Chapter 5: The Last Sunset

Chapter 5: The Last Sunset

The idyllic bubble of the forest clearing had burst, and its poison seeped into the final days of camp. The air itself felt different, thin and charged with static electricity before a lightning strike. Leonid’s gaze was a physical weight, a constant surveillance that followed Dima everywhere. And because Dima was a magnet for Sashka’s attention, that oppressive watch extended to him, too. He saw Leonid’s pale, intense eyes on him during meals, during the hollow finality of the evening flag-lowering, during the forced cheer of the last assembly. He felt like an insect under glass.

Dima was a ghost of the confident leader he had been. The easy smile was gone, replaced by a tight, strained line. The warmth in his eyes had been banked, leaving behind a deep, troubled shadow. He moved through the camp’s routines with a flawless, mechanical precision that was more alarming than any open defiance. He was performing his role perfectly, and only Sashka could see the desperation behind the mask.

The direct confrontation Sashka had unknowingly read about in the future came two days before the buses were scheduled to arrive. Sashka witnessed it from a distance, hiding behind the corner of the mess hall. He saw Leonid intercept Dima near the main administrative building, a place of authority and judgment.

Leonid’s posture was rigid, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier on parade. Dima stood more loosely, but with a tension in his shoulders that betrayed his outward calm. Sashka was too far away to hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He could read the exchange in Leonid’s sharp, accusatory gestures, in his fanatical conviction. He saw Leonid jab a finger towards the city, towards the heart of the Party, a clear threat of escalation. He saw Dima’s response, his hands raised in a placating gesture that was met with a rigid shake of Leonid’s head.

This was not a disagreement between friends. It was an interrogation. An ultimatum. When Leonid finally spun on his heel and marched away, Dima remained standing there for a long moment, his head bowed, the red of his Pioneer scarf a slash of mockery against the defeat in his posture. He looked utterly, terrifyingly alone.

That evening, at their final dinner, the mood in the canteen was raucous. Campers, giddy with the prospect of returning home, were shouting, trading addresses, and banging their tin cups on the tables. Sashka sat alone at the end of a bench, pushing his greasy buckwheat around his plate, the noise a meaningless roar in his ears.

Dima was moving between the tables, saying his official goodbyes to the children in his squad. He moved with purpose, making his way slowly, inevitably, towards Sashka’s end of the hall. When he reached the bench, he didn’t stop, but he slowed his pace just enough, leaning in as if to collect an empty plate.

“The last sunset is always the most beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that slid under the cacophony of the room. He didn’t look at Sashka, his eyes fixed on the table. “From our place. One last time.”

Then he was gone, moving on to the next table. It was a message delivered in plain sight, a secret transmitted through the noise. Our place. A final, desperate summons.

Sashka slipped out of the mess hall minutes later, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He took the now-familiar path into the forest, the setting sun casting long, dramatic shadows that clawed at him from between the trees.

The clearing, when he reached it, was bathed in a surreal, heartbreaking glow. The sky to the west was a blaze of orange, pink, and deep violet. Dima was standing in the center, his back to the path, watching the sun bleed across the horizon.

He turned as Sashka entered, and the sight of his face stole the air from Sashka’s lungs. All pretense was gone. The pain, the fear, and a love so profound it was terrifying were all laid bare in his eyes.

“He’s going to do it,” Dima said, his voice raw. There was no need for names. “When we get back to the city, he’s going to report me to the Komsomol committee. For ideological corruption. For… this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of them, encompassing the whole impossible, beautiful thing they had built.

“Then we run,” Sashka said, the words tumbling out, born of pure panic. “We can get on a train, go somewhere else—”

“Where, Sashka?” Dima’s voice was gentle, but it cut through the childish fantasy. “There is nowhere else. They would find us. And it would be worse for you. You’re sixteen. I’m a Pioneer Leader. They would say I corrupted you. They would ruin your life before it’s even begun.”

The brutal logic of it crashed down on Sashka. He felt a wave of helpless rage, not at Dima, but at the world, at Leonid, at the system that made their truth a crime. “So that’s it? It’s over?”

“Here, yes,” Dima said, taking a step closer. He reached out and cupped Sashka’s jaw, his thumb stroking the skin. “This summer is over. But we are not.” His eyes burned with a desperate sincerity. “You have to believe me. This isn’t the end. I will find you in Kharkiv. I have your address from your file. I’ll write. I will find you.”

“How?” Sashka whispered, his voice breaking. “How can I be sure?”

“With this,” Dima said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. It was a simple silver locket on a delicate chain, tarnished with age. It gleamed softly in the dying light. He pressed it into Sashka’s palm. The metal was cool against his feverish skin.

“My grandmother gave this to my mother,” Dima explained, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s been in my family for years. It’s… real. Not something from the state. It’s ours.” He closed Sashka’s fingers around it. “Take it. Keep it with you always. Don’t open it, just keep it safe. When I find you—and I will find you—I will ask for it back. That’s how you’ll know it’s really me, and that it’s safe.”

It wasn’t just a keepsake. It was a key. A password for a future meeting. A tangible piece of a promise in a world of lies. Sashka clutched it so tightly the edges dug into his palm.

“I’ll wait,” Sashka vowed, his voice hoarse. “For as long as it takes.”

The sun had dipped below the horizon now, plunging the clearing into a deep blue twilight. Dima leaned in and captured his lips in a final, heartbreaking kiss. It wasn’t like their first, hungry and full of discovery. This kiss was deep and slow, filled with the taste of salt and sorrow, a desperate attempt to memorize a feeling, to brand it onto the soul to last through the long winter ahead.

When they parted, Dima’s forehead rested against his. “You have to go now,” he whispered. “Go back to your cabin. Pack your things. Get on the bus tomorrow and don’t look for me. It’s safer that way. Please, Sashka. Go now. And don’t look back.”

It was the hardest command he had ever been given. Every instinct screamed at him to stay, to hold on, to fight. But he saw the plea in Dima’s eyes, the fear for his safety that outweighed his own. Nodding, unable to speak past the lump in his throat, Sashka turned. He forced his legs to move, to carry him away from the only truth he had ever found. The silver locket was a cold, hard promise in his clenched fist. He walked out of the clearing, out of their sanctuary, and, obeying that final, desperate order, he did not look back.