The morning after Dmitri's arrival, the snow had not eased. It howled against the windows like wolves in mourning. Despite the bitter cold, Dmitri wandered into the village, a place still clinging to the skeleton of tradition. Stone cottages stood hunched like old men. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys. But the people—they watched him with guarded eyes.
He passed the bakery, where no one smiled. Passed the blacksmith, where hammers paused mid-air. Passed the chapel, where bells tolled without a priest in sight.
He reached the market square. No one spoke. Even the children were silent, like birds who had forgotten how to sing.
Then he saw her.
A girl no older than ten, sitting alone on the edge of the well. Her hair was the color of bleached ash—unnaturally white, falling like a veil over her shoulders. Her dress was tattered, bare feet curled against the cold stone. In her hands, she held a ragdoll made of stitched black linen. But what caught Dmitri's attention most were her eyes.
They were silver.
Pale, like frozen mirrors. And they stared at him without blinking.
He approached carefully. "Are you not cold?"
She didn't answer.
"Where are your parents?"
Still no reply.
Only when he stood before her, did she tilt her head and raise a small hand—pointing behind him.
He turned.
The village square was empty.
No birds.
No people.
Only snow and the soft click of shutters being drawn shut.
"Strange girl," he muttered.
"I see the dead," she said suddenly, her voice soft, untouched by fear.
Dmitri flinched. "What did you say?"
The girl stood. "I see the ones who don't go away. They come back, in the snow. They always come back."
He crouched to her level. "What's your name?"
She hugged the ragdoll close. "Katya."
"And you live… here?"
Katya pointed to the woods beyond the chapel. "With Madame Irina."
Dmitri had heard the name. The midwife. The healer. Or, as villagers whispered—the witch.
"What did you mean, you see the dead?"
Katya walked past him, barefoot in the snow, unbothered by the cold. She paused at the statue of an angel in the square, its face cracked, one wing missing. She stared at it a moment, then turned back to him.
"She's back, you know," Katya said.
"Who is?"
"Vasilisa."
Dmitri stiffened. "You've seen her?"
Katya nodded. "She comes when the snow sings. She walks under the moonlight. Her feet leave no prints. She sings to the men. Then she takes them."
Dmitri swallowed. "Takes them where?"
Katya's silver eyes met his.
"Where the forest never ends."
A bell rang again.Loud. Close. But it was not from the chapel.
It came from the woods.
Katya turned and ran toward the trees, vanishing like mist. Dmitri gave chase—but by the time he reached the edge of the forest, there was no trace of her.
Only one thing remained:
A crimson scarf, frozen into the snow.
Tied like a noose.
---