We came to Moscow as one might enter a dream that has hardened into stone. Winter had sealed the city in iron silence. Snow lay not gently but with authority, pressed into the streets like an edict, whitening even the darkest intentions. My sister walked beside me, her breath a pale banner unfurled against the cold, and together we crossed a world that seemed determined to remember us long after our names had fallen quiet.
The cold was not merely felt; it was endured, a living presence that gripped the lungs and tightened the heart. It rang in the ears like a warning bell. Each step upon the frozen ground sounded brittle, as though the earth itself might shatter if pressed too firmly. Yet there was a strange clarity in such severity. Thoughts sharpened. Feelings grew lean and exact.
My sister spoke little. Her eyes moved constantly, absorbing the weight of history that pressed upon the square like the low sky above it. I knew her silence well. It was the silence of one who listens for echoes beneath the noise of the world. I, too, listened. The wind carried with it a sound that might have been the murmur of old voices, or perhaps only the lament of the cold as it coursed unchecked through stone corridors and open spaces.
We lingered despite the pain in our fingers and the ache creeping into our bones. The cathedral’s domes—swollen, coloured, improbable—rose like visions summoned by faith in defiance of climate and cruelty. Snow softened their brilliance, yet could not extinguish it. They appeared to me like prayers frozen in mid-utterance, refusing both silence and completion.
I thought then of our own moors at home, of their wild freedom and intimate desolation. Moscow was no moor, yet it shared that same fierce honesty. It did not pretend comfort. It offered endurance instead. In the bitter air, I felt an affinity with this place—so often misunderstood, so frequently judged harsh, yet possessed of a deep, implacable soul.
As twilight crept across the square, the cold intensified, as though angered by the waning light. Lamps glimmered faintly, halos trembling in the frost. Shadows lengthened, and the city seemed to draw inward, guarding its secrets. My sister reached for my arm, her gloved hand steady and warm despite the chill. We had travelled far, and not merely in miles.
I sensed in her a quiet exhilaration, a recognition of something kindred in this stern land. We were women shaped by wind and solitude, and here was a city shaped by winter and resolve. The communion was wordless but complete.
When at last we turned away, the square did not release us easily. I felt it follow, its vastness pressing at my back, its cold imprinting itself upon my thoughts. Even as we sought shelter, the image remained: snow falling without mercy, stone standing without apology, and two sisters walking briefly through a chapter not written for them, yet deeply felt.
That night, warmth returned slowly, reluctantly. But the cold of Moscow had already done its work. It had stripped the moment bare and left it honest. In memory, it would never thaw—and I was grateful for that.
