Prologue

"The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches."

― E.E. Cummings

Alexsei

I fucking hate winter.

The way the snow blankets everything, muffling the world's sounds—it's not the cozy, idyllic scene you see on postcards. Instead, it's a constant reminder of the cold that bites deep, the bitterness that settles into your bones.

Those fake well-wishes plastered on windows days before Christmas feel more like mockery. The blinding lights, the relentless carols echoing through the frozen air, the layers of clothing you're forced to pile on just to stay warm—it's all an assault on the senses.

As a kid, I'd stand by our small, lifeless plastic Christmas tree, surrounded by trinkets that felt more like a burden than nostalgia. I'd wish, almost desperately, for presents to appear, clinging to the hope that Santa hadn't forgotten me again.

The weight of that unreachable hope was fucking heavy, especially when you're already shivering under a dozen layers, battling the relentless cold.

But more than anything, winter meant my mother would never be home.

She'd be "working" overtime, making sure we had heat, while my dad would be extra drunk, extra mean, and an extra-level asshole, drowning his dead heart in vodka.

I hated how winter forced me to confront the painful reality of my life—the hopelessness of watching my mother leave with a forced smile, bundled up in layers, only to return days later with her face marred by bruises, her smile a distant memory.

Her hair, matted and tangled, bore the marks of battles fought against heartless bastards.

She'd come home to another slap from my father—either for being late or for not earning enough for him to drown himself in more vodka.

At eight, I finally found the courage to stand up for her.

My father, in one of his drunken rages, threatened to smash an empty vodka bottle over her head. His twisted reasoning was that "300 rubles wasn't enough for one night, and if his wife was going to be a whore, she should charge more."

Despite my age, I stepped between them, reaching as high as I could for that bottle.

For a moment, my father looked surprised, but it didn't last.

He shoved me to the ground, and the bottle shattered on my head, knocking me out cold.

When I woke up, I was in my bed, blood everywhere.

My mother was there, desperately trying to stitch up the wound on my head.

Now, whenever life seems almost too good to be true, I catch myself tracing that scar—a small but enduring reminder of the hell I've fucking endured.

Winter's always been a fucking struggle for me—until I day met her .