Episode 1. The Hour of Silence

Story

Rain hammered the tops of the pines like blows struck on the drums of a funeral procession. The night, heavy and numb, was pierced only by the halo of the rusted lampposts lining the entrance to the Kuntsevo dacha. The air smelled of mud, metal, and the imminent end of a reign no one yet dared proclaim.

Two guards stood watch in rigid posture, without a word. Their pale faces, worn by fatigue and fear, seemed carved from Soviet stone. Nothing disturbed their vigil except gusts of wind and the constant runoff from the gutters. Until, in the saturated darkness, a black silhouette slowly detached itself from the shadow of the woods.

She walked with a firm, straight step, without hurrying. Each footfall on the rain-soaked slabs rang out like a grim metronome. When she crossed into the light, her face remained hidden beneath a soaked hood, but the two soldiers exchanged a brief glance, not of surprise, but of recognition.

Without asking a question, they stepped aside. The gate was opened. The silhouette entered.

Inside, the corridors of the presidential residence were silent, bathed in a sickly glow from the ceiling lights. The servants slept. The guard commanders, for obscure reasons, were absent. At the end of a long hallway, a heavy wooden door remained ajar onto a dimly lit bedroom.

The man lying in that immense bed, draped in blankets made heavy by age and sweat, breathed softly. The marshal, the strategist, the father of nations, had been reduced to a feverish carcass, his breath as thin as the fragile line of his power.

The silhouette approached the bed without a sound. She raised her hand. A small translucent device pulsed faintly in the darkness like a silent witness, then the bare hand slowly came to rest on the sick man's forehead, fingers spreading in an almost ritual gesture. The contact lasted several seconds. Nothing moved. Nothing was said.

Then the silhouette straightened, turned, and left the room. No trace. No witness. Nothing.

Only at dawn did the servants enter the bedroom. The supreme leader lay on the floor, inert, eyes half closed, mouth open as if frozen in one final order never spoken.

No one knew exactly who raised the alarm, nor how much time had passed since the incident. Accounts diverged. Some spoke of an illness during the night. Others claimed the doctors had been deliberately delayed.

For three days, the highest spheres of Soviet power locked themselves in icy silence. Communications with the outside world were controlled with relentless rigor. Members of the Politburo met in the shadows, as if dividing a poisoned inheritance.

On March 5, the announcement came: Comrade Stalin was dead.

The people were stunned. Lines stretched to view a body many dared not even contemplate. Tears flowed through the streets of Moscow, while official voices hailed the passing of an eternal guide.

But in the most discreet corridors of the apparatus, another question was on everyone's lips: What will happen now?

No one mentioned the silhouette.

No one mentioned the night of March 2.

And no one suspected that something, or someone, had carried away far more than a simple breath that morning.