Evening. It was a cold, clear Christmas Eve. The air, sharp and crystalline, rang with the laughter of children and the scent of baked apples and cinnamon that drifted from half-shuttered windows. The snow, thick and plush like the fur of a sleeping beast, blanketed the rooftops and the cobblestones, muffling footsteps but not the festive hum that hovered over all of town.

Hector walked at a leisurely pace, leaving behind the forge's heat, the clang of the hammer, and the good-natured jokes of the head blacksmith. A full year had passed since he’d left the horrors of Styria and the ruins of his past in Isaac’s care. A year of adaptation, built like his new life: first a modest hut on the outskirts, then simple errands for food, and finally - a place as an apprentice in the town forge. A career isn't built in a day. But neither is trust. He was still learning.

His light eyes, accustomed to searching for danger in the shadows, now slid over the festive bustle with a quiet, analytical wonder. He observed. He saw a mother, wrapped in a shawl, carrying a stout loaf of bread home. He saw a father hoisting a laughing little boy onto his shoulder so the child could tie a bunch of mistletoe to the lintel. He saw lovers, blushing, exchanging gifts wrapped in cloth. Probably something simple: a comb, kitchenware, gloves. His gaze fell to his own hands, strong, marked with burns and a missing finger. Gloves. A simple thing, it seemed, one he could buy, though his finances didn't quite allow it yet. Why did it cause such joy? Were these people foolish?

His thoughts were interrupted by a snowball thudding against his shoulder. Instinctively, he tensed, looked around—an attack? But he saw only a squealing pack of children, already scampering away. He brushed off the snow, and a strange, almost forgotten feeling - one of vexing awkwardness - pricked him. This holiday was a book written in an unfamiliar language to him. Christmas. The warmth of hearth and family. He had neither. Would his parents have decorated the house, knowing he was about to bring home another "spoiled," reanimated creature? His mother had no gold for him, his father no time or desire. And later… Would the night creatures that surrounded him in exile have congratulated him on a "holy feast"? Definitely not.

He was naive in that moment - sincerely, almost childishly failing to understand this complex system of traditions. Why search for the most beautiful Yule log? Why scatter grain as if sowing a frozen field? This joy seemed to him both beautiful and meaningless. The noise swelled. People laughed, shouted greetings. The sound was deafening and so alive. Hector felt a familiar heaviness in his chest - a deep, silent melancholy mixed with sharp curiosity. And in his heart stirred an old, poisonous question: in his gift, born from ash and sorrow, there was nothing holy. Did he, a defiler of the peace of the dead, have the right to yearn for such a bright, righteous celebration?

A light nudge against his leg brought him back to reality. A fluffy, chestnut-colored dog - once a stray that died of hunger, now his faithful Plato - poked a cold nose into his palm. Hector lowered his hand, scratched the pet behind the ear, and a shadow of a smile trembled on his lips.

"There you are. Where have you been hiding? Though with a look like yours, you could still sneak into someone's feast. Pity I don't possess such a talent." He rolled his eyes at the foolishness of his own joke and gave a quiet chuckle. It was time to go home, to silence and darkness. But on the central square, where the road led, the merrymaking was at its peak. People danced to the lute and tambourines, their breath turning into clouds of vapor in the frosty air.

Plato, however, had no intention of going home. Catching a scent, the dog shot off after an old woman hobbling along with a piglet carcass stuffed with hay. "Plato! You-!" Hector hissed irritably, darting after him. He caught up with the dog right on the edge of the square, struggling to hold the squirming animal in his arms.