Snow fell slowly outside the estate, drifting through the quiet winter night as if time itself had slowed. Large white flakes settled on the branches of the old trees, on the roof of the manor house, and across the garden paths that were already disappearing beneath a thick blanket of snow.
From a distance the Skoropadsky estate looked peaceful.
But the house was not asleep.
Servants moved quietly through the corridors, speaking in hushed voices. Doors opened and closed almost silently. Everyone inside understood that something important was happening behind one of the doors.
In an upstairs bedroom, a struggle between life and death was taking place.
Pavlo Skoropadsky stood by the window, watching the snow fall across the dark garden. He had been standing there for a long time, though he had stopped counting the minutes.
The clock somewhere in the corridor struck again, its sound echoing through the silent house.
From the room behind him came another cry.
Pavlo closed his eyes.
Childbirth.
Even in noble families, even with experienced doctors and midwives, it was never truly safe.
He turned away from the window and began to pace the room. His boots creaked softly against the wooden floor as he crossed the study, turned, and walked back again.
Outside, the world looked calm.
Inside the house, every moment felt heavy with tension.
Another cry came from the bedroom.
Pavlo clenched his jaw.
He was an officer of the Guards, trained to remain calm under artillery fire, trained to keep control in the chaos of battle. But this waiting was far worse than any battlefield.
Footsteps approached quickly down the corridor.
Pavlo turned just as the door opened.
The midwife stood in the doorway. Her face was tired, but there was relief in her expression. She gave a respectful bow.
—"Your Excellency."
Pavlo looked at her carefully.
—"Did everything go well?"
The woman allowed herself a small smile.
—"Yes. Congratulations."
She paused for a moment before continuing.
—"You have a son."
For several seconds Pavlo said nothing. The tension of the long night finally loosened in his chest and he slowly exhaled.
—"Thank God..."
He raised his head again.
—"My wife?"
—"She is exhausted, but she is safe. She needs rest."
Pavlo nodded.
—"May I see her?"
—"Of course. Quietly."
He opened the door and entered the room.
The bedroom was lit by candles. Their soft light reflected from the walls and furniture, casting warm shadows across the room. The air smelled faintly of wax, medicine, and hot water.
His wife lay on the bed, pale and exhausted but breathing steadily.
She was alive.
That was all that mattered.
Beside her lay the child, wrapped carefully in cloth.
Pavlo approached slowly, almost cautiously, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.
A new life lay before him.
His son.
He leaned closer.
And in that moment the world changed.
First came the sensation.
Cold.
A strange, foreign cold, as if an icy wind had suddenly passed through his mind.
Pavlo inhaled sharply.
The room vanished.
Images appeared before his eyes.
A city.
But not a city he knew.
Tall gray buildings of concrete and glass towered above wide streets covered in dark asphalt.
Yet the city was damaged.
Windows were shattered.
Cars burned in the streets.
Smoke filled the air.
He saw soldiers.
Their uniforms were unfamiliar. Heavy armored vehicles rolled through the streets.
On their sleeves were flags.
Russian flags.
Voices echoed around him.
—"They are already here..."
—"The Russians..."
People ran through the streets. Some cried. Others shouted. Some tried to hide in basements.
Gunshots rang through the air.
Doors were smashed open.
The visions changed again.
The sea.
Warships burning.
The Russian fleet destroyed.
Japan.
Then another vision.
Europe.
A massive war.
Trenches stretching across the land.
Artillery shaking the earth.
Millions of soldiers.
Mud. Blood. Ruined cities.
Then another change.
Crowds filled the streets.
Red flags rose above them.
Shouting.
Revolution.
The empire collapsing.
Pavlo grabbed the edge of the bed.
The visions disappeared.
The room returned.
Candles.
Warm air.
Snow falling outside the window.
And the child.
His son.
Pavlo breathed heavily.
He knew these images.
Not because he had seen them before.
But because he had studied them once.
History.
Pages of textbooks.
A sequence of disasters that would reshape the entire world.
He even knew the years.
1904.
War with Japan.
The empire would lose.
1914.
A great war would begin and draw nearly the entire world into it.
1917.
Revolution.
The empire would collapse.
Pavlo slowly ran a hand across his face.
Another year surfaced in his memory.
1918.
The year Ukraine would attempt to become independent.
And the year he himself would stand at the center of that storm.
He looked at the child again.
This small human being had been born into a vast empire.
But Pavlo already knew that empire would not survive his son's adulthood.
—"No..."
His wife stirred slightly and opened her eyes.
—"Pavlo..."
He stepped closer to the bed.
—"Everything is fine. You need to rest."
She smiled faintly and looked at the child.
—"Our son..."
—"Yes."
Pavlo looked at the small face of the newborn.
—"Our son."
After some time he stepped out into the corridor.
The servants straightened immediately when they saw him.
—"Tomorrow bring the best children's doctor," Pavlo ordered.
—"Yes, Your Excellency."
He walked to his study.
A fire burned quietly in the fireplace.
Pavlo sat at the desk and remained still for a moment before pulling a sheet of paper toward him.
He picked up a pen.
Ink touched the page.
The Empire will lose the war with Japan.
He stopped and looked at the words.
If anyone ever saw this paper, they would think him mad.
He wrote another line.
There will be a world war.
The pen paused again.
Then another sentence appeared.
The Empire will fall.
He stared at the words for a long moment before writing the final line.
Ukraine will survive only if it becomes independent.
He folded the paper and hid it.
Then Pavlo returned to the window.
Snow continued to fall across the silent garden.
The world looked calm.
But he had already seen how that world would collapse.
Empires would fall.
Wars would begin.
Millions would die.
And somewhere among those disasters, Ukraine would struggle to survive.
Pavlo looked out into the winter night.
—"I will not allow that future to become inevitable."