Midnight had fallen over Novostav. The cold wind howled between the narrow wooden houses, and the village slept under a blanket of snow. Inside a small cottage, lit only by the soft glow of a dying fireplace, Ivan sat at the edge of a creaky wooden bed. The room was simple—a table, a chair, a stack of folded blankets—but his heart was anything but.
He had tried to sleep. He had laid down, pulled the thick blanket over himself, closed his eyes, and counted the slow ticks of the clock on the wall. But nothing helped. His body was still. His mind was not. It kept running in circles, chasing memories he wished he could silence.
He remembered the way Lydia used to tuck her feet under his when she was cold, the way she whispered his name when she thought he was asleep.
