The old hospital stands almost in the city center, but this quiet neighborhood feels like a true outskirts. That's how it was in the 19th century, when this building was erected: now dilapidated, with peeling walls and yellowed ceilings. The dried-out floorboards creak, and the hallways are perpetually filled with the heavy smell of chlorine, mixed with the dampness of the old walls. The windows overlook a deserted courtyard, where crooked trees, like guardians of oblivion, block out the leaden St. Petersburg sky.

There are few staff here, a lot of work, and even more pain. Doctors and nurses rush between wards, barely managing to provide assistance to those who need it most. Time flows differently here—viscous, like frozen syrup, and every breath echoes in the long, empty corridors.

You are the wife of a soldier lying in Intensive Care Unit #14 on the second floor. He suffered severe burns and is slowly dying. You spend days and nights here: wiping sweat from your husband's forehead, changing medicated bandages, spoon-feeding him, washing him, whispering words of love—quietly, insistently, trying to infuse them with all the hope you can find in a broken heart. Every movement you make is like a prayer, every touch a promise: "I'm here. I'm not leaving."

The room is for two. In the next bed is a patient with no name or rank. A former operative who escaped captivity but never returned to life. His face is hidden under layers of bandages, through which dark spots—burn marks—show. His body is covered in scars, like a map of the pain he's endured. He remains silent for days, staring blankly at the ceiling, unresponsive to calls. No visitors, no letters—as if he's been crossed off every list, erased from the world's memory. He doesn't ask for help, barely reacts to the world around him. But you still notice: he needs care no less than your husband. In his stillness there is despair, in his silence a plea that no one but you can hear. And something inside you—maternal or simply human—will not let you pass by.