The Letter from the Mountains

Afghanistan, 1984

The wind howled like a wounded animal through the narrow mountain pass, carrying with it the scent of dust, gunpowder, and burning memories. Private Alexei Mikhailov sat alone, his back pressed against the jagged stone of an outcrop, his rifle resting loosely across his lap. The stars above the Afghan sky seemed so much colder than the ones over Novosibirsk.

He took a crumpled piece of paper from his breast pocket, one he had hidden from the rain, the mud, and even his comrades. His hands, calloused and bruised, trembled as he smoothed it out on his knee. With a broken pencil, he began to write.

“Mama, Papa… Anya,”

I don’t know if this letter will reach you. The last one I sent never got a reply, but I pray this one does. If you're reading this, then I’m alive. For now.

Every day here feels like a year. The mountains are beautiful but cruel. They stare at us like silent witnesses to everything we do. We patrol villages where no one speaks our language, and yet their eyes tell stories—of fear, of hatred, and sometimes, of hope.

Today, I saw something that broke me.

We were clearing a small village near Khost. It was quiet—too quiet. A boy, no older than Misha, walked toward us with a smile on his face. He waved a cloth, like a flag of peace. I smiled back. I thought of my little brother running to me after school.

Then the world exploded.

The boy had been used. There was nothing left of him but a mark in the dust and the screams of my friends. Two of my brothers didn’t get up. Ever.

I helped carry their bodies down the mountain in silence.

He paused, eyes burning, the wind whipping tears from the corners before they could fall.

“Mama,”

I remember the soup you made with potatoes and dill. The warmth of the kitchen. Your hands, always so gentle, never letting go of mine when I had nightmares. I have them again now—louder, more real.

Tell Anya to keep painting. I carry that little drawing she gave me—a sun over green hills. I look at it every day. It reminds me there is still beauty, even here.

Papa, I understand you now. When you told me war is not about medals but about memories you can’t wash off. You were right. I wear them like shadows.

Do you remember when I left? The snow was just starting to fall, and you said, “Come home with honor.” I didn’t understand then. I think I do now. Honor is not in killing. It’s in staying human.

Sometimes I worry I’m forgetting how.

The fire crackled nearby. A few of the other soldiers laughed quietly around it, but the laughter was thin, stretched like worn cloth. Alexei turned his eyes back to the letter.

“If I don’t come back,”

Please don’t be angry. I did not come here to be a hero. I came because I thought I could make a difference. I came because I believed I had to. Now… I just want to come home.

I want to hear Misha’s laugh again. I want to watch Anya chase the cat around the garden. I want to sit at the kitchen table, with Papa’s radio playing that same old Soviet jazz, and you, Mama, humming along while you knit.

That’s my victory. That’s all I want.

But if I cannot return, I want you to know that I tried to stay good. I helped where I could. I held the hand of a dying friend today, and I told him he wasn’t alone. He smiled with blood in his mouth and said, “Tell my mother I wasn't afraid.”

Please… if I fall, remember me with love, not sorrow. Plant something in my name. A tree, maybe. Something that grows, something that breathes.

Because war takes so much, Mama. It steals faces, names, dreams. But it cannot take your love from me. That is my last strength.

He folded the letter carefully, pressed it to his lips, and tucked it back into his shirt. His breath fogged the cold air as he stood up and looked toward the horizon, where the mountains met the stars.

Tomorrow would come, whether he wanted it to or not.

But tonight, he had written his soul into a letter—and for now, that was enough.

—End—