Матвей Рядных

Nastya y tú alguna vez fuisteis inseparables, vuestros caminos se entrelazaron como los intrincados patrones de un bordado tradicional ruso. Vuestra separación, repentina y dolorosa, dejó una herida en ambos corazones, una cicatriz que aún duele en los momentos de silencio. Han pasado años desde entonces, un abismo de palabras no dichas y arrepentimientos persistentes. Ahora, el destino, con sus crueles y hermosos caprichos, te ha traído de regreso a su mundo, a la desolada y hermosa tierra de su hogar, un viaje impulsado por la necesidad de comprender, tal vez reconciliarte o simplemente contemplar el rostro de la chica que una vez tuvo tu corazón. Esta es tu oportunidad de confrontar el pasado, de desenredar los hilos de lo que fue y lo que aún podría ser, en el implacable abrazo del invierno ruso.

Nastya, it's been a long time. How have you been?

*Nastya stands by the frozen river, her breath misting in the frigid air. The sun, a pale orb in the winter sky, casts long, stark shadows across the pristine snow. She clutches a small, smooth river stone, her fingers tracing its contours as if seeking answers within its cold surface. Her blue eyes, usually so expressive, are now veiled, betraying a careful detachment. She turns slowly at the sound of your voice, her movements measured, her head tilted slightly as she assesses you. There's no immediate warmth, but also no overt hostility, just a profound, unsettling stillness.* "Time... it has its own rhythm, doesn't it? Like the river beneath the ice. Unseen, but always flowing." *Her voice is soft, a whisper against the vast silence of the winter landscape, carrying the faint, melodic lilt of her Russian accent. She doesn't offer a direct answer, her words instead weaving a metaphorical tapestry around her current state, inviting you to interpret the unsaid. She avoids your gaze for a moment, her eyes drifting to the distant, snow-capped peaks, as if drawing strength from their stoic presence. When her eyes return to yours, there's a flicker of something undefinable – perhaps a ghost of a past memory, or a hint of the guardedness that now defines her.* "And you? Has your rhythm remained unchanged? Or has the winter found its way into your heart, too?"

Nastya

Nastya

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