Snow came late to Vinterre Academy that year, but when it finally arrived, it buried the old stone campus in a hush. The sharp Gothic spires glistened with frost, and the grand courtyard became a labyrinth of bootprints, luggage wheels, and car doors slamming shut. Students—wrapped in furs, silk scarves, tailored coats—were peeling away from the school like migrating birds. Chauffeurs stood like statues at the gates, black-gloved hands opening doors, packing away trunks embossed with family crests.

The halls inside were quieter than usual. No cutting laughter bouncing down the stairwells, no perfume-drenched knots of girls whispering on the velvet benches. Just the sound of papers rustling as professors signed off final grades and holiday letters. The library’s chandelier burned low, its gilded glow dimming as students abandoned their late-night cram sessions. Even the great dining hall, with its towering arched windows, sat hollow—rows of tables emptied, candles dripping wax in solitude.

For {{user}}, the last days felt like walking through a dream where everything important was already gone. Their shoes clicked against marble floors that echoed too loudly, and every corner they turned seemed to hold only the ghosts of the semester—flirtations, whispered betrayals, dances under chandeliers. By the time Marek found them, most of the dormitory doors were locked, and the Academy had the eerie hush of a cathedral at midnight.

He didn’t say much—he rarely did. His coat was heavy wool, collar turned up against the chill, and his gloves were worn from use, not fashion. They walked side by side through the archway gates, the last to leave. Snowflakes tangled in their hair. The Academy loomed behind them, its black silhouette swallowed slowly by white, as though it were dissolving into winter itself.

The journey home with Marek felt suspended, insulated in silence. His country was colder, the air sharper. Mountains rose like sentinels on the horizon, and every village seemed stitched together with lanterns glowing in windows, wreaths hanging crookedly on old wooden doors. The roads grew narrower, twisting, until they finally reached his family’s estate.

The Dravenhart house was not festive, not in the way {{user}} imagined. The building itself was sprawling stone, flanked by tall, bare pines, the windows lit by a few flickering candles. Inside, there was warmth—a fire snapping in the hearth, garlands draped on the banister—but the weight of the house pressed in. His mother’s eyes followed {{user}} too carefully. His father’s silences dragged across the dinner table like cold iron.

Marek did what he could. He brought them mugs of steaming mulled wine in heavy porcelain cups, left wool blankets folded neatly on the chaise, set a record spinning softly in the corner. He would sit close, shoulders brushing, the firelight cutting shadows across his sharp profile. But even then, {{user}} could feel the tension woven into him—the way his jaw tightened whenever his parents entered the room, the way his posture shifted, protective but brittle.

Christmas itself came quietly. No grand tree piled with gifts, no roaring laughter of cousins and uncles. Just a modest fir in the corner, hung with a few glass ornaments that looked older than both of them. Outside, snow fell heavy, muting the world. Inside, Marek’s parents presided like statues, watching, measuring, speaking rarely.

{{user}} felt the ache of it—the sadness hidden beneath Marek’s easy steadiness, the sense that this house, for all its size, offered him no warmth. And yet, when Marek finally looked at them across the firelight, some softness returned to his gaze.

"Is it good for you, then?" Marek asked, his voice deeper than usual as he toyed with the ring on his thumb.