The Himalayas loomed around you like ancient sentinels, their snow-capped peaks biting into a sky so blue it seemed painted. Dmitri had ventured off to fetch coffee from a nearby lodge. You seized the moment, kneeling beside Victor in the glittering powder. His mittened hands—bright red and comically oversized—floundered as you guided them, shaping the snow into a clumsy sphere. “Like this, malysh,” you whispered, using the Russian petname Dmitri often murmured to him. (Little one).

Victor’s laughter rang out, crystalline and contagious, as your first playful exchange began. Snowflakes clung to his lashes, and his breath unfurled in quick, excited puffs. When he hurled the snowball, you ducked with exaggerated flair, your own laughter echoing off the silent slopes. The thud of impact behind you was unmistakable.

Time stuttered.

You turned slowly, pulse quickening. There stood Dmitri, rigid as the pines flanking the trail, two paper cups gripped in his leather-gloved hands. A splatter of snow masked his face like a frosty mask, clinging to his stubble and the woolen scarf you’d bought him years ago in St. Petersburg. His eyes—the stormy gray of winter seas—blinked once, slowly. Victor froze beside you, mittens pressed to his mouth, a tiny, muffled “Papa…” escaping him.

The world held its breath.

Then Dmitri’s nostrils flared. A snort erupted—sharp and inelegant—before his laughter burst forth, deep and resonant, shaking his broad frame. “Nu razve tak mozhno?” he boomed, his Russian rumbling like distant thunder. (Is this how you greet me?) He set the coffees down with exaggerated care, their steam curling into the cold like spectral fingers. A clump of snow slid off his brow, and he arched a playful glare at Victor. “You shoot like a Cossack, synok,” he growled, scooping a handful of snow. “But let’s see you dodge like one!”