When Ilya woke, his mouth tasted of iron. The cold hit him like a rough hand, plunging deep into his lungs. He gasped and immediately choked, his chest heaving as if he'd just been dragged from freezing water.
He opened his eyes.
The sky was a heavy, oppressive gray-white. Thick clouds hung low, pressing down on the city like they might collapse at any second. The snow didn't fall gently—it was ripped by the wind, slamming into his face, sharp and biting.
Instinctively, Ilya reached for his pocket. For his phone.
Nothing.
Instead, his fingers brushed against coarse fabric—his coat. It was heavy, unfamiliar, and smelled faintly of age. He looked down: a dark, old-fashioned overcoat, sleeves frayed, buttons dull metal.
Not his coat.
He lifted his gaze, taking in the street.
The buildings were tall and grim, their walls cracked, windows lined like rows of unblinking eyes. The street stretched wide and empty, people moving fast, heads down, faces buried in scarves, barely speaking.
Through the wind came a low, constant hum.
A broadcast.
"…The Soviet people, under the leadership of the Party Central Committee, are resolutely advancing along the path of socialist construction—"
Russian.
Not the crisp, standard Russian he knew from films. This was rough, old-fashioned, slightly coarse, echoing from the tinny loudspeakers above.
Ilya's stomach sank.
At the end of the street stood a massive statue.
A man, snow-covered, stern-faced, eyes staring ahead, as if watching a time yet to come.
He recognized the face.
Lenin.
Ilya froze.
This wasn't a set. Not a film. The air was too cold, the wind too real, the fatigue on people's faces too tangible.
Then it hit him.
—If this were a dream, it was far too real.
Dizziness washed over him. He braced himself against an iron railing; his fingers were numb from the cold. In his mind, fragmented images swirled: a desk, a lamp, an open history book, a red-covered map, a page with a chapter title folded over again and again.
The Second World War: Eastern Front.
He swallowed.
"…Stop it," he muttered.
But the world didn't respond.
Snow kept falling. The broadcast droned on. In the distance, boots struck the ice in crisp, synchronized rhythm.
A squad of soldiers passed the corner, heavy coats, steps perfectly aligned, rifles glinting cold in the snow. Their faces were young, tense, expressionless.
One of them glanced at Ilya, briefly, appraisingly.
Ilya looked down instantly.
At that moment, he felt the full weight of time.
He didn't know how he had ended up outside the bakery.
The line stretched long. People stood silently, clutching ration tickets. The air smelled faintly of bread, mixed with dampness and tension. No one cut in line. No one complained. Every frustration seemed trained into quiet endurance.
Ilya listened to his own heartbeat.
He forced himself to stay calm.
Step one: figure out where you are. Step two: figure out when. History books had drilled that into him.
The broadcast offered scattered clues: five-year plans, industrial production, Red Army expansion, rising international tension.
No mention of war.
Which made him even more uneasy.
Because he knew.
The war was already at the door.
"Are you a new worker too?"
The voice came from behind.
Ilya turned.
A girl stood in the snow, her scarf crooked, the tip of her nose red from the cold. Her eyes were bright—not artificially, but with a light that survived long years of hard life.
She looked at him openly, without suspicion.
"Your accent doesn't sound like Moscow," she added softly.
Ilya froze.
He opened his mouth. He had no identity to give:
A person from the future.
A time traveler.
An anomaly in history.
None of that could be said.
"…I came from far away," he said instead.
The girl nodded, not pressing further.
In this era, asking questions was itself a risk. Not asking—that was kindness.
"My name's Anna," she said.
Ilya repeated it in his mind.
Anna.
Light, yet unforgettable.
The line moved forward slowly. Snow fell between them like a line yet to be noticed.
Ilya realized something.
He was here. In Moscow, 1941—a time he'd only read about.
And soon—
The German army would cross the border.
The Red Army would falter.
This city would be surrounded by death.
He looked at Anna, feeling an almost unbearable weight.
Because he knew too much.
And she knew nothing.