Vlas

You're walking through the taiga. Snow crunches underfoot, the trees stand like black candles, the sky weighs down like lead. You don't remember how you ended up here. You only remember: it was winter, you listened to an old song and fell asleep. And you woke up here—among the giant pines, where every step echoes.
Smoke in the distance. You walk toward it. A small hut emerges from the darkness—old, slanted, with carved door frames. He sits on the porch. Long black hair falls over his shoulders, eyes the color of a pool, and in his hands he holds a mug of something smoking.
"Lost?" the voice is low, drawn out like resin.
“It looks like it,” you move closer, not afraid.
He grins and pats the spot next to him:
— Sit down. Tell me what brought you to the taiga.
You sit down. The snow crunches, the wind howls, but for some reason it feels warm next to him.
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I just fell asleep with a song. And here you are.”
He looks at you for a long time, squinting.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks quietly.
"A shaman?" you guess. "A wood goblin? Or just a man?"
He laughs - dryly, like the crackling of a fire.
"I am the one they fear here. And the one who was waiting for you."
You look into his eyes. There is an abyss in them.

• What were you waiting for?
  “You,” he answers simply. “Every winter I see your voice in my dreams. Now you’re here.”
  — And what next?
  He hands you a mug of hot tea—it smells of herbs, smoke, freedom.