Orange-gold sunlight spilling from the setting sun stuck to the grass. Shadows accentuated the dark rocks and trees round him. The air was clearer than seemed possible; the wind stirred only slightly, at some moments, tearing dying leaves off of limbs, the next. Not only the grass, he observed, but the whole world was a clear, glowing ochre. The sky smooth as dyed milk, clouds non-existent. No other life but his own existed there and then; no one knew the place. Life was surreal. The world was in the shadow of the sun; dimming, dimming, dimming…

"'The pinkish bud has opened,

Rushing to the pale-blue violet

And, stirred by a light breeze,

The lily of the valley has bent over the grass.

High in the clouds the lark

Was singing a chirruping hymn

While the joyful nightingale

With a gentle voice was saying:

Be full of blossom, oh lovely land

Rejoice Iverians' country

And you, oh Georgian, by studying

Bring joy to your motherland.'"

A voice recited his poem, and he turned, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker.

"It's beautiful, don't get me wrong, but is this really what you want to say?" the voice—a woman's--asked. "Is this how you want people to remember you?"

"Who is it?" Josef asked, still looking round. Finally, from behind a large stone in the field they stood in, a young woman stepped out.

"Who are you?" Josef asked, immediately wishing her away; out of his treasured place. But also immediately intrigued.

"Is it? Is that what you feel you must tell the world? Of flowers and lark and song?"

"What are you saying?"

"Isn't there a cause you'd give your life to? Wouldn't you want to write about that?"

"The time will come soon enough when I will show the world my dream," he said carefully.

"I'll be waiting," the woman said softly, fleeing in the next instant. He watched her disappear into the darkening horizon.

---------------

The same time of night, as always. Since the woman's visit, he'd expected her to show up each time he'd gone—once a week—but she'd not been seen for a month, since the first time.

He'd stopped anticipating her appearance; stopped hoping.

"What are you singing?" Squinting his eyes against the sun, Josef titled his head up and saw the young woman lying atop one of the larger rocks, looking down at him. He'd not been aware he was singing. She hummed a few bars.

"Just an old church hymn," he answered, wary.

"You sing well," she admitted, rolling onto her back. Sighing, Josef climbed up with her and sat down, watching her from the corner of his eye.

"Thank you."

"You used to be in a church choir, did you not?"

"Used to be. Long ago."

"Oh come on," she laughed, "It was only a few years."

"Long enough," he murmured.

---------------

Many times she'd come; many times they'd spoken. She asked him questions that he always answered vaguely, and he repeatedly asked her identity, never receiving a response. Josef would come the usual time, never knowing when to expect her, and she'd suddenly show up; he couldn't tell if she'd been waiting there all along.

She stood up from the large rock that had become Theirs and stretched, jumping off in the next instant. It wasn't until she'd landed that he noticed she had the speech he'd practised on her. She laughed and darted away when he reached for the paper, running across the endless field and leaping over any obstacles.

"Come back!" Josef called, never intending to stop chasing her.

"Give it back!" Laughter baited him and carried him forward.

"Come get it, Soso," she called back, using his childhood name; her names for Josef varied with the day.

Finally, she slowed enough for him to catch up, and he held her still with one arm while snatching back the paper with the other—he couldn't be angry with her. Her breathless mirth filled the air and he considered that it was a moment in which a kiss would be expected, had they been in a novel.

Still holding her to him, still holding the paper, wrinkled, in his hand, he leaned down and kissed her softly, afraid she would once more disappear into the horizon.

---------------

Stalin still thought of her. He remembered chasing after her; felt as though he still was. He thought of her when he was with Ekaterina. He thought of her when he she died. He though of her when he was with Nadezhda. He thought of her when she committed suicide. He thought of her when he was alone. He thought of her when he died.

---------------

He'd been frozen with her, their lips touching lightly but definitely. When he pulled back, breathless, she was smiling.