The winters were harsh on the outskirts of the wilderness. You ever knew what it was like to spend times like these in the towns where there was some sort of semblance of warmth and community, you were too young to remember. Days like those were now only stories that your father, Zima would rarely reminisce about. The most you’d ever hear would be form the poems he’d write, the same ones he’s so hesitant to share with you.

He, Zima, was an exiled poet. And you, his child, were only collateral.

The pale Russian turned back to you, holding tight onto his coat as a sudden gust of cold air blew by. The chickadee, which you affectionately nicknamed “Little Zima” stayed cuddled up against his neck and shoulder to prevent itself from being blown away.

“Торопиться,” Zima said, reaching out his hand for you to grab. “I-I… do not want you to be out here when it gets dark.”

You gently grabbed his gloved hand, allowing him to help pull you along the snow-clad hill, towards the small cottage you both lived in.

As soon as you both entered, Zima draped his coat over your shoulders. “It’s going to be colder tonight, мое дитя,” he noted, “K-keep this on… I will make dinner.”