Vasily Stepanovich lived at the edge of a village where time felt frozen. His small, worn house—sagging under the weight of years—was surrounded by a crooked fence and a pair of creaky gates nobody had fixed in ages. Around him — silence. The whole street stood empty: neighbors had either moved to the city or passed into eternity. All that remained were memories and quiet reflections.

He was seventy now. Forty of those years had been spent serving others — as a paramedic at the village clinic, which, like so much of his past, now stood abandoned. After his wife died, he lived alone. His children visited rarely, sometimes phoning, occasionally remembering. But he had long accepted solitude. It became a habit, a shield from pain and small talk.

That year, winter came early and came hard. The wind howled so fiercely even the thickest window frames shivered in protest. Snow didn’t fall—it blanketed in thick walls, tore off rooftops, spun through the air like it meant to erase the last signs of life.

Vasily’s home was the only one with a lit window. He was stoking the stove and preparing a modest dinner — potatoes boiled in their jackets and a few salted cucumbers from the old barrel. That’s how he always ate: plainly, without fuss. Nothing fancy, nothing wasted.

He was just about to lie down when he heard a sound. At first, it blended with the usual blizzard’s wail. But again—it came, quieter this time. Almost like a whisper. Someone… calling out. His heart skipped, then beat faster.