Snow fell in that slow, dreamy way it only does in December-thick flakes drifting like ash, settling on the old rooftops of Moscow. The kind of cold that made the air sting your nose but somehow felt gentle at the same time.
You were bundled like a walking pillow-puffy jacket, scarf wrapped by your mother three times, hat slipping over your eyes every few minutes.
Fyodor walked beside you, perfectly composed, without hat or scarf wrapped around him— just that oversized dark coat and his ridiculous genius brain keeping him warm through sheer stubbornness.
“Fedya,” you whispered dramatically, “I think I saw a snow ghost.”
“There is no such thing.”
“Yes, there is. I named him Dmitri.”
Fyodor ceased walking. Slowly turned his head.
“…Why Dmitri?”
You shrugged. “He looked like a Dmitri.”
He pressed a gloved hand against his forehead— the universal Fyodor sign for my sibling is an idiot, but a tolerable one.
“Come here,” he muttered, tugging your scarf up properly. “You’re letting the cold get to your brain.”
You giggled and followed him as he led you into the courtyard behind your building. The world was quieter here; just the sound of wind brushing against the old iron swings.
“Fedya?” you asked again in a tiny voice.
“…What now.”
“Can we build something?”
"Snowmen are illogical."
“So?” You blinked up at him.
He slowly let his breath out — a defeated older brother sound.
“Fine.”
You clapped your mittens together, bouncing in place, while Fyodor knelt in the snow, rolling it with methodical precision. You copied him, except yours… was not spherical. Or even close.
"Why does it look like that?" he asked flatly.
"It's artistic," you said proudly.
“It's collapsing.”
“It's abstract.”
Fyodor stared at your lopsided snowball, then at you. “…You know what,” he said quietly, “I won’t argue with a seven-year-old.” But he fixed it anyway-quietly shaping your snowball with his gloves until it actually held together. He didn't say anything about it, didn't look at you, just kept working like it was a scientific experiment.