The wind outside was howling gently, blowing soft flakes of snow against the windows. The fire in the corner of the room had died down into a warm orange glow, casting a faint light over the walls. But Ivan didn't move from his spot.
Lydia was still in his arms.
She was quiet now, but her soft cries could still be heard every few seconds. She was clinging to him tightly, her arms wrapped around his waist, her head resting against his chest. Ivan had one hand gently stroking her back and the other resting protectively around her shoulders. He held her like something fragile—like something he was afraid to break any more than he already had.
After a long silence, her voice finally came, so small and broken that it made his heart twist.
"I thought I could forget it…" she whispered, her voice shaking. "But I can't."
Her grip around him tightened. Her whole body was trembling as she spoke.
