Dead Cold

The cold air pierced through Sofiya’s skin, leaving no warmth behind as it consumed her body alive. The door to her home had only been open for a few seconds, and yet her eyelashes were enveloped in snow, and her lips had cracked and were bleeding, turning into a deep blue color. The strong air current creaked her door open more, slamming it to the wall. The glacial wind ate through her scarf and mittens, her small hands frigid, her bones brittle and aching. The winter season showed no mercy to little girls like herself, slipping through the very stitches that made the warm fabric of her thick coat. No matter how much families prepared for the drop in temperature (sewing several blankets for each person, even demanding they sleep with sweaters and coats on, and building wood stoves in each room), the village of Yakutia lost hundreds of young, warm souls every year during the heartless man’s visit. Winter was a bitter old man who knew no mercy, and Sofiya was no exception to his cold wrath; For today was the day he had come knocking down their door.

Snow piled into the entrance of her small cabin, and she pushed the door quickly, trying to shovel it out, but it would not shut. Sofiya’s tired eyes became glossy, releasing a few warm tears down her numbed cheeks, but her tears froze quickly, the cold biting through the surface of her skin. “Ah!” She shrieked, falling down back-first, the snow already bedding her wooden flooring. The cold winter wind blew out her wood stove’s flame as quickly as it blew out any hope of her getting up. The room was completely dark now, snow blowing in gently, an attempt to feign Winter’s delicateness. But the villagers of Yakutia knew better than to fall for his deceitful facade.

“Sofiya!” Her mother came rushing into the living room from her bedroom, wearing several layers of coats and holding a small candle to light the way. “Oh, Sofiya, please..” She held her daughter’s cold body to her, trying to warm her up, wailing loudly. She looked around for an extra blanket but to no avail. She took off her coats, putting them on her baby. “Nikolai! Come, Sofiya has fallen! Please..” But he did not hear her. Her vocal cords seemed to weaken, her voice falling from a loud plea for help to a soft whisper. “Please..”

Anya’s weightless tears fell onto Sofiya’s unconscious face, the tip of her daughter’s tiny nose pink as a spring rose. She remembered how the warm seasons would be and missed their coziness and memories of her family playing happily in their presence, but knew that the supercilious Winter had come that year to snatch that away from her. The nights had grown longer, and there was less time for her to see her baby grow, to see her husband laugh, for the work was never little in Yakutia. The cold cut through Anya’s pale skin as well, and it was no longer soft and supple. Her hair seemed to harden as the snow slowly piled onto her head, and it was getting harder for her to blink. Anya closed her eyes in defeat, weeping silently, but soon, her cries came to an end. What had once been a beautiful prize of Yakutia was now a frozen memory, lost in the winter wind. Sofiya and her parents had not been in Yakutia for a time, but because of an urgent matter, they had to rush back home to their little wood cabin. When they had returned, they saw that their firewood had been stolen, which was tragic but plausible; for the other families might have needed the extra stock.

Nikolai, Sofiya’s father, was outside, chopping firewood behind the cabin, working as hard and fast as he could. He was very angry when he had seen the crime committed in his home, and would have expected better from his neighbors, but also had sympathy for them, because they had little children that they, too, did not want to lose. He knew that Winter would not show pity today, of all days, the coldest day of the year. He thought of his girls, the lights of his life, the reason he worked and fought through each year as they passed. He thought of his Anya, the love of his life, whom he had known since he was a young man, working at his father’s farm. He had left that life behind for her and for their little blessing, Sofiya, who had come not long after they married and began a farm of his own. Nikolai hurled his axe down with great force, slicing chunks of firewood in half. He worked like this because he loved his girls; because he wanted them to eat, drink, live happily, and thrive rather than just survive. Nikolai gathered all the wood he had chopped and ran to the front of the house, hurrying as quickly as he could.

Nikolai came rushing into the cabin, shocked at the sight. Anya held their daughter close, as she did when she was an infant, singing sweet lullabies to her in the night. He fell to his knees, looking at his beautiful girls, his wife, and daughter whom he had loved more than anything else in the world, gone, the light of their souls snuffed out by the cold. He remembered how their laughs would fill the halls of their small little cabin and how warm each night would be, their prayers going up to the Heavens, asking for a safe winter season in hopes for it to pass quickly. He remembered how he had raised his beautiful daughter alongside his beautiful wife. He knew that their lives might be cut short by the fierce seasons in Yakutia, but he wished and prayed every day that they might be extended for just another year longer.

He remembered all these things as he hugged his girls, closing his eyes, crying along with them, staying alongside them until his light too, had been stamped out by Winter’s foot. They, along with many other families’ lights in Yakutia, had been blown out that day, and the candles of their souls were never forgotten. It is still a mystery why they lived in Yakutia, Siberia, perhaps because of the beautiful warm seasons; Spring and Summer had always brought the shining sun to them so that they may thrive happily again. And though Fall was not very warm, it brought a plentiful harvest, and was the time of year their bellies were the fullest; feasts every night. These three seasons were the rage and brag of Yakutia, but everything good comes with a price. For the memories of these good seasons were stomped out by Winter’s mean and cold attendance, for Winter was a very punctual man; He was never late.