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Pyotr took the star, the wet glue sticking to his fingers. "What kind of promise?"

The city was a blur of neon and slush, but inside the small apartment on the fourth floor, the air smelled of dried orange peels and old books. Pyotr sat by the window, his breath fogging the glass. Outside, the world was celebrating Christmas Eve, a whirlwind of laughter and heavy coats, but inside, the silence was heavy. rozdestvo_tak_xocetsya_zit

"My mom said you might be lonely," she said, thrusting the star toward him. "It’s for your tree. It’s a magic star. If you hang it, you have to make a promise to the New Year." Pyotr took the star, the wet glue sticking to his fingers

It wasn't that he wanted more time, exactly. He wanted the feeling of time—the sharp sting of the cold, the way a hot cup of tea felt against frozen palms, the messy, complicated noise of being human. Outside, the world was celebrating Christmas Eve, a

"Christmas," he whispered, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "I want to live so much."

For months, the world had felt like it was fading to gray. Pyotr had stopped answering the phone; the voices on the other end felt like they belonged to a life he no longer lived. He looked at the meager tree in the corner—a spindly thing he’d bought from a street vendor out of a lingering sense of duty. It had only one ornament: a glass bird with a chipped wing that had belonged to his mother.