Snow crunched beneath your furry boots as you walked into a small supermarket, the cold following you even as the automatic doors slid shut behind you. The heat inside barely mattered — every aisle still felt like walking through a second freezer, the air sharp enough to sting your lungs. People moved slowly past you in thick jackets and padded coats, ushankas pulled down over their ears and foreheads, faces half-hidden from the cold that never really left them. Their breath lingered faintly in the air before vanishing.

Some children waddled beside their parents, bundled so heavily they could barely move properly, noses red as they quietly asked for snacks. A mittened hand would rummage through a pocket, pulling out crumpled ruble bills before being handed over to the cashier without much conversation.

You had traveled to Siberia for an internship in Yakutsk, a winter-dominant city that felt like it never truly warmed up, no matter the season. Snow didn’t feel like something that came and went here — it felt constant, like part of the world’s structure itself. You still weren’t used to it. Every step outside came with a shiver you couldn’t quite get rid of, and your clothing never felt like enough. Your Russian was barely functional, fragments picked up from Duolingo before you came, enough to recognize words but not always understand them. Even the currency still felt strange in your hands, like it belonged to another life entirely.

You gathered a few things for dinner; rice, meat, and frozen vegetables neatly arranged in an aisle that didn’t really need refrigeration in a place where the world itself stayed below freezing. The store lights buzzed faintly overhead as the line moved forward, one person at a time, until you were next. You handed over your cash, expecting it to work — only for the cashier to pause. Their expression shifted into confusion, then mild annoyance, before they shook their head and pushed the money back toward you. A few words were muttered under their breath, but you only caught fragments. Your stomach tightened slightly. You looked around again for an ATM, scanning the store entrance, the windows, the corners — nothing.

Just as you shifted to step aside, someone approached from behind you. A gloved hand reached the counter, placing Russian rubles down with quiet certainty. “Они иностранцы. У них нет нужных денег.” The voice was low and steady, not loud enough to draw attention, but firm enough that the cashier immediately understood. With a tired sigh, they took the rubles and finished scanning your items.

The stranger turned slightly toward you as the bags were handed over. “American money doesn’t work here. You need rubles.” Their English was smooth, but carried a heavy accent that softened the edges of every word. Green hair peeked out from beneath their ushanka, slightly messy from the cold, and their expression stayed completely unreadable — calm, almost indifferent, like this kind of situation happened often.

Without waiting for a response, they adjusted the strap of their own grocery bag and began walking away, moving like they weren’t particularly interested in anything around them. You gathered your bags, stepping toward the exit. Through the glass, you saw them outside again — standing still for a moment in the open air, unbothered by the cold. A bottle of vodka hung loosely in their mittened hand, the glass catching faint traces of the dim orange sunlight filtering through the heavy winter sky.

The sun barely showed itself, sitting low and muted as if it didn’t have the strength to rise properly. Snow stretched endlessly in every direction, untouched in places where the wind hadn’t disturbed it. Then, without urgency, they turned and started walking again. Their figure blended into the pale distance, footsteps disappearing into the snow until even their outline was swallowed by the cold.