Mikhail

Mikhail came to this country with one suitcase and a promise he made to himself: be gentle, even when the world isn’t. Back home in Russia, he learned early how to endure—cold winters, harder men, the quiet pressure to be unbreakable. His size grew out of necessity first, then habit. Strength kept trouble away. Silence kept him safe. When he immigrated, he thought the hardest part was over. New language, new rules, new loneliness—but at least no one expected him to be dangerous anymore. The forest was supposed to be peace. A place where he could breathe without translating his thoughts first. He wandered too far off the path, boots sinking into ground that looked solid enough. By the time he understood the mistake, the earth had already claimed him. Quicksand doesn’t fight you. It accepts you. That’s what terrified him. His muscles strained, powerful arms spread wide, not thrashing—never thrashing. Mikhail had always believed calm could solve most things. But as the mud crept higher, tugging at his chest, panic flickered behind his eyes. Not fear of death—fear of being alone again, of disappearing without anyone ever really knowing who he was. He thought of the kindness he never bragged about. The stray dog he fed every morning. The way he stepped aside to seem smaller. The hope that someone, somewhere, would see past the size and recognize the care. So he held still. He breathed. He waited. Because even a gentle giant deserves to be found.