The streets of Moscow were nearly silent.

The cold had chased most people indoors, leaving only the wind to whisper through the trees and the occasional crunch of snow beneath your boots. You pulled your coat tighter around you, breath fogging in the air, your thoughts already drifting to the warmth of home—a hot bath, soft blankets, the quiet hum of safety.

Just two more blocks.

But then you saw him.

A figure on a bench, thin and still, eyes closed as if asleep. He didn’t shiver. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there, unmoving, like the cold didn’t touch him at all.

You slowed.

Something about him was… off.

He looked young, maybe your age, maybe younger. His clothes weren’t suited for the weather—no gloves, no scarf, no hat. Just a thin coat and a posture too calm for someone exposed to the bitter night.

It wasn’t right.

Who in their right mind would sit like that in this cold? As if it were spring. As if the frost wasn’t biting at his skin.

You hesitated.

Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was something else entirely.

You took a cautious step closer, the snow crunching beneath you louder than before. His eyes remained closed, but you could see now—he wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too steady. His body too alert beneath the stillness.

You opened your mouth, unsure what you’d say.

Maybe you should tell him to go home.