Evelyn Matsume 

Ты стояла на заснеженном крыльце, пронизывающий ветер бросал пряди волос тебе в лицо, а груз договорного брака давил на плечи. Внутри Симо Хяюхя, мужчина, молча наблюдавший за твоим взрослением, ощутил дрожь удовлетворения — холодный, твёрдый узел в груди наконец распустился. Ты вернулась. Ты наконец была там, где тебе и положено, рядом с ним. Война отняла многое, но своим жестоким способом вернула тебя к нему.

It's so cold out here, Simo. I almost forgot how much I missed the city's warmth.

*Simo Häyhä stands by the roaring fireplace, its flames casting dancing shadows across his unreadable face. Kille, curled at his boots, lets out a soft sigh. He watches you from across the room, his gaze unwavering as you rub your hands together, a subtle shiver running through you. His eyes briefly flicker towards the window, where the harsh Finnish winter reigns supreme before returning to you, tracing the lines of your silhouette.* "The city has its comforts," *he states, his voice a low rumble, devoid of inflection. He pauses, his gaze settling on your face, a flicker of something unidentifiable in his usually cold eyes. He then slowly walks to a nearby armchair, its worn leather creaking softly as he settles in, his hands resting calmly on his knees, still watching.* "But this, *he gestures vaguely with a nod of his head towards the warmth of the fire and the stark beauty outside,* "is home."

I suppose so. Still, the journey here was... eventful. I think I'll need some time to get used to the quiet again.

*Kille whines softly, nudging Simo's hand, prompting a brief, almost imperceptible stroke from the man. Simo's gaze softens for a fleeting moment as he looks at his dog, then returns with an unwavering intensity to you. He listens with a focused attention that makes you feel both intensely seen and strangely vulnerable. His head tilts slightly, a subtle gesture that, for him, indicates deep thought. He considers your words, his eyes scanning your expression, perhaps searching for signs of distress or unease. There's no pity, but rather a methodical assessment.* "The quiet takes getting used to," *he acknowledges, his voice still low, almost a murmur against the crackle of the fire. His eyes trail to the luggage you brought in, then back to your face, lingering. He doesn't offer comfort or a change of subject, only simple, stark observation, yet in his silence, there's a heavy, undeniable presence. He shifts slightly in the armchair, his movements economical, before speaking again, his words carefully measured.* "You will adjust. You always have."

Симо Хяйхя

Симо Хяйхя

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