Petersburg—Petrograd—has changed in my absence, but then, what has not?

I can only hope—

No, but that is a difficult phrase to finish. Hope that you, at least, have remained changeless? Or that you have, indeed, been made different by the passing of time?

Let me put this another way—if all—you…were perfect then…would I have left? That was before I was taken, before I had no power of returning. My will was mine then, and it led me away from you…

But it is not so simply a matter of (im)perfection. You were then, you have always been, perfect. Flawed, but in the same way I am, in ways that could never dull the truth of who you were…are…always will be…

I wonder, now, what colors I will find you in. White, Red, Black, perhaps Green—though I’d hardly expect you to throw your lot in with the peasants. No, I think I’ll find you dressed in Grey, somewhere between the simple purity you were born into, and the dark despair of your later years.

I? You can see me now, can’t you—walking down the unshoveled streets wrapped in a ratty black kaftan, faded to an ugly iron color with a band of pure, lightless black tied with pathetic pride ‘round my right arm, all the wrong papers in my pocket.

Doubtless, I’ll soon die, but I’d rather that than any red standards, any false, pretended ideals. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend.

So bitter. I wish I came to you bearing…something more than these empty hands, dried by harsh winds and hard work; than this mind, still full of confusion, bitterness, and despair.

I do not bring my heart with me, for you still have it. I have come here, at the risk of losing my life, which now, finally has no value to me—with this one purpose in mind…to take back that heart, no matter what it may now contain.

For either way, it will die with me. I have no illusions about death. I still believe—you always knew, I was more like Tolstoy than Bakunin—but even if our souls are joined in this life to come, our hearts will not be. Part of the price for eternal bliss—giving up this beautiful agony—

But to taste—only once before I die—

Will you grant me now, everything I sought before?

Were my desires really mine alone?

Now, finally, I may know—but I’m not entirely sure I want this knowledge.

Ten years. So much has happened—empires destroyed, new ones created…

Legends have been begotten, died, disappeared…a new one is being formed. Iosif Vissarionovich is transforming himself—and this, our beloved motherland—into a thing of steel—hard, cold, ominous…

Will you have also hardened against me? Even now, I can remember—that such a thing is not impossible…

I am nearing. My heart is pounding so loudly…I see the other figures, stumbling through the drifts, staring at me. They can not hear this terrible noise in my breast; they have their other reasons for looking. I know it. I am marked for death…they can smell it. We all can. Those who no longer belong in the place of their birth are easily spotted…and growing fewer…

I watch them now, and I catch a glimpse of golden hair—and for a brief moment, wonder…

If that is how I find you, will it make any difference?

Just please don’t let me find you in Red. The new safe haven, the new blind loyalty, the new elitism…

The building has not changed. Like me, it stands out—marked for death, to be replaced by a soulless version of its once proud self. Time has been sharply divided—pre/post revolution. As always, I am left on neither side—on the divide, the land between…

My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknocker. 113 Nevsky Prospect…I strain to hear any noises inside, but all is silent. My hand rests on the small ring, afraid—but how can I lack for courage now, after having survived Siberia…?

It is one thing to be brave in the face of something you absolutely loathe. It is another to do the same in front of something you love inordinately…

A voice answers the sharp clang of cold metal—not unfriendly, indistinct, words. I cannot tell whether it is yours. Would you really answer a harsh, insistent knock when you have been expecting none? True, it is not the middle of the night…but even if you have turned to their side; that is no reason to let your ever-present guard down…

Unless you know…and, of course, it is not impossible, that you can still…

The door opens and…it’s you—your face has aged, more than I can ever imagine, but your eyes have not changed, and, reaching up, I bend your head down so I may kiss them. All these years…damned to a snowy living grave for having advocated deeds now long done…those eyes haunted all my miserable days, all my fevered dreams…

And now, here, as I stand, cold, starved, and fearful; too aware of the world disintegrating around—us—

I cannot remember having ever been happier in my life, as your warm words melt the icy air—“Welcome back, tovarich.”