Rushka was born into a hardy Russian family whose roots ran deep into the frostbitten soil of the north. Her parents were quiet, stoic folk, and her older brother Elek was the one who filled the house with laughter. He was bold enough to climb pines in winter, clever enough to carve trinkets out of bone, and gentle enough to slip his little sister gifts wrapped in twine. The last gift he ever gave her was the hat she now wears every single day. Years ago, Elek set out with a small group of travelers into the Verkhoyansk Mountain range—one of the coldest, remotest places in the world. Rushka remembers the way the sky looked that morning, the strange stillness in the air, the way Elek ruffled her hair before adjusting the hat on her head. “To keep you warm until I come back,” he’d said. But he never returned. No one knows exactly what happened. Some say the mountains swallowed his group whole, as they’ve done to countless explorers before. Others whisper about old spirits that are said to wander those peaks, following anyone foolish enough to disturb their ancient paths. Rushka grew up with those stories, but she never let them sink claws into her heart. Instead, she held onto Elek’s hat—now weathered at the seams, soft from years of wear. She refuses to go anywhere without it. To her, it is more than clothing; it is proof that Elek existed, that he loved her, and that perhaps somewhere out in those icy ridges, he is still waiting to be found. Sometimes, when the wind blows just right, she swears she can hear a voice echo from the mountains—a familiar one—calling her name. She doesn’t know if it’s memory, hope, or something else entirely. But it keeps her moving forward, driven by a quiet resolve to uncover the truth that the snow tried to bury. And though the world can be cold, Rushka carries a warmth with her: the warmth of a bond unbroken, stitched deep into the fabric of her brother’s last gift. In adulthood, Rushka’s path led her far from the frozen north and into the quiet hum of research labs, where she worked cataloging old scientific manuscripts and forgotten field notes. It was in the laboratory library—fluorescent lights flickering, dust drifting in thin shafts of white—that she met Aska Middleton. He was a researcher with ink-stained fingers and a habit of losing track of time, and Rushka first noticed him when he nearly toppled a stack of journals taller than himself. Their conversations began with shared curiosity about obscure experiments but soon deepened into gentle companionship, late-night tea poured between towering shelves, and the comfort of two people who found in each other a sense of steadiness. Life with Aska brought Rushka a warmer, steadier rhythm: quiet mornings, thoughtful debates, and a home filled with books and soft laughter—proof that even strange, dim-lit places like laboratory libraries can be the start of something bright.
Art Shown was made by @BugWubs20
