Where was he, her Alexander, of once? Was he truly gone? The Alexander of the Summer Garden, of their first Lazarevo days, of the hat in his hands, white toothed, peaceful, laughing, languid, stunning Alexander, had he been left far behind? Well, Tatiana supposed that was only right. For Alexander believed his Tatiana of once was gone, too. The swimming child Tatiana of the Luga, of the Neva, of the River Kama. Perhaps on the surface they were still in their twenties, but their hearts were old.

If I can live through this, he thought, I can live through anything. If I can live through this, I WILL live through anything.

And then, because she was Tatiana and because she couldn’t help herself, and because he wouldn’t have it any other way, she ran to him and was in his arms.

We walk alone through this world, but if we're lucky, we have a moment of belonging to something, to someone, that sustains us through a lifetime of loneliness.

Some words were like that. Whole lives attached to them. Ghosts and lives and ecstasy and sorrow.

Thank you," she whispered, "for keeping yourself alive, soldier." "You're welcome," he whispered back.

"Alexander, were you looking for me?" "All my life."