A lone dead oak fights against the autumn wind at the crossroads of two narrow roads. Heavy rain beats down on the landscape filled with plowed fields, soaking everything through. Simon walks along the edge of the rutted road, his boots sinking into the soft ground and leaving tracks that vanish beneath the wild ryegrass. The fabric hood of his parka, pulled low, keeps his bald head dry, but the drops streaming from the edges wet his face. Simon digs a tin cigarette case from his pocket and glances up at the sky, noting from the heaving gray cloud cover that the rain will not stop anytime soon. The dented lid of the case opens with a muffled pop, and Simon lifts the last cigarette to his lips. His eyes feel rough and tired, and his temple throbs as he takes out a half-empty matchbox and lights the cigarette, quickly dampened by the rain.
Simon crouches down, watching the water-filled ruts in the road beside him. Careful not to step out from the shelter of the grass, he stretches his arm as far as he can and presses the empty cigarette case upright into the muddy road surface. Raindrops patter against the tin with a muted click, shattering on impact. He exhales a cloud of smoke into the rain, then unbuttons the chest pocket of his coat and draws out a light linen handkerchief. The pale fabric is barely kept dry as small streams of water run off its oil-stain-speckled surface. Holding the cloth by one corner, he raises his hand and follows the movements of the ever-dampening scrap to see where the wind is blowing. The gusts toss the tattered linen in every direction, but after a short while a pattern emerges: the wind comes from the west and moves toward the east.
With effort, Simon stands and glances back over his shoulder at the lifeless tree behind him. Its branches sway from side to side, yet even in death they still hold their ground against the forces of nature. In silence he wonders what could have killed the tree. There is nothing around it that might compete for space. The bark bears no sign of disease, and the trunk and roots appear outwardly sound. Simon steps up to the tree, runs his hand along its gnarled surface, and studies the lower branches. Selecting one that is both strong and slender enough, he ties one end of the handkerchief to a fork halfway along it. When his dark half-fingered glove lets go, the wind seizes the free end and whips it like a dirty white flag. Though the storm hurls the ragged linen violently about, the free end stays clear, never tangling with the churning sea of branches. Simon’s gaze lingers on the scrap of cloth as he takes a short step back and draws the last smoke of the cigarette into his lungs. The light from above is so muted that the orange ember glows in the grayness like a distant sun.
When the wind pauses for the briefest moment and the cloth drops out of Simon’s sight, it reveals a small, weathered two-story wooden house standing alone behind it. The house’s pale paint has flaked away over the years, and the yard has grown wild. From the crossroads where the tree stands, the house lies about two hundred and fifty meters away. Simon extinguishes his cigarette against the oak’s rough bark and slips the unburned end into the same chest pocket from which the fluttering cloth had been drawn moments earlier. Knowing precisely where to place his hand, he lifts the Russian-made Mosin–Nagant rifle from where it rests against the trunk and sets it onto his shoulder. He sets off toward the house, which appears deserted.
The front door creaks open, and Simon’s heavy boots thud against the wooden floor of the entryway. He closes the door softly behind him and stands motionless, listening to the breathing of the house. Apart from the sound of wind and rain, the house seems lifeless, the air inside unmoving. Gently, Simon slips the rifle from his shoulder and grips it with both hands. From the sheath hanging beneath his coat, he draws a bayonet forged of black steel and clicks it into place at the end of the barrel. His finger rests ready beside the trigger guard as he moves slowly toward the doorway on his right. The floorboards creak under his shifting weight as he glances into the kitchen, where time itself seems to have stopped. Nothing reacts to his presence.
Simon moves slowly from the kitchen doorway into the corridor on his left. A steep staircase rises opposite the front door, but he keeps his rifle trained on the other ground-floor room. The rusted hinges barely manage to hold up the forgotten doors of the cupboard built beneath the stairs. Simon carefully pushes them shut as he passes. Each step forward widens the view ahead. At the end of the corridor, he lowers the rifle, leans lightly against the cracked doorframe, and pauses to listen. He draws a deep breath. He waits a moment, exhales slowly, then steps into the room. With a smooth motion, the rifle is ready again, and his eyes, adjusted to the dimness, sweep across the space. A sofa, long since emptied of its straw filling, stands in the middle of a worn carpet. In the corner, on a brown-painted sideboard covered in dust and grime, rests a walnut-veneered tube radio. Dark shadows on the wallpaper mark the places where paintings once hung, and the tattered curtains before the clouded windows filter a pale, cold light into the room. The house remains silent, and the ground floor appears to be lifeless.
Simon steps onto the upstairs landing, feeling slightly safer than before. A floorboard groans louder under his weight, and though the air smells of a damp cellar, the house’s wooden frame still feels solid beneath his feet despite the years of rot. The small bedroom above the kitchen has been left behind like the rest of the house. A stiff bedspread lies on the mold-speckled bed, and the half-open wardrobe doors reveal that only the essentials were taken. He turns toward the end of the corridor and the last closed door in the house. His mind remains relatively calm, still running through every possibility of what might wait inside that room. He shifts the rifle into his right hand and carefully turns the handle. The iron latch clicks open, and Simon’s field of vision narrows. Taking a firm grip on the weapon, he pushes the door open with the bayonet fixed to its dark barrel. With slow, deliberate steps, Simon enters the room and lets his eyes sweep methodically through every dark corner. In a heartbeat, he understands he is alone, and his shoulders sink. When he closes the door behind him, he breathes deeply for the first time since entering the house.
Exhausted, Simon squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his lined forehead with his thin, calloused fingers. Fatigue fills his body more heavily than ever before, and he sways with each breath. He steadies himself against the backrest of a dark-stained wooden chair and swallows. As the swaying slowly subsides, Simon opens his eyes and stares into nothing. When his pupils regain focus, he notices an envelope leaning against the lone four-paned window. It catches his attention, and the familiar caution returns. There is no name on it, but at a glance it’s clear the envelope doesn’t belong here. It is clean, dry, and new. The faint light filtering through it reveals something smaller inside. Moving swiftly but carefully, Simon takes a few steps to the side to avoid standing directly in line with the window ahead. Without taking his eyes off the envelope, he slides beside the window frame and gently pulls aside the curtain, riddled with insect holes. Pressing his back tightly against the wall and leaning into the cold wood, he lowers himself to the floor. He pulls off his wool fingerless gloves, stuffs them into his pocket, and grips the rifle tightly across his lap. With his legs bent and the weapon cradled in his arms, he reaches out from beneath the windowsill toward the envelope. With a slow but deliberate motion, careful not to expose himself to any eyes that might be watching from outside, Simon takes the envelope between his fingers. Then he waits. He waits for what feels like an eternity, ignoring the mysterious kraft-paper envelope in his hand, but nothing happens. The rain still hammers against the shingled roof, and the wind howls along the outer walls of the house.
Simon turns his gaze to the envelope, turning it over in his hands, but even under close inspection he finds no markings on its brown matte surface. His eyebrows draw together, and deep furrows of thought form across his forehead. There is no stamp, no seal, and the material feels sturdy between his fingers. Simon knows this kind of envelope from archiving and official use, but otherwise it offers no clue as to how it ended up on the windowsill. With effort, Simon rises to his feet and props the rifle against the wall. He casts a cautious glance out the window and sees the distant oak, with the scrap of cloth still tied to its branch. There is no sign of life anywhere. He turns the envelope over and slides a finger beneath the unsealed flap. As he parts the opening, a photograph slips into his hand. Its back is light gray, and in the upper right corner someone has written a single word in ink: Target. Simon flips the photograph over, and the faint expression that remained on his face vanishes completely as he understands what—or rather who—the picture shows. He pulls the cloth hood from his head and sinks onto the wooden chair behind him, drained of all strength. The chair creaks, and the last hint of color fades from his narrow, pale cheeks. He stares at the person in the photograph in disbelief, his mind racing as he searches for an explanation, a way out. But there is none—only the task he was sent to do, coldly and with purpose.
Simon rises to his feet and looks around the dim, barren room. Against the wall stands a modest dining table, and by its height, he judges it just right for his purpose. He drags the table in front of the window, checking that each of its four legs stands firmly on the floor. The tabletop rests just below the sill and is perfectly suited for what he needs. He takes the rifle by the barrel and, with a smooth motion, unfastens the bayonet from its cold steel end. Carefully, he slips the narrow tip of the blade into the gap between the glass pane and the wooden frame in the lower left corner of the window. With a barely perceptible twist, the wood yields and the pane shifts slightly in its mount. Simon moves the bayonet a little higher and repeats the gentle twisting motion, then works his way down to the lower frame resting against the sill. The damp, softened wood cracks easily away, and in an instant, the small pane comes free from the grip that has held it for decades. He slides the bayonet back into its sheath and checks once more that no one is outside the house.
As Simon lifts the glass pane carefully from its frame and sets it down on the table, the sound of rain floods the room. The autumn wind rushes in, sweeping away the stale, cellar-like scent that has gripped the place for years. The curtains, long pressed against the wall, finally stir, and a faint light falls across the table, slightly brighter than before. He shrugs off his damp coat and hangs it on the back of the wooden chair. He moves the chair aside to make room and picks up the rifle. Laying it gently on its side across the tabletop, he inspects it with care. Using his shirtsleeve, he wipes the wooden and metal surfaces dry. He checks the magazine: five rounds. Then the sights, the trigger, and the bolt. Lowering himself into a high kneel, Simon rests the rifle on the table and aims the barrel through the small opening into the cold autumn rain. Careful to keep the muzzle out of the light, he leans forward and steadies his aim. In the cramped space, he adjusts his stance and aligns his eye with the sights. Through the small window gap, he can see the crossroads two hundred and thirty meters away. The dead oak stands alone. Rain cuts across his view at a sharp angle, and he sees the wind tearing at the thin strip of linen tied to the branch. The wind still blows from west to east.
Slowly, Simon inhales through his nose and exhales through a narrow gap between his lips. As the excess air leaves his lungs, he feels his muscles tighten and the rifle press harder against his shoulder. He closes his eyes, counts silently to three, and imagines the moment of the shot — its recoil through his chest, its echo in this confined space. Certain of his aim and his skill, he opens his eyes and stands. One last time, Simon glances at the photograph of his target. He memorizes every recognizable feature and then sets the photo face down on the table’s damp surface. For a brief moment, he lets his hand rest upon it before sitting back in the chair behind him, laying the rifle across his lap. As he leans into the wooden backrest, he knows he is ready.
Then Simon waits. Though the house remains cold, sheltering from the wind and finally being still makes him feel unbearably tired. Weary, he reaches into his coat pocket, takes out a coin, and closes it in his right fist. The individual drops of rain merge into one steady sheet of sound. Slowly, his eyelids fall shut, and his head sinks forward.
At that very moment, a woman in a red wool coat struggles with her pram along the muddy road. The thin wheels sink into the sludge, and the hem of her long coat and her black leather ankle boots soak up the damp rising from the ground. Though these surroundings are familiar to her, the years spent among the city’s elite have turned that distant time into something closer to a dream than a memory. She pushes the pram forward with all her strength, swallowing the growing urge to cry, when something small and gleaming on the road ahead catches her eye. Letting go of the handle, she approaches the humble object standing upright in the mud. She bends down and lifts the tin cigarette case in a hand adorned with red nail polish, rings, and a silver bracelet. Above her, the heavy blanket of clouds begins to break. Slowly, the rain weakens, then dies away.
Simon’s arm falls slack, and the coin slips from his fist, clattering onto the wooden floor. The sound jolts him awake, and for a few seconds, he has no idea where he is. As he listens, he realizes the rain has stopped. The last traces of sleep vanish, and with a swift movement, he grabs the rifle from his lap and rises into a high kneel. He pushes the worn leather sling aside, leans forward onto the table, and glances at the pale gray back of the photograph beside him. Resting his cheek against the rifle’s stock, he peers through the small window opening. Against the gray landscape stands a slender figure in red. Through the sights, he watches the woman straighten and turn a tin cigarette case in her hand. She looks around, puzzled, searching for the person who might have dropped it. The diversion has worked perfectly — she’s stopped exactly where Simon intended. He draws the bolt back, then pushes it forward. The first round slides into the chamber. He checks the wind’s direction and strength by the strip of linen tied to the dead oak’s branch, then adjusts his aim slightly to her left. Slowly, he exhales. The rifle rests firm against his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. Every movement of his body is automatic, flawless — but inside, his mind begins to fracture. He knows the next step and feels the weight of duty and power run through him. Yet instead of slowing his breath, it quickens. His elbows press painfully against his ribs, and the last trace of calm leaves him as tears spill down his cheeks. Today, Simon cannot cross that line. He cannot pull the trigger.
Suddenly, from behind him, a click echoes — the latch of the lightly closed door to the upstairs hallway snaps open as the air shifts through the house. Simon startles and springs to his feet from his kneeling position, ready to fight his way out, when a sight freezes him in place. He sees himself, head bowed, sitting on the wooden chair, rifle in hand, fist clenched around the coin. Simon stares at this other version of himself, mouth open, hands trembling, struggling to comprehend what he sees. His teeth clench, and with a sudden jerk, he lifts the rifle, aligning the barrel with the chest of the chair-bound figure. He struggles with all his might to erase the image forged by the past, but with every breath, the ghost grows more real. He presses the rifle tighter against his body. A stream of tears clouds his eyes as a furious scream escapes from his throat, filling every corner of the room. Then he fires.
The rifle’s explosive blast carries across the open landscape, ricocheting off the dead oak’s bark before fading into the air. The woman flinches violently, and the tin cigarette case slips from her slender hand, falling back into the muddy ground. Panicked, she spins toward the source of the sound and sees the curtain swaying in the upper window of the abandoned house. For her, time seems to freeze around her at the echo of the shot. The wind, once fierce, suddenly eases, and the gray blanket of clouds covering the sky begins to fracture into smaller, scattered pieces.
Fearfully glancing toward the house, the woman pushes her pram along the partially collapsed wooden fence that surrounds the wild, overgrown yard. She looks at the familiar house number painted on the gatepost and reaches into the black leather handbag among the luggage in the pram’s bassinet. The metal clasp snaps open, and with trembling hands, she pulls out a large iron key from the inner pocket. As she reaches the front door, ready to insert the key into the padlock, she notices it is already cracked open, the rusted lock lying broken in the grass beside the steps. Quietly and cautiously, she opens the door wider and steps into the darkened entryway. Memories and fear intertwine, pressing heavily against her chest.
The disturbed air moves the upstairs doors slightly as her black leather ankle boots echo against the steep staircase. When she steps into the room, the sight freezes her in place. On the floor, partially atop a fallen chair, lies a dead, unknown man, a gunpowder-darkened gunshot wound at his chest. His face is lifeless, his body still. A long-barreled firearm rests nearby, and a table has toppled over. A lone coin has rolled upright into a gap in the weathered floorboards. Dust and grime hang in the air, and a faint breeze stirs the stiff curtains where a windowpane is missing. The house is unnervingly silent.
She steps forward cautiously, her eyes scanning the body before her. She has no idea who this man is or how he came to this abandoned house, yet the shock is overwhelming. Slowly, tears fill her large, dark eyes. She lifts her hand to her face, trying to stifle her quiet sobs and steady her breathing, but it seems impossible. Her eyelids press shut, and her body trembles.
Finally opening her eyes, the woman sees through her tears an envelope resting near the body and a black-and-white photograph lying beside it. She bends quickly to lift them away from the spreading pool of blood, then steps back cautiously, trying to put some space between herself and the horrific scene. Shaken, she examines the photograph in her hands. At first, her mind cannot comprehend what it shows, but something in it draws her attention. Looking closer, she flinches. The black-and-white photo depicts a wooden-paneled army barracks, its short front steps blanketed in fresh snow. Two men stand at the base of the stairs, rifles tightly slung across their shoulders. The breast pockets of their grey coats bear metal badges: crossed long-barreled rifles with the number “600” beneath. The face of the man on the left has been scratched beyond recognition, but the man on the right is clearly young and carefree. At that very moment, the woman realizes that the same young, carefree man now lies dead before her on the cold wooden floor of this small, dark room.