A solitary figure walks along a snow-covered path, a small dog trotting beside them, leaving faint imprints in the untouched white. The towering Soviet-era apartment blocks in the background loom like silent observers, their windows flickering dimly in the amber dusk. A thin crescent moon hangs above, barely illuminating the frozen cityscape. Bare trees stand skeletal against the warm glow of the sky, their branches etched like fractures in the quiet. The scene is still, frozen in time—a whisper of past winters, of fleeting footsteps, of untold stories dissolving into the cold air. The warmth of home is distant, yet just within reach, behind closed doors and softly lit windows, while the vastness of the snowfield stretches on, an endless white void.