Pyotr took the star, the wet glue sticking to his fingers. "What kind of promise?"
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. rozdestvo_tak_xocetsya_zit
He reached for his coat. The city was still loud, still messy, and still cold. But as he stepped out into the falling snow, he realized the gray was gone. The world was blue and gold and silver, and for the first time in a very long time, he was part of it again. Pyotr took the star, the wet glue sticking to his fingers
Pyotr returned to his silent room. He hung the heavy, glittering star next to the glass bird. The tree tilted under the weight, looking ridiculous and vibrant. For the first time in a year, Pyotr didn't see a dying tree or a lonely room. He saw the light catching the glitter. He felt the cold draft from the window and, instead of shivering, he leaned into it. He reached for his coat