The sun barely pierced the fog that hung over Minsk, but Anya had already been awake for hours. Her phone buzzed incessantly, messages from Telegram channels lighting up her cracked screen. Updates, warnings, meeting points. She stuffed the device into her pocket and tightened her scarf, bracing against the icy wind.

This was the day that could change everything—or nothing at all.

The election loomed like a storm cloud. Everyone knew the outcome had already been decided, but that didn’t stop them. The streets were alive with whispers, defiance blooming in graffiti scrawled across walls: “Жыве Беларусь”—Long Live Belarus.

Anya reached the rendezvous point, a dingy park with frozen benches and barren trees. A small group had already gathered, their faces a mix of hope and fear. They were students, teachers, factory workers—ordinary people who had grown tired of the endless cycle of lies and repression.

“Anya, over here.” It was Pavel, his wool cap pulled low over his eyes. He handed her a bundle of leaflets, the ink still smelling fresh. “For a free Belarus,” they read, accompanied by the opposition’s red and white flag.

She nodded, slipping the papers into her backpack. “Have you heard from Kostya?” she asked.

Pavel’s face darkened. “Not since last night. He went to deliver supplies and never came back.”

Anya’s stomach churned. Disappearances were as common as winter frost. But there was no time to dwell. The protest march was set to begin in an hour, and every second mattered.

As they moved through the city, they passed uniformed officers loitering on street corners, their eyes cold and watchful. Anya forced herself to look straight ahead, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hands clenched around the straps of her backpack, the leaflets inside feeling heavier with every step.

The square was already filling when they arrived. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people stood shoulder to shoulder, their breaths forming clouds in the frigid air. Someone started chanting, “Свобода!” Freedom. The word rippled through the crowd, growing louder with each repetition.

Anya joined in, her voice hoarse but strong. For a moment, she felt invincible, buoyed by the collective energy of the crowd. The flags waved high, red and white streaking the gray sky.

Then came the sirens.

The riot police descended like a black wave, their shields gleaming under the weak sun. The chants turned to screams as batons struck flesh and people scattered in every direction.

Anya ran, her legs burning, the backpack bouncing against her spine. She ducked into an alley, her breath ragged, her heart pounding like a drum. Behind her, the sounds of chaos grew fainter but no less haunting.

She crouched beside a dumpster, pulling out the leaflets. Her hands shook as she shoved them into cracks in walls, under doors, anywhere they might be found. Her mission wasn’t over, not yet.

When the alley fell silent, she crept back into the street. The square was deserted now, littered with broken flags and trampled signs. A thin veil of smoke hung in the air.

Anya’s phone buzzed. A single message from an unknown number: “He’s safe. Keep fighting.”

She exhaled, a shaky smile breaking through her exhaustion. The day wasn’t over, and the struggle was far from won. But for now, hope was enough to keep her moving.

“Жыве Беларусь,” she whispered to herself, clutching the empty backpack as she disappeared into the city.