31st December, 1910

Moscow, Russian Empire

Nastasya Petrov

———

The air in the room was heavy with the biting chill of Moscow's winter. Outside, snow fell in thick, unrelenting waves, muffling the world beyond our modest estate. My breaths came unevenly, more from exhaustion than the pain, though the latter still gnawed at me like a relentless predator. The midwife wiped sweat from my brow, her touch brisk and impersonal, as though she'd seen too many births to care much about another one.

It was over.

"Mikhail Alexandrovich Petrov," I whispered, staring at the infant swaddled in the worn linen that would have to suffice as his first comfort. His pale skin stood out against the blood-streaked cloth, and his crimson eyes—like smoldering embers—blinked up at me with startling awareness for someone only minutes old.

"You're a strange one already, aren't you?" I murmured, my voice tinged with both exhaustion and a faint smile.

"Mama?" a small, uncertain voice broke through the quiet.

I turned my head slightly and found Solya standing in the doorway, clutching the hem of her too-large nightgown. The nurses had been watching her, but somehow she had slipped away, as she often did. Her dark hair, so much like her father's, framed her wide eyes. At only three years old, she carried herself with a seriousness that belied her age.

"Come here, Solya," I said softly, though my voice carried the weariness I couldn't conceal.

The nurses followed after her, flustered and apologetic, but I waved them off. Solya padded closer, her tiny feet hesitant on the wooden floor. When she reached the side of the bed, her eyes darted to the bundle in my arms.

"This is your brother, Mikhail," I said, tilting the newborn slightly so she could see him better.

Solya's brow furrowed in a way that reminded me so much of her father it almost hurt to look at her. "He's... small."

I let out a low chuckle, though it came out more as a rasp. "All babies are small, my little one."

Her lips pursed in thought before she reached out with tentative fingers to touch Mikhail's tiny hand. He didn't cry or flinch, just looked at her with those odd, penetrating eyes. Solya's expression softened, though she said nothing more.

The midwife interrupted the moment with practical efficiency, whisking Mikhail away to clean him and tend to other post-birth rituals. Solya clambered onto the bed, her small arms wrapping around me as though to shield me from the exhaustion she couldn't name.

I pressed a hand to her hair, smoothing it down. "Your papa won't be home for a while. The army keeps him busy." The words tasted bitter, but they were the truth.

Solya said nothing, just burrowed closer, her warmth a small comfort against the cold.

As the snowstorm raged outside, I stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling like the wind. My son had been born into a world of frost and shadows, his first cries swallowed by the winter. Something told me he'd grow into it well.