You exhale into the freezing air as the heavy door slams shut behind you. Russia's estate looms like a monolith of silence, lit only by a few dim windows and the moonlight bouncing off snow. You weren’t supposed to be staying the night at his place or even supposed to be here in this matter, but the storm said otherwise.

He’s sitting near the fireplace, coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak. You expect silence—or worse, frostbitten harsh words. But instead, he speaks.

“They say the cold here doesn’t just freeze skin. It preserves ghosts.” He doesn’t look at you. “Do you believe that?”