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The squeaking of the turning wheels filled his ears.
Sound... the first sense that returned to him, promptly followed by the frigid air biting at his skin. His hands were burning up, his ears stinging from the cold wind that danced around his face.
There was a smell in the air—quite a familiar one at that. The smell of pine cones, the smell of the earth... A clean, crisp aroma; something that had become lost on him in the bright, bustling, and loud modern-day city.
His fingers had turned red, he became unable to feel his toes, the clothes he had been donning were damp from the snow falling from above, and his body was screaming for even an ounce of warmth; and yet, strangely enough, he couldn't find it in himself to complain.
At one point in time, he would have considered these circumstances uncomfortable; nothing unusual, yet most definitely undesirable.
In that very moment, however, nothing but the opposite was true. His body may have been begging for warmth, though at his core, he felt content—what a peculiar sensation...
The squeaking of the wheels continued... followed by another sound he had been unaware of until then; a sound which he could only attribute to that of horses trotting along a nature path.
A sound of bygone days...
As he became more aware of his senses, he noticed how everything felt... heavy. His clothes were weighing down on him; it became difficult to breathe; his head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton; his entire body was covered with a disgusting film of sweat, yet he couldn't stop shivering...
Was he coming down with a fever...? What unfortunate timing. He couldn't afford such trivialities.
Weak. Helpless. Small. He hadn't experienced anything like this in years. Why did he feel so small...?
In the distance, a voice could be heard...
From whom did it sound?
Soft and gentle, light and caring... The melodic tone flowed through the air, turning what was once a cold, grey winter night into an atmosphere akin to sitting by a warm fireplace with one's favourite flavour of tea in one hand and a book containing one of mankind's greatest pieces of literature in the other.
No, the feeling was even greater than that... though he lacked the words to clearly define the serenity in his chest...
Again, from whom did the voice sound?
The more he came to his senses, the closer the voice seemed to be...
How close were they? Were they aware of his presence?
The frigid, painful air slowly began to disappear, and in its place, a pleasant, surprisingly nostalgic feeling which he could only adequately describe with one word emerged...
Safe.
He felt... no, he was... safe...
The person whom the voice belonged to... was humming. They were humming a tune, one he had forgotten, but instantly came to recognise.
The carriage they were sitting in rattled with each pebble and stone they hit. It once again reminded him of how weak his body had become, nausea welling up in his throat with every shake.
Absentmindedly, he clung to the person next to him, his sticky, sweaty hands soaking their clothing.
"Don't worry, Fedyenka, it won't be much longer."
Fedyenka... How long had it been since he last heard that name...?
"Until then, please rest for a little longer. All right?"
He must have worried her somehow... He hadn't meant to...
The humming continued.
Right... That's right... She would always hum to him whenever he had trouble falling asleep... Or whenever he wasn't feeling well... She would stay by his bedside all night if she had to, even if it meant sacrificing her own sleep. That's the kind of person she was.
Slowly, he allowed himself to open his eyes and get a good look at the person who was in the carriage with him, simply to make sure he hadn't been mistaken.
But, he thought to himself, he had to be mistaken. There could be no plausible explanation for why she would be alive after all those years.
'This must be a trial. There's no other reason for why this could be happening.'
Yet, before he could finish his line of thought, he found himself staring at the woman whose face he had forgotten long ago, whose voice he never should have been able to recognise.
No face to remember by. No voice he should have been able to recall.
Then why, despite the moon having been so impossibly bright—so much that most of her features had been hidden by its light—was he instantly sure of who she was? Why was he so sure he had seen this face before, not so long ago?
He stared, not daring to blink; for the fear that she would disappear if he closed his eyes for only one second began to crawl into his heart.
Was it truly her? It couldn't be. He saw her end. God had graced her, allowing her to take a step into Heaven, to leave this sinful Earth. Why would she come back? What was her purpose? Hadn't she already fulfilled it? There was no need for her to exist among mortals any further. Her time had already come to an end. So... why...? What was the purpose of this?
He had wandered through many cemeteries, honouring those who had departed. No matter how often he would do so, he had never found a headstone with her name carved into it.
But of course, he hadn't. She passed away such a long time ago. Who would ever remember her in this day and age?
A cold shiver ran up his spine as he remembered that he would have met the same fate, had his life taken a more natural course.
'Natural course'... He found himself thinking in such a way again... But he shouldn't. There's a reason why he is still alive to this day; he must never question it. Even if his lifespan had been extended by a cursed ability, his remaining on this Earth was proof enough that he hadn't fulfilled the role that had been assigned to him. Questioning his longevity would be questioning the Lord. He musn't.
As he shook those thoughts off, he could only stare; she threw him a warm smile...
"Everything will be all right, Fedya. I promise you."
Carefully, to accompany those words, she took the boy she had once called her son into a gentle, yet strong embrace.
"You have done well thus far, my child. Now, I give you permission to rest."
Rest...? Impossible. He hadn't even reached his goal yet.
"You have done enough..."
A hand stroking his head accompanied the last words she spoke.
"Sleep well, my son..."
No. No, this wasn't right. He couldn't rest yet; he was nowhere close to being allowed to rest. He was given a purpose, and he has yet to fulfill it. He shall allow him no rest until he has justified the gift which was given to him all those years ago.
He shall stand up to this trial—he had faced many before, and this one shall be no exception.
Yet, his body refused to cooperate. Heavier, weaker, smaller... as if all his senses were fighting against him.
With every stroke, with every second that passed while she embraced him, he found himself giving into the temptation of rest.
His eyelids slowly fell, his surroundings became quiet... Had he always been this tired? This... exhausted?
He started to wonder whether the last few centuries had been a lie, whether it had all simply been a bad dream... What a silly thought to have, and all because she had returned without any prior notice.
But, maybe, just for a moment, he could convince himself that it were true...
He won't fully forget. All he will allow himself is to take comfort in this short, sweet lie.
May He forgive him for this.
And so, the trotting of the horses died down, the crisp winter air faded, and the moonlight ceased to exist.
Fyodor, finally, after many, many years, found himself at peace.
And, finally, the voice of the young boy was heard... "You're warm... Mama..."
...
"... Mama...?"
Quickly, those same eyes that so slowly drifted to sleep, opened with no hesitation.
The carriage had stopped.
It was dead silent.
Not a single soul was present.
"Mama... Where are you...?"
His head swayed from left to right, scanning his surroundings for any sign of life, no matter how little.
As he searched and searched, frantically calling out, voice becoming louder and louder, heart beating faster and faster, the cold began to sweep in again, robbing him of all the warmth he had received mere seconds ago.
That warmth... He wanted that warmth back...
The young boy was in desperate need of his mother.
Just as he had enough of yelling and screaming, just as he had enough of the cold air and the silence and the solitude, just as he was about to jump off of the carriage to further search for the warmth he needed, "You must not!"
He froze.
He froze after he heard the once kind voice grow stern, forbidding him from leaving the carriage.
"Do not step any further."
Despite not having moved an inch, the woman he had been looking for entered his field of vision. When had she appeared there...?
"Do not step any further, demon."
This was all wrong. He wanted to call out to her, tell her she's wrong! But his voice couldn't reach her. The voice that had mere seconds ago called for his mother so loudly, had grown hoarse.
He reached out, hoping he could grip the warmth he had won, and yet so quickly lost again. However, as soon as his hand reached his field of vision, he noticed...
Was that... blood...? Where had it come from? Had he hurt himself without noticing?
He remembered the damp clothes clinging to his skin... He looked up and down himself, discomforting pain spreading throughout his body.
All that time when he thought he had been covered in sweat... had it actually been...?
"It is time..." the same warm smile crept across her face, though with a hint of dissonance, "for me to leave."
As if on cue, the carriage swept into motion, taking Fyodor away—further distancing mother and child.
One final hoarse scream rang out, before the whole world became dark around him.
With a quick, breathless scream, Fyodor shot up into his chair, dizzy from the disorientation and the sudden, unexpected movement. For a quick second, the clunk of something having fallen down could be heard in the room.
Catching his breath and getting used to his surroundings again, the first thing that greeted him was a stinging pain in the back of his neck—each slight motion of the neck sent a further jolt of pain.
Carefully, so as to not strain his neck further, he took a quick glimpse of his surroundings—brightly lit screens, various documents strewn about, cables running along the floor... Ah, he had returned back to his office, is that so...?
When his view returned to what was in front of him, he found an ink bottle—knocked over, with most of its contents having spilt onto the piece of paper in front of him. He must have fallen asleep at his desk and thus hit it accidentally when he had awoken; having slept in such an unnatural position would also explain the pain in his neck. Ah, great... What an unpleasant awakening...
So, he had been sleeping... What an easy way to explain away the events that had just transpired... How foolish of him to allow himself any sort of peace. How utterly detestable.
For just a few seconds, he sat in silence, no emotion detectable—at least, until a small grin found its way onto his face.
"As expected, nothing but a mere trial. The Lord certainly knows how to be cruel."
The grin remained for a few more seconds, until then fading away and leaving Fyodor with the same emotionless expression he had been donning before.
A moment of silence—with only the whirring of the machines to be heard—followed by the acknowledgement of the fallen ink bottle, and a reluctant admittance that it should get cleaned up while the ink is still wet.
Lifting up from his chair, he made to leave, unintentionally catching a glimpse of himself in one of the many screens.
For a while, he blankly stared at the reflection in front of him, before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
One wouldn't have been able to tell from his empty expression alone, but one small thought grazed his mind as he came face to face with himself, finding an answer to a question he had asked himself within the dream...
He truly has come to resemble her.