The snow never stopped in Drovetsk.
It did not fall gently—it devoured. Thick flakes like bone dust swirled through the air as if the sky itself was mourning, weeping for things long buried beneath the frost. Dmitri Volkov stepped out of his carriage, his boot sinking ankle-deep into the icy slush, and the cold bit into his skin like teeth. He pulled his fur coat tighter, his eyes scanning the distant silhouette of the estate—Volkov Manor. Dark. Dilapidated. Watching him.
He had inherited this frozen tomb after the sudden death of his uncle, Pyotr Volkov, a man with no friends, no heirs, and a reputation for solitude and strange rumors. Dmitri had not been to Drovetsk since he was a boy. His mother had once called it "a village swallowed by the devil's mouth." He had laughed then. He wasn't laughing now.
A bell tolled once in the distance—low, heavy, like something groaning beneath the earth.
"Master Volkov," said the coachman nervously. "Shall I bring your bags inside?"
Dmitri turned his eyes to the manor again. The tall iron gates, once regal, were rusted open. Beyond them stood statues, headless and cracked, coated in frost like mourning widows. And in the center window, just for a blink—he saw something.
A figure. Pale. Watching. Then gone.
"No need," Dmitri said, swallowing the chill rising in his throat. "I'll carry them."
He walked through the gates, boots crunching on snow-covered gravel. The air smelled of pine and rotting wood. Crows circled the trees overhead, their cries harsh, like a warning. At the door, an old man greeted him—a hunchbacked servant with clouded eyes.
"Welcome, Master Dmitri," the servant rasped. "The manor remembers you."
Dmitri frowned. "And who are you?"
"Anton. I served your uncle. And his father before him."
"You're still alive?"
Anton gave a dry smile. "Some things live longer than they should."
The manor's doors creaked open like the ribs of a corpse. Inside, the cold was worse. Candles burned, but barely. Dust swirled like spirits in the air. Portraits lined the hall—stern Volkov men with sunken eyes and tight lips. No smiles. No joy. Only one stood out.
A woman.
Her portrait hung near the staircase. Hair dark as ravens. Skin like porcelain. A crimson scarf tied around her throat like a wound. Her eyes—unnerving, almost alive. Dmitri stepped closer.
"Who is she?" he asked.
Anton hesitated. "Vasilisa Petrovna."
"Wife of one of my ancestors?"
"No," Anton whispered. "She was never anyone's wife."
Dmitri turned. "Then why is she here?"
Anton looked away. "Because she never left."
And outside, behind them—just beyond the treeline—a pale shape stood barefoot in the snow, her face veiled, her head slightly tilted.
Watching.
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