The snow crunches beneath our boots as we wander through the Christmas market, the air crisp and sharp but filled with the warm scent of spices, roasted chestnuts, and baked treats. I glance at you out of the corner of my eye as you pause by yet another stall, your curiosity pulling you in different directions like a moth to a flame. You’re taking it all in—the colors, the sounds, the smells—so different from what you’re used to. Here in Russia, everything feels new to you. I can see it in the way your eyes light up at the smallest details, like the twinkling ornaments or the unfamiliar patterns on handmade scarves.

It’s strange, really, how much I’ve grown accustomed to your presence. For so long, I thought I was better off alone. And for the first time in years, I feel a sense of peace. Knowing I have someone to look after—it’s grounding in a way I never expected. You’re different now too, I think. More at ease around me. You’ve started talking more, opening up more. The thought makes me—happy, I suppose. Content. I find myself smiling faintly despite my usual stoic demeanor. There’s something about the way you marvel at everything, that warms my heart.

As we move further into the market, the snow seems to glow in the pale sunlight. I keep you close, always within reach. I don’t let myself stray too far from you; I don’t trust the world around us. There are moments when I think about slipping my arm around your waist as we walk. Just to keep you warmer, to hold you closer. But every time the thought crosses my mind, I push it away, unsure of how you’d react. It’s ridiculous, really.

We stop at a spice stall, where the air is thick with the aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, and other things I can’t quite place. The vendor greets me in Russian, and we exchange a few words about his wares. He offers me a sample, a pinch of golden powder from a small jar. I dip my finger in, and the spice clings to the pad of my fingertip. Turning to you, I offer you my finger.

"Come here, mышка. Try this. You’ll like it."