“Lieutenant Anna, you’ve done excellent work this week. Your mission will end with the next interview,” her superior announced, handing her the last file.
Anna sighed in relief, feeling a mix of accomplishment and exhaustion. Over the past week, she had interviewed twelve Russian soldiers who had recently returned from Ukrainian captivity as part of a prisoner exchange. The task had been emotionally taxing—listening to stories of loss, survival, and the scars of war.
The next file in her hands belonged to Sergeant Mikhailo. She flipped through the documents on her tablet: military history, place of origin, medical certificate, planned place of residence, discharge oath, and a personal belongings list. His profile photo caught her attention. Dark hair, piercing black eyes—he was strikingly handsome. Twenty-three years old, three years her junior.
She smiled faintly, feeling a rare lightness. Perhaps this interview would be easier. But her optimism dimmed when she noticed a note in his medical certificate: “Mental condition: mostly normal.”
This was unusual. Most former prisoners of war suffered some degree of mental trauma—PTSD, aphasia, paranoia, or deep emotional detachment. Anna braced herself for the unknown as she entered the interview room.
Mikhailo sat relaxed in his chair, wearing civilian clothes. He looked up and smiled. “Nice to meet you. It’s been two years since I last saw a young woman. Four years since I saw a beautiful one,” he quipped.
Anna couldn’t help but chuckle. “Thank you,” she replied, taking her seat. He didn’t seem like the hardened soldier she had expected.
Their conversation began smoothly. Mikhailo had served in a mortar company stationed on the Donetsk front, where he was eventually captured by Ukrainian forces. Unlike many of the soldiers Anna had interviewed, he spoke candidly and without signs of deep trauma. His demeanor was calm, almost detached.
After completing the formalities, Anna signed his social reintegration certificate. Mikhailo was now clear to complete his discharge procedures and return to civilian life. As they boarded the shuttle bus together, heading to the discharge office, Anna felt a rare sense of closure.
On the bus, curiosity got the better of her. “How are you planning to live when you go back home?”
Mikhailo turned to her, his dark eyes steady and unwavering. “I’m not going home.”
Anna frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’m re-enlisting,” he said plainly. “I’m going back to the front line in Donetsk.”
Her heart sank. “But why? You’ve been through so much. You have a chance to start fresh, rebuild your life.”
He gazed out of the window for a moment before answering. “Because too many of my comrades died there. I can’t leave it like this. It doesn’t feel right.”
Anna stared at him, the words “mostly normal” from his medical certificate echoing in her mind. She realized that Mikhailo’s calm demeanor masked a deeper wound—a sense of duty and guilt that no certificate could measure.
The bus slowed as they neared their stop. Mikhailo turned to her with a faint smile. “Thank you for your kindness, Lieutenant. I’ll remember it.”
Anna nodded, unable to find the right words. As he stepped off the bus, she watched him walk away, carrying the weight of his choices.
Her mission was over, but Mikhailo’s journey was far from it. And as the bus pulled away, she couldn’t help but wonder if “mostly normal” was the most tragic diagnosis of all.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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