Mark remained adrift in his dreams until the second ring of the telephone shattered the silence.
He had heard the first chime faintly, his body reacting only halfway. But as the second ring grew longer and sharper, he shoved his pillow away with a sour grimace.
"...Hello..."
"Hey, are you oversleeping again? Do you even know what day it is?!"
"...It's April 18th. I know."
"Then get moving. We agreed to meet at the park."
Click—.
The person on the other end hung up without ceremony.
Mark placed the receiver back in its cradle and sighed.
Insisting on heading out early just because it was an anniversary—it was a ritual his friends repeated every year.
He pushed himself up from the bed and drew the curtains.
The spring sunlight streaming through the window stung his half-closed eyes.
Between the brutalist grey buildings, red flags fluttered in the breeze, and every utility pole was draped with banners trimmed in gold.
58th Anniversary of the Revolution.
Those characters were bold and massive, and beside them was an old black-and-white photograph, likely captured on a long-ago battlefield.
Moving to the kitchen, the lingering scent of freshly steeped barley tea greeted him.
His mother had left a note saying she had gone to the market at dawn.
Mark pulled two slices of bread and a jar of jam from the cupboard.
As the metal coils of the toaster began to glow, the wind outside pulled the banners taut.
It's the same sight every year, yet the colors seem more vivid today.
He thought to himself as he took a bite of bread spread thick with jam.
At one end of the table, a carnation his mother had trimmed the previous evening stood in a vase.
The crimson, firm petals held a powerful presence even as a single bloom.
Every shop sold these flowers when Revolution Day arrived. This year was no exception.
After finishing breakfast, Mark washed his face and donned his jacket.
In the mirror stood a young man with slightly disheveled hair.
"Hmm... I'm not sure who I take after, but I certainly am a handsome devil."
He roughly patted his hair into place with his palms and stepped out the door.
People were already out in the streets early.
Children clutched small flags in their hands, while elders walked in small groups, commemorative badges pinned to their hats.
Every café displayed celebratory slogans, and bakery display cases were lined with cakes bearing signs that read 'April 18th Memorial Cake.'
As Mark rounded a street corner, a trolley bus approached slowly with a low, resonating ring.
The trolley's exterior was painted in red and gold, its front adorned with wreaths.
Atop the roof, a brass plaque gleamed with the words: 'The Revolution is Eternal.'
He stepped onto the footboard and scanned the interior. Small commemorative flags were tucked into every window frame, and portraits of the revolutionary leaders—faces he had seen in childhood textbooks and now on the television—hung on the exterior walls of the buildings passing by.
As he took a seat, the conductor hummed a familiar melody.
It was The Internationale, but today, it sounded uncharacteristically lighthearted.
As the trolley glided smoothly over the tracks, children waved through the windows.
After about two stops, Mark's destination came into view.
The entrance to the park.
Red ribbons were tied to the massive iron arch, and people were posing for commemorative photos in front of it.
Disembarking from the trolley, he spotted his friends waving from afar.
Behind them was the park square, bustling with preparations for the ceremony, with the central fountain surrounded by a sea of planted red flowers.
Mark rolled his shoulders once and walked toward them with a smile.
**************************************
When Mark reached the park entrance, three friends waved from the fountain area filled with red flags.
The first to approach was Pyotr, his hair cropped short and a broad, refreshing grin on his face.
"Look at this! Our very own 'Aviator' has arrived!"
As Mark smiled and shook hands, Anton hooked an arm around his shoulder.
"The Wright Aircraft Design Bureau, right? I saw the academic journal last week; there was a piece titled 'The Potential of Manned Flight.' That's your group, isn't it?"
Mark shrugged.
"Well, for now, if it just flies, it's halfway to a success. The goal is to not have the rest of it crash. Though the Bureau Chief seems to think otherwise."
Lisa giggled at that.
"It's still impressive. We're still down here wrestling with machines on the ground, while you're trying to ascend to the heavens."
The four of them naturally formed a circle. Though their fields differed, their expressions remained the same as they were in their university days.
"I'm currently working on a prototype for a new power transmission system at the Vehicle Design Bureau, but no matter how much I tweak it, the power leaks on inclines. High command gave us a directive to minimize Originium usage, so I haven't a clue how to handle it."
Pyotr shook his head in frustration.
"It's not any better at the Firearms Design Bureau. They say the new rifle loses accuracy during rapid fire. We know the cause, but the budget is holding us back. At this rate, we might actually lose the rifle trials to those Columbian hicks."
Anton remarked listlessly.
Lisa, arms crossed, chimed in.
"The Tank Design Bureau is... well, put simply, we're researching how to make thick armor thin. Trying to lighten the load while maintaining defensive integrity makes my head feel like it's going to explode."
Dmitri, who had been laughing beside them, nodded toward Mark.
"Aircraft... the City Planning Commission is very interested in those too. I read in a journal that you could scout terrain from the sky or see the progress of peripheral road construction at a glance. It would be perfect if you could just mount a camera."
Finally, Nikolai, standing nearby, waved his arms as he spoke.
"It would be fun to watch houses being built from the sky. You're not planning on hammering nails from up there, are you?"
Everyone laughed at the joke.
Mark took a breath amidst the curious gazes of his friends.
"To be honest, I don't know exactly what's possible yet either. But ever since the Design Bureau was established three years ago, I've felt it. One day, a world where flying through the sky is common will arrive."
Red flags whipped in the wind.
From afar, the voices of people busy with parade preparations drifted over.
For today at least, stories from everyone's respective fields were melting into laughter.
The crowd around the fountain grew denser.
Red flags, black flags, and flags emblazoned with golden motifs brushed shoulders, waving like a sea in the wind.
Trolley buses passed slowly along the avenue opposite the park.
The hulls were decorated with red cloth and gold tassels, and posters depicting scenes from the Revolution were pasted on every window.
Bold letters etched on the front of the locomotive read: 'April 18th, Day of Liberation.'
A military band led the parade.
Musicians in gold-trimmed service caps and pristine uniforms kept time to a marching tune.
Behind them, delegations from each republic and city held flags aloft in traditional attire.
Children sat on their parents' shoulders waving flags, while the elderly sat on chairs, slowly waving their hands.
Market vendors sold baked bread, hot tea, and sweet candies prepared since dawn.
Mark stopped for a moment to take in the scene.
Somewhere in his mind, scenes from history lessons in his student days surfaced.
The people filling the lower streets of Birmingham, laborers smashing through iron gates, and the moment a red flag was first planted atop the Control Tower.
He unconsciously touched his wristwatch.
On the back of the small timepiece, there was a faintly engraved inscription.
[Labor, Equality, Liberation]
Recalling those words sent a strange warmth through his chest.
"Mark, what are you doing? Hurry up."
Pyotr called out from behind.
Shaking off his thoughts, he passed through the crowd of parade-watchers with his friends toward the wide lawn opposite the fountain.
Other university alumni were already spreading out mats there.
**********************************************
On the lawn, lunch baskets at the edge of the mats were already half-open.
Inside the tin lunchboxes, meat pies, potato salad, pickled vegetables, and thickly sliced bread were neatly arranged.
"Hey! You're finally here!"
Hans, working as a factory engineer, waved a hand in welcome.
"We thought we'd never see your face since you're at the Aircraft Bureau, but look at you, showing up on time today."
Mark sat down with a smile.
"How could I not show up on a day like today? It's Revolution Day."
Pierre, who was reportedly being ground into dust by a professor in graduate school, spoke up from the side.
"Did you hear? I saw in the journal that your Wright Bureau is preparing for a test flight. They said that even if it just manages to lift off, it would be magnificent, even if it's not a finished model."
Mark shrugged.
"Well... it hasn't really left the conceptual design phase yet. But by next year, we should be able to launch the first prototype. Bureau Chief Wright and the Deputy Chief said they'd pilot it themselves."
Alexei, who worked at the Tank Design Bureau, had a twinkle in his eye.
"Flying through the sky... I can't even imagine it. Trains, trolleys, cars—they all run on the ground... is that really possible?"
"It's possible, so we're doing it."
Mark said, cutting a piece of bread and topping it with cheese.
"Engine output, wing shape, materials... it all has to be aligned. Even a single screw has to be considered carefully if we want to shave off any weight."
Mikael, who had been obsessed with science fiction since his college days, laughed with interest.
"People in our social club are already imagining it. How the city structure will change once airfields are built. How logistics and housing will shift once the sky routes are opened."
"The Housing Construction Commission isn't staying still either," Andrei added from the next seat over.
"They're already reconsidering everything from building placement to colors so the city looks beautiful from the sky. Of course, our Modernist comrades are still insisting on square concrete buildings, claiming they're the most efficient and ideal."
They continued to share stories from their respective fields for a long while, filled with laughter.
Beyond the lawn, the beating of drums and the cheers from the parade still drifted over.
In the sky, red balloons released for the anniversary swayed in the currents of the wind.
*************************************
It was when the clock tower in Birmingham Revolution Memorial Square tolled three.
Sunlight poured onto the wide stone path, and pigeons took flight from atop the memorial in the center of the square.
That day, I was just a boy, not yet ten years old.
I was walking through downtown Birmingham, clutching the hands of both my father and mother.
My mother wore a floral scarf, and my father had his shirtsleeves rolled up.
Though twenty years had passed since the war ended, traces of that time still lingered throughout the streets of Birmingham.
"See that over there?"
My mother pointed a finger toward a scorched building wall in the distance.
"That's where your father held back the noble knights. Three knights were closing in, ammunition was spent, and artillery support had been cut off. And yet, do you know what this man did?"
Father shook his head hurriedly.
"Dear, are you telling that story again?"
"Why not? It's a good story." Mother laughed as she looked down at me.
"Your father fixed his bayonet, charged, and impaled the lead knight through the neck. And he made sure all the other enemies saw it. In that moment, even the aristocratic army flinched."
I looked up at my father with wide eyes.
"Is it true, Dad? That sounds like a movie!"
Father scratched his cheek and gave a small, humble chuckle.
"It's a bit exaggerated. In truth, I was just doing whatever I could to stay alive back then."
We rounded another alley and stopped in front of the old City Hall.
One side of the building still bore the scars of shelling. Mother stared at that wall for a moment before speaking softly.
"I saw your father in a new light that day."
There was a strangely heated, gentle quality mixed into her voice.
"He was covered in blood, with a blackened gash on his hand from where a fragment had grazed him. And yet, he was leading people, holding the intersection. That sight...."
Mother paused, choosing her words, then looked down at me.
"...That moment changed my life completely."
Father waved his hands frantically.
"Ellen, that's enough. In front of the boy...."
"Why? I was only going to tell him what I did to you that night."
Mother curled the corners of her lips and playfully narrowed her eyes at Father.
The tips of Father's ears turned bright red.
"Ellen!"
I didn't understand the true meaning of the conversation and simply chuckled.
"What did you do that night? Did you have a talk?"
Mother looked at me for a moment, then gave a smirk and patted my head.
"Yes, well... we had a very important conversation. A very deep and heated one...."
Father turned his head and stared only toward the memorial. His expression was shy, yet somehow incredibly tender.
We moved on, heading toward Revolution Street.
This place had been a fierce battleground, and it was also where the People's Army had first raised their flag in the city.
Red flags billowed in the wind, and every storefront was draped with revolutionary commemorative ribbons. Shopkeepers along the street recognized us and offered their greetings.
"Our dear War Hero! It's been a long time!"
"Comrade Lieutenant, you're as beautiful as ever! What on earth is the secret to staying so young—"
"Get a hold of yourself, man! Gaping at another woman right in front of me?!"
"No, I didn't mean it like that—"
I only realized much later that those greetings weren't simple friendliness, but held deep respect for the two of them.
Back then, I just thought my parents were popular in the neighborhood.
Reaching the end of the road, Mother suddenly stopped. It was where the warships of the old nobility had once been moored. Now, it had been transformed into a small flower garden and benches.
"Mark, before you were born, many people lost their lives right here. But because of them, we can walk like this now."
Mother spoke, casting a sideways glance at Father.
"And... that night, I decided. I would spend the rest of my life with this dull, but pure-hearted man."
Father finally gave a small smile.
"You really have a way with words...."
I still didn't understand the underlying meaning, but I remembered that scene clearly.
Under the red flag, the two of them met each other's eyes for a brief moment.
The flag flapping in the wind, and the sunlight enveloping their shoulders.
I didn't know it then, but that was the starting point of my life....
My story, born from the great wave of the Revolution, began right there.
****************************************
By the time the sun began to dip toward the west, the park was still brimming with music and laughter.
Children ran about with balloons tied with red ribbons, and street performers played revolutionary songs. However, Mark did not linger longer.
"Hey, Mark. Aren't you staying for dinner?"
Laurence, whose hair was already thinning despite his youth, asked with a grin.
"Today is an important day at home."
Mark waved a hand dismissively.
Laurence, running a hand over his head, spoke up.
"Ah~ Today's the day? I'm jealous. Make sure you invite me next time."
"I'll have to think about that."
Mark laughed.
After a quick hug and handshake, he headed toward the trolley station alone.
Walking along the street where red flags and Revolution Day banners whipped about, the scent of freshly baked cake from an alleyway bakery tickled his nose.
He stepped inside without hesitation.
"Welcome, Comrade. How can I help you?"
"One cake, please. And for the writing... please put 'Happy Wedding Anniversary.'"
"That will be 10 Roubles."
The proprietor quickly adorned the smooth cream with red strawberries and white whipped cream decorations.
He placed the mouthwatering cake into a pretty box, and Mark carefully gathered it in his arms.
Cradling the cake box, Mark took the trolley bus toward his neighborhood. Outside the window, the evening sun tinted the red brick buildings of Birmingham.
When he arrived home, the porch light was already glowing warmly. Mark took a breath and opened the door, holding the cake box with both hands.
In the living room, his father looked up from his book, while his mother was in the kitchen, apron on, preparing dinner.
"Happy Wedding Anniversary."
Mark placed the cake on the table.
In an instant, his mother's face lit up.
"You bought this yourself? Oh... it's beautiful. Truly beautiful! Thank you so much, Mark."
Father looked down at the cake with an awkward but genuine smile.
"It really is beautiful... thank you, Mark."
Within that brief, ordinary exchange lay the warmth of a family built over long years.
As the door shut, the light from the hallway spilled over the entrance.
And as the door closed completely, a brass nameplate hanging there shimmered in the light.
George Waters – Ellen Brooks
========================
The website for reading paid chapters is available on my Patreon. The number of chapters on Patreon: 75
Link: patreon.com/UltraMagnus_T