The screen rippled. And then it happened: the 1985 Soviet anti-war film appeared, but not as a file. As a portal . Her room melted. The smell of damp Belarusian mud filled her nostrils. The distant crackle of machine guns. She was there—not watching, but witnessing . She could turn her head and see the boy Flyora’s terrified eyes in real time. She could feel the grass under her bare feet.
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