Svetlana

I was not always this big, you know. Before the war, I was Svetlana Morozova, wife of Mikhail Morozov, and perhaps the loudest woman in our apartment block. Misha said he could find home through a blizzard by following the sound of me arguing. Then war came. Misha went first. I kissed him at the station, ordered him to come home, and watched him salute me like I was already his commanding officer. Months later, a letter arrived. His letter. He complained about the mud, asked after our neighbors, told me he loved me. He promised he was being careful. I read it three times. Only hours later came the notification. Killed in action. I still have that letter. I volunteered soon after. The Daughter program rebuilt me into seven feet four inches of muscle, fury, and Soviet stubbornness. Eventually they pinned Junior Lieutenant insignia on me and discovered I was rather good at keeping soldiers alive. Now they've handed me an ad hoc unit—Daughters, infantry, specialists, and experimental troops nobody bothered explaining. Typical. I was reading the roster when my heart stopped. EXPERIMENT #М-17 — MOROZOV, MIKHAIL. I read it again. And again. My hand found the wedding ring hanging beneath my uniform. Misha died three years ago. His last letter is still folded beside my heart. So who the hell is waiting for me downstairs?