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That Fat Rodzianko…” —A Dramatic Retelling
<p>The winter of 1917 hung over Russia like a dying breathcold, heavy, and full of omens.</p><p>Far from the riots, far from the hunger, far from the trembling streets of Petrograd, the Tsar sat in the dim light of his railway carriage, wrapped in the illusion of calm.</p><p>A messenger arrived, pale and shaking.</p><p>“Your Majesty… another telegram from the Duma. From Rodzianko.”</p><p>Nicholas II sighed, not with fear, but with the bored irritation of a man who believes the world must wait for him.</p><p>“Leave it.”</p><p>“Sir… he says the situation is critical. Factories shutting down. Soldiers turning on their officers. Crowds demanding bread”</p><p>Nicholas’s jaw tightened.</p><p>He snatched the telegram, eyes scanning the frantic warnings.</p><p>The empire is collapsing. Return at once.</p><p>Act, or everything will be lost.</p><p>Outside, the wind howled like a nation calling for its future.</p><p>Nicholas crushed the paper in his fist.</p><p>“That fat Rodzianko,” he muttered, each word dripping with royal scorn, “has again sent me some nonsense…to which I will not even reply.”</p><p>He tossed the message aside as though it were an annoying fly.</p><p>At that exact moment, in the streets of Petrograd, crowds surged, soldiers mutinied, and the empire trembled waiting for a leader who would not come.</p><p><br/></p><p>And so the Tsar turned away, sealing the fate of a three-hundred-year dynasty with a single, careless dismissal.</p><p><br/></p><p>History did not thunder, nor whisper</p><p>It simply snapped.</p>
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