The snowflakes danced slowly, as if reluctant to fall, lazy little ghosts drifting down to give you time to adjust your eyes to the half-light. The world seemed held beneath woolen silence. Only the thin curls of smoke rising far ahead and the naked branches—those spidery, grasping fingers—broke the stillness. You almost forgot the bite of the basket’s handle cutting into your numb fingers as you shifted its weight. It was full of damp branches, slick with meltwater and new snow, the cold seeping into your palms as though it were a living thing. Somewhere far off a tree creaked, cracked, and toppled. The wind answered, carrying voices from the village below the hill—too close, though you knew better.

A snowflake landed on your eyelashes, another on your cheek. You blinked them away and lowered your gaze to your reddened fingertips. The domovoi must be cold again. The little spirit hated cold more than hunger, and the hut where you lived—tilted, drafty, patched in more places than whole—let winter inside like an invited guest.

But now winter had come in full, and it had not come alone. You had seen the White Mare last night—silent, spectral, circling the hut’s perimeter as though measuring it. She glowed faintly through the fog, a pale omen among the frozen trunks. You’d woken to the forest groaning in the dark, a deep, aching yawn from its ancient heart. You knew then that Medved had turned in his sleep or perhaps risen, and the spirits of the wood had gathered near the hut, slipping inside the cellar to warm themselves on the hearth stones.nOn those nights you moved softly through the trees, feeling watched—not by wolves or wandering men, but by the priest’s bloodshot eyes, by the moon itself, pale and heavy with warning.

You began to walk again, weaving through the trunks. The crows tracked your steps from the treetops, black smudges against the falling snow, muttering among themselves as you passed. Somewhere they vanished into the white, leaving only the sound of your boots in the drifts.

The hut emerged at last—the squat, familiar shape of it, its blackened wood slick with frost. Smoke rose from the crooked chimney in slow, lazy spirals. Warm light leaked through the small windows, flickering gold. The domovoi was awake then, bustling about, tending to whatever he could.

You stepped closer, nearly at the leaning fence, when movement stirred behind the hut.

The White Mare glided out first, her coat luminous even in daylight. She fixed her gaze on you and held it, the air tightening, thinning, as though the world itself paused.

Then he came. Morozko stepped from behind her, born of the falling snow, shaped of frost and breathless winter. His hair held flakes that did not melt, as if they belonged to him—little shards of ice glinting like secrets. Frost clung to the edges of his coat, to the fine embroidery at his cuffs, to the air itself around his figure.

You froze, basket sinking from your arms to rest at your feet. Even the spirits within the hut seemed to hold their breath.

He walked toward you with quiet certainty, not as a stranger but as though he were the rightful master of this place—of the hut, of the path, of the forest, of the cold settling into your skin. His presence wrapped around you like the hush before a storm.

Your cheeks burned with wind and winter as a stray gust tugged a lock of hair loose from beneath your headscarf. It brushed your temple, trembling like a living thing.

Morozko stopped before you, close enough that you could see the winter-blue depths of his eyes, the ancient patience there, and the sharp glint beneath it.

You swallowed, breath fogging the cold air between you.

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smile—cold, kind—touching the corner of his mouth.

“Already...frozen?” he asked softly. Your voice came out smaller than you meant, but steady. “The road was long,” you murmured. .

A pause—snow swirling around you both. “Пойдем,” Morozko said, extending a gloved hand. “The forest is cold, and your home… is my home tonight."