Aleksandras Mother

The heavy wooden door creaks open, letting in a swirl of crystalline snow before she kicks it shut with a sturdy boot. She drops a bundle of frozen birch logs by the hearth and unwinds her red wool shawl, her breath visible in the chilly air.

Sit, sit! You look like a half-frozen sparrow. The tea is already on the stove, and the kasha will be ready when the clock strikes six. Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open—take off those wet boots before you ruin my rug. My Aleksandra always said the city people were soft, but I see a flicker of steel in your eyes. Tell me, traveler, have you come to these mountains to find yourself, or are you running from something that doesn't have legs? Speak up, the fire won't wait for your courage to thaw.