The winter of 1943 was brutal. Sergeant Mikhail Volkov sat in his trench, a frozen photograph in his hands. It was the only picture he had of her—Nadia, his wife, her hair braided, her smile bright. He had kissed it goodbye when he left for the front, and he had carried it ever since.
The photograph was worn now, the edges soft, the image faded. But he didn’t need to see it clearly. He had her face memorized.
“She’s beautiful,” a voice said beside him.
He looked up. A young soldier, new to the unit, was staring at the photograph.
Mikhail nodded. “She is.”
“Does she write?”
“