57°54'35.4"N 27°43'15.2"E

The road, with a stretch of five hundred meters,

glides beneath a sky

that no longer recognizes the passing of time.

From one end to the other,

five hundred meters of Russia

not the Russia of headlines,

or sanctions, or flags.

No.

The other Russia,

the rebel,

the fucked up by fear.

Crossing it,

an ancient echo shoots up.

Not just from the fear,

but from something more primal,

a vertigo without name,

what's loved and what's hated,

what's lost and what burns,

remembrance and despair.

The one who crossed that threshold,

and found refuge in this land,

knows they'll never return.

This war isn’t theirs,

but still,

the war follows them.

The beauty that once held them,

the rebellion they adored,

now rots beneath the weight of uniforms.

In those fleeting five hundred meters,

where the asphalt turns to a tight thread,

a gap in time opens,

a crack that still beats.

The secret home, the one they dreamed of,

breathes there,

in that space where nothing exists.

The heavy gray sky,

look ahead,

five hundred meters of Russia.

Feels something stab the chest,

like an ice pick.

Drive.

Five hundred meters later,

you’ll be back in Estonia.