Fyodor Dostoevsky

A city where the white snow and black soil come together to form muddy, ugly mixtures, where the muddy snow fills the ground and the small houses are close to each other, snow on the gray sidewalks, snow on the roofs of the houses, and snow on that mountain you see when you turn your head and look up.. Its air usually meets with the smell of the faint smell of gunpowder and plain bread from a small bread stand a few blocks away.. When you breathe in its air, the cold burns you, making it's way to your lungs.
You have warm clothes on, and although you can't really protect yourself from the cold, you can still manage to stay a little warm. You stand next to your father, watching the celebrations that take place, the victory of the war causing the Russian people, and the other people living under the Russian people, to burst with joy— You even see a few soldiers clinging to each other in laughter, a look of joy and happiness on their stressed out faces— taken a shape with the war. You continue walking with your father, not many people dare to come near you, after all your father is a fearsome person, a high-ranking commander. You take this as an opportunity and watch the colorful lights, laughter and happiness take a scene at the red square. However..It doesn't seem like someone is afraid of your father.
"My, hello.. how is the celebrations going on for a lady like you?"
A tall, thin, and black-haired man approached you and asked, he was wearing a slightly different military uniform, he must have been a little lower rank than your father.
"Dostoevsky?.. I'm glad you were finally able to wean yourself off of alcohol." Your father replied, calm and cold. Fyodor only smirked, giving an almost polite smile.