(STORY) Diomid stepped into the cold cabin, his whole figure shaking. The freezing wind pounded against the window panes. His eyes traced the figure of his wife laying in bed, next to her sleeping form was the recipe for borscht she had cooked. He shook his boots off and laid them next to the bedframe, the snow melting into a puddle around them. He sniffed the air, the smell of borscht hitting his nostrils. He opened the door to the kitchen and sat down in front of the bowl. He had almost forgotten the smell of beets and sour cream. He had always been too busy hunting the assortment of animals that roamed near the mountains. As he hungrily spooned the warm soup into his mouth, his gaze drifted to the two empty chairs that surrounded the rest of the table, and saw that his wife’s bowl was already finished, so she would have no reason to wake up and eat with him. Diomid took a sip from the small wooden cup of melted snow, the cold liquid almost freezing his tongue. Suddenly, the door opened, his wife was there, leaning against the crooked doorframe. “Well?” She raised an eyebrow. “No reindeer today, Sweetheart.” He replied, trying to keep eye contact with her. “No reindeer today…Just like the rest of this week, No reindeer at all!” She said sharp, making Diomid flinch slightly. “I am sure the herd will be here soon, dear, just be patient.” He reassured her, standing up and coming over to hug her. “I know…” She replied. “But do you know?” He asked. She stood there for a second in his arms, silent. He looked into her eyes, noticing she wasn’t looking at him, but the third empty chair. “He’ll be back one day, worry won’t solve anything,” His wife slowly let go, and left to presumably go back to bed. Diomid stood there, slowly sitting back down to finish eating. But yet, he couldn’t help but stare at the third chair. The immense void he felt in himself seemed to exaggerate as he looked at it. He turned back to the borscht and picked the bowl up and drank it. The warm liquid slowly disappeared as he poured it into his mouth, the liquid spilling against the sides of his lips. He slammed the bowl down as he finished, droplets of borscht splashing onto the wooden table. Diomid grabbed the now empty bowl and put it in the sink, and proceeded to do the same with the second bowl. As he washed the bowl out with the wet rag, another gust of wind slammed into the windows, the whole frame shaking like a flower in the wind. Diomid ignored the sound, placing the cleaned bowls in the sink. Diomid walked into the main room again. His wife sitting down in front of the fireplace, Her expression Solemn. Diomid crouched down next to her, taking her hand. “Are you alright?” He asked, concerned. “I suppose…” She spoke, not giving him eye contact. “You still thinking about him?” He whispered. “Yeah…I am.” She whispered back.
