He loves snow the most. The fluttering snow is the purest color in the world and the most perfect spirit in the world. It is also the best memory in his life and the thing he cherishes most.
He will not forget that a long time ago, someone told him that Moscow is a city with winter snow and is filled with winter silence all year round. It is the capital of the Soviet Union, a country founded by the great Lenin, and an outstanding socialist country. And whenever winter comes, the vast land that is thousands of miles away turns into the color of snow as bright as the moon, like being in heaven.
From then on, he fell in love with Moscow.
He fell in love with the city pursuing republic in the snow. He also inherited the communist dream, as well as his ice-like appearance and soul. He was ready to abandon his original self, but he did not expect that after the fire burned, the beautiful rebirth he originally thought would become a terrible cocoon, wrapping him layer by layer, getting tighter and tighter, so tight that he could not find a way out. The road to Moscow was blurred in blood and sweat, and floated in tears.
Fortunately, Moscow is still there.
Just like snow falls as scheduled every year. Even if the sky and the earth change color in the smoke of gunpowder, even if the earth is devastated in the burning of war. But that year, that person, that dream, that city, that pure color, unknowingly became an unfading eternity in his memory.