
It was a rough February afternoon in Tomsk. The temperature had fallen below minus twenty Celsius, and the surface of the Tom River had frozen into a dull sheet of white steel stretching beneath the pale Siberian sky. No one gathered there anymore. The old winter-swimming festivals — once celebrated with music, vodka, bonfires, and Orthodox blessings — had quietly disappeared over the years, another tradition dissolved by comfort, bureaucracy, and apathy.
Arseny had not left his house in one hundred and twenty-four days.
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