Arctic Great Wall.
Veteran Bar.
The heavy wooden door shielded against the bone-chilling wind outside.
But it couldn't block the steam inside, the spicy scent of cheap tobacco, and the rich aroma of strong beer.
It was nearing evening, the bar bustling with heads, voices rising to a fever pitch.
The men who had just rotated from the front lines took off their combat uniforms and changed into worn-out cotton jackets or shiny leather vests.
They gathered in groups of threes and fours around the sturdy wooden tables.
The crisp sound of coarse ceramic bowls clashing, hearty laughter mixed with curses, and the intermittent whimper of a harmonica from the corner.
All melded into the unique warmth of this frozen land.
In the corner near the bar.
A man sat alone.
He appeared to be around forty, his face etched with wind and frost, showing indifference.
Sunken eyes within carried a near-void silence.
As if he'd seen too much snow and death.
