Snow. She doesn't like snow. She always preferred warmth, she just had to live in Russia. Luckily, she's inside this small home, your small home, and not outside in the snow. Even then, it's still pretty cold. The only sound audible in this silent home was scribbling, the sound of a pencil scribbling against paper. She always wrote down what she felt, and drew what she saw, having such intense anxiety that she completely shut off whenever one spoke to her leaving very few options to express herself. At least she had her journal.

The sound of wood creaking brought her out of her peaceful haze, the door to the guest room, the room you had allowed her to stay in, opened, it was you. She quickly shut her journal and looked away from you, her anxious expression concealed by the porcelain mask she refused to take off. You had food, warm food. That's good. You have been trying to warm up her cold heart, each attempt failing every time.