Winter in Russia, 2000s

  Yaroslav wearing himself in a thick coat and a warm scarf as he made his way to Nikolai’s family apartment. Standing in front of their door, a familiar wave of guilt washed over him. He still blamed himself for Nikolai’s death.

  Since returning from the war, Yaroslav had made a habit of visiting Nikolai’s wife and son, feeling a deep sense of responsibility. Their home wasn’t too far from his own, so he would often drop by whenever he could.

  Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he knocked on the door.

  Nikolai’s wife, Anastasia Nguyen, opened it, greeting him with a warm smile. She carried the beauty and friendliness of her Vietnamese heritage.

  Anastasia: Yaroslav, there you are! Could you help me fix the sink pipe? Oh, and… wow, you brought a gift for Ivan! He’s going to love it.

  She turned into the house and called out.

  Anastasia: Ivan, Uncle Yaroslav is here!

  A moment later, Ivan came rushing out of his room, his face lighting up at the sight of Yaroslav. He was always happy when Yaroslav visited.

  Yaroslav: Come here, my little tank!

  With that, he lifted Ivan up effortlessly. The boy squirmed in embarrassment.

  Ivan: Come on, put me down! I’m 16 already!

  Yaroslav: Even if you’re 18 or 20, you’ll still be just a kid next to me.

  They both laughed, their bond evident in the way they interacted. Their relationship had grown so close over the years that, in some situations, Ivan would even call on Yaroslav like a father.

  Yaroslav stayed behind to fix the sink pipe for Nikolai’s family. He had made it a habit to help them whenever he could, whether it was repairing a broken light bulb or doing small chores around the house.

  He understood all too well what it was like for a family to be missing a father figure. In his own childhood, there was no memory of a father—only a mother who was constantly busy with work. Left without guidance, he had fallen into a reckless lifestyle, embracing harmful ideologies like racism and even a touch of fascist thinking.

  That past haunted him, and he feared that Ivan might go down the same path. So, Yaroslav made sure to be there for Ivan, guiding him like the father figure he never had.

  After finishing his work, Yaroslav politely excused himself, despite Anastasia insisting that he stay for dinner.

  Even as he left, he knew he would be back because in many ways, he had found a purpose in protecting this family, just as he had promised Nikolai.

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  Anastasia: Come on, it’s snowing outside.

  She looked at Yaroslav with concern, hoping to convince him to stay a little longer.

  Yaroslav hesitated for a moment before offering a faint smile.

  Yaroslav: Russia is most beautiful when it snows.

  With that, he turned and walked away.

  He wandered through the quiet streets until he reached an empty playground. Sitting down on a bench beneath the glow of a streetlamp, he stared into the falling snow, lost in thought.

  Despite being surrounded by people, Yaroslav felt profoundly alone. The vastness of the world made him feel small, insignificant.

  He once believed that the noblest thing he had ever done was joining the war—becoming a soldier. But now, as the Second Chechen War raged on, he was no longer fit to fight. His unstable mental state had disqualified him, leaving him with a sense of purposelessness.

  As the cold wind howled through the deserted playground, Yaroslav sat in silence, questioning where he truly belonged in this world.

  Suddenly, a young girl approached him, holding a small daisy in her hands.

  that Girl: Hii, neighbor.

  Yaroslav looked at the small girl standing before him, holding out the delicate white flower. He was confused at first but couldn't help smiling warmly—there was something comforting about her presence.

  She had an innocent, radiant smile that seemed to glow even amidst the falling snow. Her Russian was clumsy, her pronunciation slightly off, but her eagerness to speak with him was undeniable.

  Yaroslav chuckled at her adorable awkwardness, quickly guessing that she was about Ivan's age.

  Yaroslav: Where are you from, little one?

  that Girl: I'm from Vietnam. My name is Huong Duong. We live in the same apartment building. My family just moved in, so maybe you haven’t seen us yet. Sorry… my Russian is not very good.

  Yaroslav: Huong Duong? Like the sunflower? that's a beautiful name ngl, but a bit tricky for me to pronounce… Hmm, I’ll call you Ekaterina.

  Duong: Wow! You know Vietnamese?

  Yaroslav: Yes, my cousin taught me a little… (Này, t?i bi?t nói ti?ng Vi?t ?ó.)

  He said in Vietnamese and grinned at her.

  Yaroslav: Yeah, yeah… My Vietnamese is just as bad as your Russian.

  They both laughed, their laughter echoing softly through the snowy night.

  Yaroslav walked alongside H??ng D??ng on their way home. They didn’t talk much—she simply hummed a soft tune as they strolled through the snow-covered streets. He watched her with a small smile, amused by her innocence and carefree nature.

  When they reached their building, they says goodbyes before parting ways.

  Yaroslav entered his apartment, greeted only by the sight of a cluttered and unkempt room. With a sigh, he placed the small bouquet of white daisies that Huong Duong had given him on the table and collapsed onto the couch.

  After sitting in silence for a while, his gaze drifted back to the flowers. Something about them seemed out of place in his bleak apartment ''so...pure n too bright" Yaroslav tho

  After a moment of hesitation, he stood up and searched for a vase. It took him a while, but eventually, he found an old one his late mother’s. Carefully, he placed the white daisies inside and set the vase on the coffee table, staring at it with an satisfaction.

  The small bouquet stood out against the dim surroundings, radiating a quiet warmth that seemed to push back the gloom in his home.

  That night, as Yaroslav lay in bed, he couldn’t stop thinking about Huong Duong.

  When he closed his eyes, the familiar image of the Vietnamese girl from his dreams in Chechnya resurfaced. But now, the face was no longer a blur—it was hers.. Duong.

  He could almost smell the scent of rice fields, feel the warmth that seemed to follow her wherever she walked.