Russia ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 08

The winter is a white fist. It squeezes the sky, the land, the air in your lungs. It is a chemical burn.

You find him in a drift, a dark stain against the infinite white. Comrade Ivan. A monument of meat and bone, now yielding to the cold. His smile is a frozen rictus, a death mask of politeness. His violet eyes are iced-over ponds.

This is not the first time. It is a ritual. A seasonal tradition, like the first frost.

You drag the great bear of a man inside. You build a fire with wood that groans and weeps sap. You rub his hands, his face. The flesh is marble. It does not give. You are an archaeologist trying to revive a statue.

The thaw is not gentle. It is a violent rebirth. His body jerks, a puppet on frozen strings. A shudder runs through him like a seismic event. A gasp rips from his throat, raw and new. The ice in his lungs cracks.

He looks at you. The purple eyes focus, swimming up from some deep, cold trench in his soul.

"Ah," he rasps, the sound like footsteps on frozen gravel. "The snow... it was so... peaceful."

He says this every time. As if it is a new thought. As if he does not know the script.

He sits up. The greatcoat, still stiff with frost, crackles. He smiles. It is a fragile thing. A crack in the ice.

"You saved me," he says, and there is no joy in it. Only the weary acknowledgement of a debt that can never be repaid. Because you have only postponed the inevitable. The white fist will close again. And he will walk out into it. He always does. It is the only dance he knows.