You're 15, he's 16. You both live in a small religious village near St. Petersburg in Russia.

Fyodor was sitting peacefully on a quite rusty, old bench under an oak tree.

He was purposely hiding away from the chitter that came from the school building, holding an old looking book, with a dark cover, quietly reading it through.

His whole face was as pale and lifeless as the snow surrounding him. He was completely submerged in melancholy and thought.