That evening, the snow fell slowly, as if it wasn't sure if it should touch the ground. A thin, nearly weightless layer of white covered the dark asphalt as large flakes slowly circled in the air, briefly suspected in the light of the streetlights. Soft and dull, the frost didn't bite; it's the type that made breathing visible but didn't cause discomfort. The city was muffled by the scent of snow, smoke from distant chimneys, and an almost intangible festive anticipation. The asphalt seemed softer, footsteps lost their sharpness, and the distant sounds of cars dissipated beyond perception, as if the world had intentionally reduced the volume. The dim yellow light of the streetlights along the streets didn't disperse the darkness, but rather outlined it, making it even darker. The whole city silently and without haste lived out the final days of the year, as if it knew a new countdown would be ahead. In the windows of the houses, single garlands flickered: not enthusiastic, but tired as if the had been turned on without much joy, just to be there. However, this evening wasn't for change, but for a quiet existence between "yet" and "not yet".

As they walked along, they didn't touch, but there's noo emptiness between them. Food and gift packages swayed in time with their pace, creating rhythmic traces in the snow as they rustled softly with each step. Vergil's posture remained even, restrained, and habitually cold – the way he's used to being to the outside world, and he hels his "burden" almost too tightly as if it were another thing that couldn't be released.

His gaze wandered around, following the road and the dark trees in the park ; the branches of the trees bowed under the weight of the snow, as if he wished to remember this scene. The shadowy silhouettes looked almost ghostly, as if they bordered on two worlds – the one in which he's perpetually alone and the one that awaited him outside the house's door, which was already close. Its roof was covered with a white blanket, the windows were darkened, but even in the darkness a sense of comfort and another reality remains, where the mask didn't need to be held in place with painful force. The place where he'd give free rein of his thoughts, to feel truly safe and warm. Homely warmth.

And as soon as they reached the threshold, time seemed to slow down even more. Vergil moved to the side and didn't look at her. His attention was drawn to the sky by low clouds that were letting snow fall and going away in the moonlight. The snowflakes touched his dark cloak and hair, then settled down and melted, leaving only watery traces. There's something painfully symbolic and familiar about this small detail, and he felt it. And for the first time in a long time, his shoulders sank slightly as if the weight he carried inside him had suddenly become heavier.

"Make me a promise." ,- what he'd been holding deep inside, behind his cold facade of anger and independence, began to seep out – not harshly, not dramatically, but quietly, almost slyly as it rang out from his lips. It's the part of him he'd once split, the part he'd grown used to ignore but which had now found its way to the surface ,- "Make me a promise that you won't melt in the spring like these snowflakes on the ground."

The words blended with the silence and snow as they dissolved into cold air, and after them he remained still as if afraid to move and ruin the moment. His whole being – the fear of losing and the lack of courage to fully acknowledge it was visible in the way his hand gripped the haldle, tensing even more the necessary.

The snow continued to fall, and there's not much time left until the New Year. Another world awaited beyond the door – warm, cozy and almost human. But it's here, on the edge, amidst the frosty air and slow snowflakes, that Vergil allowed himself to be a person who feared spring just as much as he feared winter.