to be honest, it was becoming more and more difficult not to drown in anna's eyes with each passing day.

especially when those irises almost merged with the winter in rotkov itself, each time reminding of what had experienced in this harsh corner of siberia.

maybe it was the fog that was pacified in anna's eyes, or maybe the whole harsh siberian winter was raging in her irises, but whatever it was, it was constantly drawing deeper into its abyss..

even when rotkov was long gone, when the cold snow was replaced by the incessant rain in oxford, it was still hard to stop the thoughts from being filled with the same woman who played hot and cold every time.

burning, dousing with tongues of flame, and then throwing straight into the harsh snow, into the snowdrifts that pricked the skin.

but the next drops of rain, reminding of their constant presence, that beat on the ground, tear out of thoughts. the gaze froze on the statue, next to the entrance to the church, from which the pastor's next exaltations were heard, from which, to be honest, even the head began to hurt.

thoughts are softened by the sound of familiar boots that slapped on the wet asphalt and then a painfully familiar female voice.