It was quiet in the dimly lit hut in the outskirts of the river town Rostow. The only sounds that could be heard were the winds of a snowstorm in the midst of Russian winter knocking against the rotting planks, the rusted, frozen nails grating in place promising to break in another two or three seasons. The silent sizzling of a cigarette that had been sitting in the old ceramic ashtray for a little too long now was the only noise produced in the inside of the cottage. Next to the wooden table on which the ashtray rested, on a wooden chair with creaking, wooden legs sat a man who, if he stood up, would have to bend his head so as not to hit the ceiling. He was steering down at an important looking file that contained important looking documents, opened between his two hands illuminated only by the weakly flickering oil lamp hanging just above him.

His gaze was fixed, as if hypnotized, on a single line of text.

"PETROVA SÓWKA: DECEASED, VLADIMIR SÓWKA: DECEASED - CAUSE: CONFIDENTIAL"

The man sitting in this small hut in the outskirts of the river town Rostow had been stuck in this pose for a while now. Seemingly frozen in place, like a reptile, there had not been a single movement in his body up until now. Up until he closed the file. The black paper binding, with the words "HUMAN RESOURCES: HERO DEPARTMENT 2001" on it, was folded closed between his palms. The eyes of the man portrayed a twisted sense of confidence. A sense of passion, of desire. There was not a smile on his lips, but yet he seemed content.

He tossed the file onto the wooden floor. It landed with the signature splat this important type of document made when it was tossed to the floor. The man stood up from wooden stool that had been far too small for him and bent his head down so as not to hit his head. He walked over to the corner of the hut. Grabbing a canister that looked like it carried fluids regular people would fill their cars with, the man took a last look around. Opening the lid of the canister and pouring all its transparent, liquid contents in and around the hut, over the file, the table, the stool and the old planks that would bust out of the rotting wood come summer, the man began to show himself affected by something. There was a sadness, and a deep reflection of regret in his eyes. A reflection that disappeared the moment he pulled out a lighter from the pocket of his winter coat. There was the quiet sound of gas escaping and the flash of a spark. Walking out of the hut that was slowly beginning to incinerate from the ground up, the man knew there would be no turning back. Not anymore.

Stepping out into the snowstorm, the man left behind the burning hut. He would never return here, to the place he called his home. To Rostow. To the small hut his father used to take him out for camping. To the woods in which one could spot white wolves, lynx's and deers. This place only caused him grief and anger. It only reminded him of the past. But he had sworn to look towards the future.