A Hungarian soldier walked past the laborers who worked tirelessly to pour the concrete, which acted as the foundation for the future maglev line that would run straight through the border and into Bucharest.
A cigarette hung in his mouth as he inspected the laborers who sweat and swelled beneath the scathing heat of the evening Transylvanian sun.
One hand rested on the pistol grip of his rifle. An older German Sturmgewehr model that had been standardized among the Kingdom of Hungary's armed forces in the years following the Second Weltkrieg.
He looked over from the laborers to the other side of the border, where Romanian soldiers stood equally armed.
After tossing his cigarette on the ground, the Hungarian soldier stomped its embers out beneath his boot before spitting in the general vicinity of his Romanian counterparts.
If that were the end of the interaction, then the heavens would be spared from weeping for one day.
