Chapter 2: Whispers by the Bonfire

Chapter 2: Whispers by the Bonfire

The words, “Just buy it,” hung in the air, a final, irrevocable decree. Aleksandr Sokolov ended the call, the silence that followed feeling heavier than before. He now owned these ghosts. Every crumbling wall, every weed-choked path, every whisper of memory was his.

He began to walk, his expensive shoes crunching a path where hundreds of smaller, happier feet had once run. He ignored the derelict cabins and the collapsed mess hall, his steps guided by an instinct older and more powerful than his business acumen. He was heading for the heart of the camp, the place where all its life had once converged.

The trees thinned, opening into a clearing. In the center sat a wide, circular pit, lined with stones now green with moss. The old bonfire pit. Ash and charcoal from the last fire, lit over two decades ago, still stained the earth, a permanent scar. Alex stood at the edge, the cool breeze carrying an phantom scent of woodsmoke and singing voices. The world shimmered, the grey present dissolving into the vibrant, dangerous green of the past.

---

Lastochka, 1986.

The first week was a war of attrition. Sashka resisted everything. He mumbled through the patriotic songs, did the mandatory morning exercises with deliberate slowness, and spent every free moment with a book, creating a fortress of paper and ink around himself. He was a small, defiant island in a sea of collectivism.

And Dima watched him.

It wasn’t the watchful eye of a disciplinarian. It was something else. During a forced lesson on knot-tying, where Sashka was purposefully fumbling with the rope, Dima had knelt beside him. The other boys were a dozen paces away, struggling with their own hitches.

“The bowline is for rescue,” Dima had said, his voice low, meant only for Sashka. His fingers, long and deft, guided Sashka’s clumsy hands. A current of warmth passed between them at the brief touch. “It creates a loop that will not slip, no matter the strain. It’s reliable.” He looked up, his brown eyes searching Sashka’s face. “You look like someone who values things that don’t slip.”

Sashka had snatched his hands back as if burned, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d mumbled something about stupid knots and a stupider camp, but the words felt hollow. Dima hadn’t punished him for the disrespect. He’d simply given a small, sad smile and moved on.

He found Sashka again by the lake, during free swim. Sashka was sitting under a pine tree, fully dressed, reading. Dima sat down on the pine needles a few feet away, not speaking for a long moment, just watching the sunlight dance on the water.

“What are you reading?” he finally asked.

Sashka instinctively angled the book so the cover was hidden. It was a dog-eared copy of Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, passed secretly between friends in Kharkiv. It was not on any approved reading list.

“Just a story,” Sashka said, his tone defensive.

“The best ones are,” Dima replied easily. He leaned back on his elbows, the pose casual, yet Sashka felt the intensity of his presence like a physical force. “Do you believe in it? The bright future?” Dima gestured vaguely towards the camp, towards the murals and slogans.

It was a test. A trap. The correct answer was a fervent ‘Yes, Comrade Leader!’ Sashka looked at Dima, at the earnest set of his jaw and the shadows in his eyes, and decided to light a match.

“I believe the paint will peel,” Sashka said flatly.

He waited for the explosion, the lecture, the report. Instead, Dima let out a quiet breath of air that might have been a laugh. He looked out at the lake again. “Paint always does, eventually. The important thing is what’s underneath.” He stood up, brushing the needles from his trousers. “Be at the bonfire tonight, Sashka. Everyone has to be there.” It was an order, but his eyes held a different message, a silent plea.

That night, the entire camp gathered in the clearing. A huge bonfire roared in the central pit, spitting sparks into the starry sky. The air was thick with the sound of a crackling accordion and the unified, slightly off-key singing of a hundred children. It was exactly the kind of enforced joy Sashka detested. He sat on a log at the very edge of the circle of light, cloaked in shadow, feeling utterly alone.

Dima was in his element. He stood near the flames, his face illuminated by the fire’s warm glow, leading a song. He was the perfect Pioneer: strong, charismatic, inspiring. To everyone else, he was an embodiment of the Soviet ideal. To Sashka, he was a walking contradiction, a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

In a pause between songs, Dima’s gaze swept across the crowd. Sashka thought he was hidden, just another face in the darkness, but Dima’s eyes found him instantly. They locked across the dancing flames.

The noise of the camp—the singing, the laughter, the crackling fire—faded into a dull roar. In that moment, there were only the two of them. Dima’s public smile faltered for a fraction of a second, and in his eyes, Sashka saw it all. The same fascination, the same confusion, the same terrifying pull that he himself felt. It wasn’t the look of a leader to a rebellious camper. It was the look of a man seeing his own secret reflected in another’s eyes.

It was a glance that lasted no more than three seconds, but it was a lifetime. It was a confession. A promise. A shared secret that felt louder and more dangerous than the roaring flames.

Dima broke the gaze first, turning back to the group to start another song, his voice a little strained. But the damage was done. The fortress Sashka had built around himself had been breached. He was no longer just resisting a system; he was falling into something far more perilous.

---

The memory receded, leaving Alex standing in the cold, silent clearing. His heart was beating with the ghost of that long-ago rhythm. The glance felt as real now as it had then. It was the moment everything had changed, the moment a defiant boy started to hope.

He looked down at the moss-covered stones lining the pit. That night, Dima had been standing right over there. And Sashka had been sitting… here. He took a half-step back, his heel scuffing against the damp earth.

A dull glint caught his eye.

It wasn’t a reflection from a piece of glass or a discarded bottle cap. It was the corner of something metallic, peeking out from under the root of a gnarled shrub near the edge of the pit.

Curiosity, sharp and immediate, cut through his nostalgic haze. He knelt, the fabric of his thousand-pound suit protesting as it met the dirt. He dug at the soil with his bare hands, the manicured nails of a billionaire tycoon scraping against earth and stone. The soil was compacted, resistant. He didn't care. He dug with a frantic energy he hadn’t felt in years, mud smearing his fingers and the cuff of his pristine white shirt.

His fingers closed around a hard, rectangular shape. He worked it loose from the grip of the roots and pulled.

It was a small tin box, no bigger than a paperback book. Rust bloomed across its surface in angry orange patches, but it was still solid. It looked like a box for sweets or perhaps tea, something a boy might have used to store his treasures.

He stood up, wiping his muddy hands on his trousers without a second thought. The box was heavy, heavier than it should be if it were empty. He held it in his hands, this relic from a forgotten time, unearthed from the very spot where their secret had first been silently acknowledged. What was inside? A childish memento? Or something more?

A shiver, entirely unrelated to the cool evening air, ran down his spine. He shook the box gently. A soft, muffled thud came from within. Something was in there. A whisper from the past, waiting to be heard.