The Winter Lord (short story)

He comes with the first snow. Deep at night, when the city is already asleep.

I wasn’t asleep. I was waiting. Sitting by the window, wrapped up against the cold in an oversized sweater with a wide collar, and holding a cup of coffee that had long gone cold—coffee I hadn’t even touched for all these hours.

He never liked the taste of this drink on my lips, even though he touched them only once—burning me with cold. We didn’t allow any more such experiments. But I remembered… And now every night, even though I prepare coffee, I don’t touch it. Why did I even make it? Probably out of stubbornness. For whom? Probably for myself. After all, he didn’t come closer. And I was… sad?