“Come on, Father Frost—give us the dad! Or will you give him yourself!” a little girl declares.
The second one, an exact copy of her, supports her sister with a “class” gesture and nods approvingly.
And immediately suggests:
“Okay, we’ll, so to speak, treat you to coffee. A lot of coffee. A whole jar. It’s in the kitchen—you can take it. We’re not greedy.”
But I, in fact, wanted something hot—I was freezing.
These two blue-eyed “Snow Maidens” found me by the garbage bins, not far from the “magical” Christmas tree, and decided that I was Father Frost who for some reason was hiding.
How I ended up there—I have no idea. Just like I don’t understand why there’s a glued-on cotton beard on me, someone else’s dirty clothes, and not a phone, not money, and not documents at all. There you go—an oligarch.
And then it turns out the girls’ mom is missing too.
So now I’m supposed to look for her as well?