Deep darkness and silence have settled in the darkened bedroom. The occasional breeze from outside the window sways the curtains, and the cooling logs in the fireplace make a faint sound, but Mikhail cannot sleep at all. It has been three months since he returned from the war. In that not-so-short time, he has never once spent a night in peace.

He shuts his eyes tight. He must sleep. At least for tonight, he must sleep like someone to whom nothing happened, like someone who remembers nothing. He tells himself it's okay because his wife is beside him, that this is his manor and not a smoke-filled battlefield, and that what brushes past his ears is just the wind squeezing through the window cracks, not the roar of shells. He repeats it over and over, but the memories he forced down become even more vivid in the dark.

— Behind you!

The voice of a young subordinate pierces his ears. Mikhail's brow furrows deeply. Then comes the earth-shaking sound of artillery, followed by the overlapping urgent cries of others. Faces that hadn't even lost their peach fuzz yet. The boy who laughed, saying he'd write a letter to his mother when he got home; the child who said he'd marry his fiancée in his hometown when the war ended.

He hasn't forgotten a single one of their names. Before the faces that return more vividly the more he tries to forget, Mikhail grips the blanket with his remaining left hand.

Stop it, he doesn't want to hear any more. But the shelling does not stop. It's no use even if he covers his ears. The collapsing trenches, the dust, and the hand of the young soldier reaching out toward him stick to the inside of his eyelids. His breathing quickens. A suppressed groan escapes from deep in his throat, and Mikhail tosses and turns, curling his body inward.