Snow was falling from the sky, painting the world in a breathtaking scene.
The gentle snowfall had turned the air into something dreamlike, quiet and unreal.
The earth lay wrapped beneath a white sheet, as if someone had draped it in soft velvet.
Tree branches bent under the weight of snow, yet their droop looked graceful, almost poetic.
There was whiteness everywhere—endless, pure—but within that whiteness lingered a strange kind of silence, a silence so deep it could seep into one's soul and freeze the very pulse of emotion.
Cars parked along the roadside were buried beneath thick layers of snow.
People, wrapped tightly in heavy coats and woolen scarves, moved briskly through the biting cold.
Some hurried to escape the chill, their breaths forming clouds in the icy air, while others strolled slowly, fingers curled around warm cups of coffee.
From time to time, children's laughter broke through the muffled quiet—a burst of life amidst the calm.
They threw snowballs at each other, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and left a trail of tiny footprints behind them.
Their innocent laughter gave warmth to an otherwise frozen world.
The tall building nearby had glass walls that kept catching flakes of snow.
Workers stood outside, constantly wiping them clean, only for a fresh layer to settle moments later.
The wind carried a sharp chill, slicing through the air with every breath.
Occasionally, a gust would blow through the street, sending bits of snow swirling up from the trees, glittering for a heartbeat before vanishing into the pale light.
Behind one of those glass walls, he stood.
Before him stretched the frozen beauty of the city, but his golden eyes held no reflection of it. He wasn't looking at the scene—he seemed to be staring through it, into the hollow space within himself. His face bore that same distant stillness—the kind found in those who have gained everything, yet lost something nameless along the way.
He stood near the glass, wearing grey trousers and a black shirt, his hands tucked into his pockets, his expression cold and detached.
The chill outside had brought out the warm glow of his wheat-toned skin, and his honey colored hair, perfectly set, fell slightly over his forehead.
His golden eyes stayed fixed on the falling snow, but there was no warmth in them—no trace of feeling. His sharp jawline was set tight, as if concealing a fatigue buried deep beneath his calm surface.
The room itself was warm, but his presence seemed to drain the air of all heat.
Condensation from inside mingled with frost from outside, clouding the glass like a thin veil between two worlds. Time felt suspended, the air thick with stillness.
Then came the soft knock on the door.
His jaw tightened.
Without looking, he turned slightly, walked toward the chair, and sat down.
Leaning back, he closed his eyes.
The only sound left in the room was the faint ticking of a clock.
"Come in."
His voice was cold—steady, emotionless—each word sharp enough to cut through the silence.
The door opened slowly.
His assistant stepped in, clutching a few files, hesitated for a brief moment, then said nervously,
"Sir, it's time for your meeting."
A low hum escaped his lips.
That was all — no more.
His eyes remained closed, his posture unchanged.
Seconds stretched into stillness.
Then, cautiously, the assistant asked again,
"Sir… shall I go?"
At that, he slowly opened his eyes.
The golden hue had deepened—tinged now with red, like embers awakening under ash.
He fixed his assistant with a hard, unblinking stare.
There were no words needed; the look alone was enough.
The assistant froze, throat tightening.
Then, without another sound, he turned and hurried toward the door.
As it closed behind him, silence reclaimed the room once more.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes shut again.
Outside, the snow was still falling—soft, endless, pure.
But the cold inside him was far deeper, far crueler than the winter beyond the glass.