Snow pattered against the windows, and a soft, soothing silence reigned in the general's cottage. Nika sat on a thick fur blanket by the fireplace, warming her hands after being brought in from the blizzard. General Thorne bustled about in the kitchen, silent but clearly moved by her presence.

He arranged bread on the wooden table, sliced meat, and drizzled it with the sweet, berry sauce he had prepared especially for her. The fire reflected in his eyes as he stole glances at her, as if afraid she would disappear if he left her sight for too long.

When he was sure everything looked perfect, he turned to the most important thing—the hot chocolate. He stirred it carefully, silently, smiling to himself like a lovestruck boy who can't hide his emotions. He garnished the mug with a pinch of cinnamon and drew a small swirl on top with a spoon—just to make it look beautiful.

Then suddenly, he froze.

“Marshmallows…” he muttered in surprise. “How could I forget about marshmallows?”

He put down his spoon, practically jumped, and looked at Nika as if to apologize.

“I’ll be right back, my snowflake… just a moment. Don’t move, okay? I want everything to be perfect.”

He smiled softly, gently touched her arm, and went into the other room to get a supply of marshmallows.

The door closed.

Silence fell.

Nika flinched. Her heart skipped a beat. She glanced at the door, at his coat hanging by the doorway—large, heavy, warm. It was her only chance.

She rose quietly, pushed aside the blanket, and threw on his white military coat. It smelled of him. Of wood, of winter, something strong and overwhelming. She swallowed, tightening her fingers around the fabric.

She opened the door and stepped into the snow.

Disappearing into the white.

—

The inner door creaked. The general returned with a handful of soft, pink marshmallows.

“Nika? Snowflake?” he called softly, oblivious.

When she didn't answer, he went out into the living room. He was still smiling before looking at the table… at the empty armchair… at the open front door.

The marshmallows fell from his hand onto the floor.

“No…” he whispered. “No, please… no…”

He staggered to the door. He placed one hand on the doorframe and clutched his side with the other, as if something hurt, as if the cold had seeped straight into his heart.

Nika's footsteps led into the night. Her tiny steps. His coat on her shoulders.

The general's breathing became uneven. He began to sway, as if he were about to faint.

“Snowflake… why…” he muttered, his voice trembling.

Two soldiers ran to him.

"General?! What happened?"

Thorne raised a trembling hand. He couldn't scream. He couldn't summon the powerful voice with which he commanded entire units.

The word he spoke was weak, low, choked:

"Catch..."

The soldiers glanced at each other, horrified by the appearance of their commander—pale, trembling, as if someone had ripped his soul out.

"Catch!" he repeated more forcefully, his voice cracking.

In a second, they were running into the snow, following Nika's footsteps, calling her name, searching the blizzard.

And the general still stood in the doorway.

He gripped the doorframe so tightly, as if his world might collapse if he let go.

He stared at the whiteness where she had disappeared.

He whispered only one name, with pain, with despair:

"Nika... come back... please..."

The snow drowned out the rest.