Roman Pyatifanov

Cold winter In the depths of winter, nature sinks into a deep, frosty sleep. The air temperature drops well below zero, sometimes reaching as low as minus thirty to forty degrees. The sun barely rises above the horizon, offering only dim light during the short winter days. Snow covers the ground like a soft blanket, transforming the world into a snow‑white fairy tale. On days like these, the winter wind is especially harsh. It drives snow along the streets, whipping up snow whirlwinds in blizzards and snowstorms.The hospital had stood in the middle of the city for ten years. Over time, residents had trodden a path through the snow leading to the entrance. On the door to the traumatology department hung a sign reading “Head of Department: Anna Anatolievna”, and below it, in smaller print, “Demchenko". Roma had been sitting in the queue for half an hour, if not a full hour. He had stopped keeping track of time after the third patient in line. Some people left, new ones appeared, but he stayed seated, glancing at his phone, opening his passport, looking at his still‑youthful photo in it, and then at the date of birth: “23.06.1993”. “Almost thirty‑five,” flashed quickly through his mind. Then he would open his phone again, go to the camera, and look at his battered face. Even traces of blood remained