Fedor's boots sank deep into the fresh snow, but he only grinned wider. With a gleeful kick, he sent a clump flying into the air.
"Catch it, Mama!"
Anastasia leaned out the window, one hand brushing a stray curl from her flushed cheek.
"Fedor! Come inside this instant! You'll catch your death out there in this wind."
"I'm fine!"
He scooped up another handful and tossed it skyward. The snow floated down like sparkling dust, catching the pale winter light. His small hands had turned bright red, yet he felt nothing no sting, no ache, only joy.
"Look! It doesn't even bother me!"
Nikolai stood just behind her, arms folded tightly across his chest.
"He shouldn't be out there,"
he said, his voice low and strained.
"It's far too cold for any child."
Anastasia glanced back at him, her smile gentle but unwavering.
"He's our son, Nikolai. He's perfectly fine. Let him enjoy the snow while it lasts."
Fedor spun in wild circles, snowflakes clinging to his dark hair like tiny diamonds.
"I'm really fine, Papa! The snow doesn't hurt me at all!"
Nikolai's jaw clenched. He watched as the boy crouched down and began molding a small tower from the drifts, his movements quick and sure despite the biting wind.
"It's… unnatural,"
Nikolai muttered under his breath.
"No child should be able to stay out this long without freezing."
Anastasia shot him a sharp look but said nothing.
Fedor patted the snow firmly into a low wall around the old stone fountain, his laughter ringing brighter than the howling gusts.
Fedor scooped up a handful of snow and flung it at the small wall he was building. The snowball bounced off and tumbled to the ground.
"Ha! Too slow!"
he laughed, running after it with pure delight.
From the window, Anastasia's expression softened with quiet wonder.
"Such a happy boy,"
she whispered.
"If only the world could always be this kind to him."
Nikolai turned away, his frown deepening into something closer to fear.
"I don't like it. There's something about him… it isn't right."
Fedor doesn't hear them.
He leaps onto the fountain's icy edge, arms flung wide. He spins faster and faster through the swirling snow, laughing wildly as the wind whips around him. Snow clings to his hair and coat like a second skin.
For a moment, he looks completely at home as if the storm belongs to him.
Then the laughter fades. He stops spinning, still balanced on the edge, breathing hard. His smile lingers, but his eyes drift toward the house, toward the window where his parents stand watching.
The wind keeps howling.