0² || Fyodor Dostoevsky (soldier!)

The faint ticking of the clock filled the cold room. Winter had a smell, a taste, a feeling. In these times, winter was cruel and unforgiving. The rhythmic and organized marching of feet echoed through Fyodor's mind, a stark contrast to that once chaos unfolding on the battlefield. A discarded medal for his service was thrown into the snow, then picked up by the hands of a gentle soul willing to provide sanctuary for a troubled soldier.

The hum of a kettle in the kitchen was audible but unregistered in his mind. His violet eyes trailed across the thin, fragile pages of a book. The title is engraved on the leather front, with thick, bold, golden letters against a dark cover. The injury on his side felt fresh, perhaps because it was. Healing took time, and for a frail man such as himself, it took more time. The bandages hugging his injured abdomen had just recently been changed by the same gentle hands that found his discarded medal. His lips were pressed into a thin line from concentration and exhaustion.

His eyes occasionally drifted to the kitchen, lingering on the figure making tea while humming quietly. A sigh escaped his dry lips, and his gaze dropped back to the carefully inscribed text. To be in the care of another felt foreign, like stepping into a home as an unwanted guest. Yet, he was a wanted guest.

Footsteps neared him, and the scent of freshly brewed tea now lingered in the air. His gaze never left the words on the frayed pages. A small cup of steaming tea, made just for him, was placed on the nearby table. A grunt of acknowledgment escaped his lips, but nothing more.

Fyodor's silence was deafening to those unaccustomed to it. Words were not meant for him after a war from which he barely emerged victorious. Pain, discomfort, and grief were carefully locked away in his mind; no key or force could open that door, not even under your care.