Chapter 1: The Last Light in Spitak

The apartment’s single bulb flickered, then died. Arman Sargsyan stared at the ceiling, willing the electricity to return, but the room remained cloaked in a blue twilight. His mother, Lusine, wrapped herself tighter in a woolen scarf, silently counting the jars of pickled vegetables lined up on the kitchen shelf. They had learned to ration everything since the earthquake that tore apart Spitak and Gyumri only two years before. Now, in the winter of 1990, the aftershocks came not from the earth, but from the world unraveling around them. Arman’s little sister, Mariam, pressed her nose to the frosted window. “Will Papa be late again?” she asked, the breath fogging the glass. Lusine did not answer. Instead, she lit a stub of candle, its flame trembling in the draft. “He’ll come when he can,” she said softly, though her hands trembled. They all knew about the fighting on the roads—rumors were everywhere. Above the city, the mountains glowed with the last rays of sun, but the valley below was already in shadow. The power outages came more often now, and the line for bread stretched twice around the square. The Soviet Union, once a monolith of certainty, was fracturing. In Armenia, the scars of the 1988 earthquake had never healed, and the new wounds—border skirmishes with Azerbaijan, ethnic violence, a blockade—brought fresh fear. Arman’s father, Levon, returned just after dark, his boots caked with mud and his face drawn. He carried nothing but a battered satchel and a look that chilled Arman more than the cold. “They’ve closed the road to Stepanavan,” Levon said quietly, closing the door behind him. “Azerbaijani militia at the checkpoint. They’re turning back everyone—sometimes worse.” The room fell silent, the only sound the faint ticking of a wall clock. Lusine’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We have to leave, don’t we?” Levon nodded. “We can’t stay in Spitak. There’s no work. No food left in the shops. The only way out is through the mountains.” Arman felt the weight of his father’s words settle on his chest. He was seventeen, old enough to work, too young to carry the burdens of an adult. The idea of leaving the only home he’d ever known—ruined though it was—filled him with dread. “We’ll go at dawn,” Levon said. “Pack only what you can carry. Winter’s coming fast.” Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes, and Arman wondered if they would see their home again. —

Chapter 2: Into the White Silence

Before sunrise, Arman’s family gathered what they could: two woolen blankets, a sack of dried apricots, a tin of tea, and a battered family photo album. Arman strapped his father’s old satchel to his back, feeling the weight of their meager belongings. The stairwell echoed with hurried footsteps. Other families were leaving too, faces pale and tense. Some carried icons, others lugged battered suitcases or children wrapped in quilts. The air outside was sharp and metallic, the snow underfoot freshly fallen. On the horizon, the mountains loomed, white and indifferent. Levon led the way, his boots crunching through the crusted snow. They skirted the main road, instead following a goat path that wound up through the pines. Mariam clung to Arman’s hand, her breath coming in frosty clouds. They traveled in silence, broken only by the distant thump of artillery—a reminder that the border was close, and war was never far. The Nagorno-Karabakh conflict, once a distant news item, was now a presence in every whispered conversation, every glance over the shoulder. By midday, a group of refugees caught up to them—a woman with two sons, an elderly man with a limp. They spoke little, but the shared burden of flight was enough. At a bend in the trail, Arman looked back. The town of Spitak was barely visible, a cluster of ruined buildings beneath the snow. The sun sank early, and the temperature plummeted. Levon found a sheltered hollow in the rocks, and the families huddled together for warmth. Lusine produced the tin of tea, pouring precious sips into a battered enamel cup. As night fell, Arman listened to the wind moaning through the pines and tried to remember the warmth of electric light, the taste of fresh bread, the comfort of certainty. All of that felt impossibly distant now, as if it had belonged to someone else’s life. —

Chapter 3: Shadows on the Border

They moved at dawn, each step heavier than the last. The path grew steeper, the snow deeper. Arman’s thighs ached, but he pressed on, driven by the memory of his father’s urgent voice, the fear in his mother’s eyes. Near the summit, they paused. Below them, the border with Azerbaijan was visible—a thin thread of road snaking through the valley, dotted with makeshift barricades and the distant glint of vehicles. Smoke rose from the ruins of a border village. Levon crouched behind a boulder, peering through a pair of battered binoculars. “Looks like militia at the checkpoint,” he muttered. “We’ll avoid the main crossing. There’s an old shepherd’s path down the ridge—dangerous, but safer than the road.” The group moved in single file, following Levon’s lead. The air was thin, each breath burning. At one point, Mariam stumbled, her foot plunging through a snowdrift. Arman pulled her free, his heart pounding. As dusk gathered, they heard voices—harsh and guttural, speaking in Azerbaijani. The group froze, pressing themselves against the rocks. Two armed men appeared on the trail below, rifles slung across their shoulders. The refugees held their breath, bodies rigid with fear. The men passed without seeing them, their laughter echoing off the stone. Only when the sound faded did anyone dare to move. That night, they camped in silence. Lusine stroked Mariam’s hair, humming a lullaby. Arman stared into the darkness, his mind racing with images of violence and loss. He wondered if he would see his friends again, if he would ever feel safe. Above them, the stars were cold and bright, indifferent to human sorrow. —

Chapter 4: The Frozen Pass

By the fourth day, their supplies were nearly gone. Hunger gnawed at Arman’s belly, and even Mariam’s usual complaints had faded into hollow silence. The cold was relentless; frost rimed their eyelashes, and the blanket of snow seemed to press down on everything. Levon’s face was pinched with worry. “We have to move faster,” he said, voice low. “If we stay in these mountains, we won’t last.” The path grew treacherous—a ribbon of ice winding between jagged rocks. The elderly man in their group lagged behind, wheezing with every step. Arman doubled back to help, slinging the man’s arm over his shoulder despite his own exhaustion. The pass narrowed, hemmed in by cliffs. A sudden wind kicked up, driving a flurry of snow into their faces. Arman’s vision blurred, and for a moment he felt as if he might simply collapse, let the cold swallow him whole. But Lusine’s voice cut through the storm. “Keep going, Arman! Just a little further.” He forced himself onward, boots scraping on ice. At last, they reached a stand of scrubby trees, where the wind lessened. Levon pointed. “There—beyond the next ridge is the road to Vanadzor. If we can make it, we’ll be safe.” The group collapsed, breathless. Lusine divided the last of the apricots, pressing a piece into Arman’s hand. It was sweet and tart on his tongue, a taste of summers past. That night, they slept huddled together, warmth shared in silence. Arman dreamed of home, but woke to the reality of the frozen pass, and the long road still ahead. —

Chapter 5: A Flicker of Hope

At dawn, a faint hum reached their ears—the sound of an engine, distant but growing louder. Panic rippled through the group. Was it militia? Relief workers? Something worse? Levon motioned for silence. They crouched behind a thicket of snow-laden branches, watching as a battered Soviet Lada crawled up the icy track. The car stopped, and a young man in a Red Cross armband stepped out, waving a faded flag. Arman’s heart leapt. The Red Cross had begun delivering aid in the region, though access was dangerous and unpredictable. The young man—Ararat, he introduced himself—spoke Armenian with a Yerevan accent. “We’re bringing food and medicine to the refugees making their way out of Spitak,” he explained. “The fighting’s getting worse near the border.” The relief worker handed out bread, tinned meat, and blankets. Mariam devoured her portion, eyes shining. The old man wept quietly, his hands trembling as he accepted a thermos of tea. Ararat warned them not to linger. “There are reports of raids on the road,” he said, lowering his voice. “Move quickly, and if you see militia, hide. We can’t guarantee safety.” The group pressed on, buoyed by the food and the knowledge that help, however limited, existed. The snow began to soften, the sun glinting off the mountains. For the first time since leaving Spitak, Arman felt hope flicker inside him—fragile, but real. —

Chapter 6: Shadows of the Past

Two days later, the group reached the outskirts of Vanadzor—a city swollen with refugees, its streets crowded with tents and makeshift shelters. Soviet soldiers patrolled the roads, their faces grim. The air was thick with wood smoke and the scent of unwashed bodies. Levon found a spot in an abandoned schoolhouse, where dozens of families huddled together for warmth. Mariam clung to Lusine, eyes wide at the chaos around them. Arman wandered the halls, searching for familiar faces, snippets of news. He found his friend Vahan, gaunt but alive, sitting on a pile of blankets. They embraced, relief and sorrow mingling. “It’s the same everywhere,” Vahan said. “No work. No food. People wait for news from Moscow, but the government is falling apart.” Arman nodded. The Soviet Union was crumbling, its promises of unity and security turning to ash. The Nagorno-Karabakh conflict had made enemies of neighbors, and the old certainties had vanished. But in the evenings, the refugees gathered around a makeshift stove, sharing stories and songs. Children played in the corridors, their laughter a defiant spark in the gloom. One night, as snow fell outside, Arman sat with his family and gazed at the flickering candle. He knew they had survived the journey, but the future was uncertain. The world was changing, and they would have to change with it. —

Chapter 7: Winter’s End

Spring crept in slowly, melting the last drifts of snow. The Sargsyan family remained in Vanadzor, sharing a room with another refugee family. Arman found work hauling bricks for a construction crew, his hands chapped and raw but grateful for the wages. Mariam attended a makeshift school in the next building, where teachers read poetry by candlelight. Lusine volunteered in the soup kitchen, stirring vats of lentil stew for the hungry. The news from abroad was both hopeful and frightening. Lithuania had declared independence from the Soviet Union; protests erupted in Moscow. In Armenia, the movement for independence grew stronger, but so did the fear of war. Arman watched the world shift, felt himself changing with it. He no longer dreamed of returning to the Spitak he had known, its streets lined with apricot trees and laughter. That world was gone, swept away by earthquake, war, and the tides of history. But in the evenings, as he sat with his family and listened to Mariam’s stories, he felt a new sense of purpose. They had survived the winter, crossed mountains and borders, and found a fragile peace. Outside, the mountains stood silent, their peaks still dusted with snow. But the valley below was greening, and Arman knew that, whatever came next, he would face it with the strength forged in those long, cold months. —