ink stains. frost glass. a silence heavy with songs unsung.
"even ice remembers warmth — it just buries it deeper."
the windows here are always fogged, words etched across them in hurried russian script. they vanish if you press your hand to the glass. a notebook lies open on the table, but the pages are always damp, unreadable, as if they’ve wept themselves shut.
misha doesn’t linger in corners — he hovers like memory. soft-spoken, his presence is the chill before snow, the hush between piano notes. if you speak here, speak gently. this room breaks beneath cruelty.
faint humming stirs when old songs play — bard laments, tchaikovsky in a warped cassette. your fingers darken with ink if you say his name too often. and in the silence between drafts, you could swear the frost itself is listening back.
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