Three months ago
It was the last day of winter. The sun was sinking low, leaving behind a faint orange glow that touched the white snow with fire. The sky was clear, and the snowfall that had not stopped for weeks had finally ended. But the air was still sharp and freezing, and the land of Svetlana remained covered in layers of ice, silent and cold as if holding its breath.
Lydia stood in her cloak, motionless, before a small grave. Her son's grave. The earth was frozen hard, the stone headpiece dusted with ice, and beside it lay a flower, withered and bent. Her hands trembled as she reached forward, brushing away the dead petals. She replaced it with a new one—fresh, white, and delicate, the only soft thing in the cruel cold around her.
