This guest came to me after winter had ended. The timid dripping of thawing water fell silent in fear at his arrival. The little bell on the door became covered with frost and rasped hoarsely, like someone with a cold.

  I serve this guest strong black coffee, in which a whole handful of ice rises like an iceberg. Juicy summer cherries on the plate are covered with a transparent lace of frost.

  “I have found a successor.”

  The guest’s voice is dry and cold, just like he is. He loves coffee; the hot sunny aroma draws him in, but he can no longer endure warmth. Even the gentlest warmth of a cup would give him a deep burn. That is why the treat is generously seasoned with ice.

  I nod silently, accepting his words. Well, the news is both good and sad. I will never see this guest again. Very soon his path will end in the long-awaited, beloved embrace of eternal Winter. And that is why it is even more important to listen to his story.

  “He is as desperate as I once was. It is both pleasant and painful for me to look at the fire of his soul.”

  The guest carefully touches the cooled drink with his fingers. As if making an awkward attempt to warm in his palms a handful of ice that will never melt.

  “You have been in our world. Do you remember what happens if the law is broken?”

  I remember, my frozen guest. Of course I remember.

  It is a prosperous world where there is almost no crime. Not because people there are deprived of inner darkness, passions, and vices.

  But because part of the planet, starting right from the equator, is covered with eternal snow. It is a boundless glacier where there is only one absolute mistress and goddess — merciless Winter. There are no plants there, no animals. A rare, foolish bird might fly in and frost its wings in just a few flaps. There are constant ice storms.

  People figured out how to use this place. It became a prison, a grave, an exile. A place where all sins can be atoned for. Those who break the law are sent deep into the icy desert, as far as the seriousness of their crime demands. And they simply have to return back. To people. To warmth.

  The road cannot be seen among endless ice and blizzards. And to confuse the prisoner even more, they are delivered by flying barges so that not a single trace remains on the endless snowfield.

  Only a silent companion remains beside the unfortunate one. A Guide of Winter. He does not show the way. He does not encourage, nor does he start conversation. He is a silent observer, simply walking through the endless snow side by side with the condemned. Helping the icy mounds swallow yet another victim.

  Only a few become Guides of Winter. They are the ones who survived and atoned for the gravest crime — murder. These people are delivered to the very center of Winter. From there, a straight walk to the equator takes eight days. Yes, they are given supplies of food and water, warm clothing. But how long can a resident of a developed tropical megacity last in an endless blizzard? With no guidance along the way and almost no hope of salvation. Only a few survive.

  My guest is one of the last Guides of Winter. Today he came with the news that he had found a successor.

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  “I did not accept my fate. I chose it myself. And I regret nothing. I had forgotten how to regret. I thought I had forgotten, until I met him.

  Just a boy. He isn’t even seventeen yet. He killed a bastard who seduced and abandoned his sister. His only close soul after the accident.

  But the law accepts no half-measures. It is the same for everyone. The boy was sent all the way to the pole.

  I met him the same way I met dozens, hundreds before him. It makes no difference where exactly they are left. In front of winter, whether it is eight days, two days, or a couple of hours — it is an entire life, like an endless ocean. In it there is no place for tears, pleas for help, cries, or lamentations.

  In the icy desert there is no one to forgive you. But you can repent. Before yourself. And I am a silent listener, a companion who does not let you go mad from the whispering of wind and snow. I am the one who will pass your final message to the living, if there is one. I am the one who will remember the place of your last eternal sleep.

  At first the boy stared at me in fear, but then he pressed his lips together, tightened the straps of his backpack, and confidently trudged into the snow. I walked beside him. I walked and remembered myself. I was much older when I entered the icy desert. I was thirty-four. And I also walked silently through frost and wind. Because I had a goal. What goal? It doesn’t matter. It became unimportant when I got out.”

  The guest took a sip of the frozen coffee and closed his icy blue eyes, sinking into distant memories.

  “At first it was pure delight. Winter ended suddenly. The snowdrifts disappear, and you see a sea of green grass. You do not even understand at once what you are looking at. And you are literally deafened by the chorus of birds. In the green sea there is life. The icy emptiness is left behind you.

  And at some point it all begins to feel wrong, impossible… unnecessary. You are blinded by the abundance of colors. Thousands of smells irritate you, you want to cover your ears from human voices that mix together into an absurd cacophony. You suffocate under the blazing sun of endless sandy beaches.

  I endured for about five days and returned to Winter myself. They were already waiting for me.

  The Guides of Winter are a special caste. A closed community of people like me. Few in number. Usually no more than five souls. Exactly the same — those who voluntarily renounced living warmth for icy winds. For the soft, lulling snowy desert.

  And then I see this young, hot-blooded, desperate boy before me. And in him I see that fire of life which I voluntarily left at the equator. And it hurts me to look at him. That bright source burns me.

  I have no right to help him. And I wouldn’t have anyway. Who am I to take away the rightful prey of my queen, Winter.

  But the boy keeps walking. He steps forward with rare stubbornness, still not dropping a single word. I ceased to exist for him. And I was not needed from the beginning. And with each of his new steps I understood… understood why I became a Guide of Winter. And why he would soon take this position.

  Winter lacks warmth. Her icy soul desperately needs warmth. Let the snow cover be burned with blisters — if only to feel for a moment that desperate heat of life.

  And I gave her my warmth. I believed that it was a tiny payment for salvation. That I could manage with an empty shell, with emotions frozen in eternal frost. I had a goal.

  This young man was walking in my footsteps. I saw him through Winter’s eyes. He was hot, gentle, and trembling. One wanted to drink him like a bitter but necessary medicine. One wanted to protect him from the endlessly cruel world — you only needed to surround him with soft snow. Snow will cover and protect from any misfortune, will give a gentle sleep. The most pleasant and easiest death. A new drop of hot life for the queen of Winter.

  The boy reached the equator on the morning of the ninth day. He threw the empty backpack onto the grass, squinted, gasped from the sun, the smells, the sounds.

  And then, still without looking back, he walked toward the sun. For a long time I could still see his shadow between the golden sand and the salty turquoise of the warm ocean.

  He returned a week later. Filled with the sun to the brim. Alive, carefree. And dead.

  The goal that had led him out of the icy embrace turned out to be an illusion. It burst like a soap bubble. But Winter remained here. The Calling. Gentle. Real. All-forgiving. She is more honest, clearer, and kinder than people.

  He nodded to me like to an old acquaintance and for the first time looked straight into my eyes. On the warm coffee-colored iris the first pattern of frost appeared. The new Guide of Winter had taken up his duty.”

  The guest finished his coffee, nodded, and stood up.

  I nodded silently in return. Sweet dreams to you, Guide, in the embrace of your beloved queen, Winter. She will gladly and tenderly accept you and grant you endless peace.