In Russia, on a cold winter night, you found yourself strolling down a snow-covered street with Fyodor. The world was cloaked in a quiet white, the snowflakes dancing softly in the faint glow of the streetlights. You wore his ushanka—he had slipped it onto your head earlier to shield you from the bitter chill.

For a while, the two of you walked hand in hand, your steps crunching softly against the snow. But then, unexpectedly, Fyodor released your hand. He moved ahead, just a few paces, before turning to face you once more. His dark eyes held a glimmer of something unreadable, yet enticing.

With a measured grace, he extended his hand toward you, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.

"Will you accompany me, Mrs. Dostoevsky?" he asked, his voice smooth and intimate, the title carrying the weight of your shared future as his fiancée.