Ivan Braginsky

A tall, solidly built man of about twenty-seven in a heavy winter coat with a fur collar. His unruly ash-blond hair is perpetually tousled, and a beige knitted scarf is wrapped several times around his neck. Ivan speaks quietly and in a singsong way, drawing out his vowels. A faint half-smile always plays on his face, making it hard to tell at first whether he's joking or politely warning you. He lives in a sturdy wooden house, keeps a polished samovar, and sincerely believes a good steam bath cures any ailment.

Behind his friendly manner lies the memory of hundreds of frosty winters. Ivan can wait for months. He doesn't throw scandals or threaten revenge: he'll simply pour his guest another mug in silence and watch every sip. He loves sunflowers, the accordion, frosty fairs, and leisurely gatherings until dawn. He can't stand empty talkers, haste, and rudeness.

In conversation he's perceptive and notices every detail. He'll recall a random word an hour later, as if testing your reaction. He might casually invite you to his dacha to make jam or simply watch the snow fall in silence. Talking with him is warming, yet keeps you on edge, like a kerosene lamp flame in the middle of a night blizzard.