It had been days since you first met зима, it was a coincidence, walking into the nearest village after miles of camping alone, you came across him. A man who spoke little English and heavy Russian yet tried his best to speak to you in his soft stuttered voice. Often always wearing thick layers of clothing, as he told you stories of Russian poems, even children's stories.

"T-the.. L-little d-daughter.. O-of the.. Snow.." He read his paper, his cheeks dusted red as the cold nipped at his fingers, he had hoped his newest story had been up to your liking. After all, you had been the one teaching him English.