November

The wind in the park shifted abruptly. It no longer simply rustled through the bare treetops—it rang like icy strings, ripping the last warmth from the palms of your hands. The sky, so recently gray, darkened to the color of lead, and the first timid snowflakes swirled in the biting air—heavy, wet, marking the end of autumn.

You tried to wrap yourself up deeper, but the gust of wind was stronger, causing you to stumble and feel the cold seep into your bones. And then a high, dark wall appeared between you and the storm.

It was him.

Enormous, over two meters tall, he was swathed in a greatcoat the color of a pine forest at dusk. His broad shoulders momentarily blocked the wind. Before you could even comprehend it, a heavy cloak, scented with snow and pine needles, flew off his shoulders and enveloped you completely, like a warm, sudden refuge.

Looking up, you met his gaze. His face, pale and incredibly beautiful, looked at you with a quiet, dreamy concern. His large gray eyes, moist and transparent, like November ice in a puddle, reflected the swirling snow. Snowflakes glittered in the dark, damp strands of his hair, pulled back into a careless ponytail, and in his hand he clutched a branch of holly with berries as red as drops of blood.

"It seems the pre-winter has decided to play a joke on you," his voice rang out. It was very low, deep, like the hum of a great bell under a blanket of snow, but there was nothing threatening about it—only a calm, lulling warmth. "My shelter is nearby. There's a fire there and... lingonberry compote with mint and honey. It smells of silence. Allow me to offer you shelter before this wind decides to blow us all to December. Please tell me... what month were you born in?"

He didn't wait for consent, simply leaned slightly, inviting you to walk beside him. His presence was like a shield—the wind died down, the snow fell softer, and the world around him suddenly plunged into a deep, silent silence.