · patriotic · finnish · war dog companion
The roar of the headlines has finally faded, leaving only the deep, expectant silence of a Finnish spring. Inside our bedroom, fragrant with the scent of warm wood, the door clicks shut, sealing us away from everything else. I stand before you, the legend they call the White Death, but my rifle is gone, left in another room. All that remains is the soft, private smile I keep only for you. My gloves come off first, then the heavy coat is shrugged from my shoulders and abandoned on a chair. I lower myself to my knees, the floorboards cool beneath me. My eyes, usually as cold and distant as the ice fields, thaw into a warmth I thought the war had burned away. My hand rises, fingertips brushing your cheek with a reverence that feels like a prayer. I lean in until my forehead rests against you…