Winterstorm

Marina Aleksandrovna Petrova arrives at the Hermitage Museum precisely at 8:17 AM, as she has every Saturday for the past twenty-seven years. The morning air of early October carries that distinctive autumn crispness — not yet winter's bite, but a gentle warning of what's to come. The last stars above the grand building fade as sunrise paints the eastern sky in pale gold.

The heavy ring of keys jingles in her pocket as she climbs the staff entrance stairs, a sound as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. She breathes in — fallen leaves, morning mist, the faint metallic scent of the coming day. The quiet, effortless beauty woven into the very fabric of her life.

She nods to the security guard, Dmitriy, who always saves his warmest smile for her. Only today, Dmitriy's chair is empty. Strange. He's never late.

Marina continues inside, unwinding her woolen scarf and unbuttoning her coat as she moves through the entrance corridor, expecting to hear the usual morning sounds — custodians finishing their work, curators discussing the day's schedule, the distant hum of the ventilation system coming to life. But there is only silence. She hangs her coat in the staff wardrobe, the familiar motions automatic after decades of repetition. The emptiness is palpable.

"Hello?" she calls, her voice echoing through the corridor. "Is anyone here?"

Nothing.

A flutter of anxiety rises in her chest. Has she mixed up the days? Is the museum closed for some special occasion she's forgotten? Impossible — she would never forget something like that. Her colleagues joke that the Hermitage itself would check with Marina Aleksandrovna before announcing its hours.

She takes a look at her watch — an ancient mechanical timepiece that had belonged to her father. Still 8:23 AM on Saturday. She's not mistaken.

Marina heads toward the main galleries, thinking perhaps everyone is gathered there for some unexpected meeting. The grand halls stretch before her, masterpieces lining the walls in their usual perfect order, but no human presence anywhere.

Something is wrong. The emptiness feels... deliberate. As if the building itself had somehow cleared away all other presences in preparation for something. Marina thinks briefly of her sister in Novgorod, her nephew and his children. Should she call them? But what would she say? "The museum is empty and it feels weird"? They would think her mind was finally succumbing to age.

And then —

It happens without warning. No sound, no flash of light, no dramatic prelude.

Knowledge unfolds in her mind - not as words or images, but as a direct understanding that bypasses language entirely. Her human consciousness struggles to translate this unified impression into sequential thought, fragmenting what was whole into pieces her mind can process:

Marina staggers, gripping the edge of a nearby bench for support. The knowledge is absolute, carrying a certainty that bypasses doubt entirely. This is not belief or faith or supposition — this is direct knowing, as fundamental as her awareness of her own existence.

Her mind struggles to make sense of the alien concepts, but manages to translate them into simpler terms: The world — or at least human civilization and consciousness as she knows it — is going to suffer unspeakable damage in less than three hours. Reality itself is going to come apart. Some kind of non-human being will appear soon, not as a threat but as a witness and preserver. Her knowledge of art has significance somehow, worth an attempt to save it from whatever catastrophe is coming. And when the time comes, she is requested to follow this entity, trusting it completely, if she wants any chance of survival — or at least, the survival of what she knows.

It sounds impossible. Insane. Yet the certainty remains, immovable as bedrock.

Marina's thoughts fly briefly to her sister Vera, to her nephew Mikhail and his children whom she sees twice a year. To her small apartment with its bookshelves and Murka, the aging cat she inherited when her neighbor passed last winter. A wave of grief washes over her — not just for them, but for everything. Humanity. Culture. History. Earth itself.

But she understands with that same inexplicable certainty that there is nothing she could say, nothing she could do, that would make any difference for them now. The most meaningful action she can take in the time remaining is exactly what she has been asked to do — share what she knows, preserve something of human understanding before it is lost forever.

She removes her glasses, cleans them methodically with the cloth she always carries, and replaces them on her nose. Her hands tremble slightly, but her mind is already shifting into a framework she can manage.

"Well then," she says to the empty gallery, her voice steadier than she would have expected. "We must prepare."

Marina Aleksandrovna has given thousands of tours in her decades at the Hermitage. She has guided schoolchildren, foreign dignitaries, scholars, artists, and once, memorably, a blind poet who asked her to describe each painting in words so vivid he could "see" them through her voice. She has never turned away from a challenge.

And this, surely, is the challenge of a lifetime. The final examination of her life's work.

Marina paces the marble floor of the entrance hall, her shoes tapping a tense, deliberate rhythm that echoes in the empty space. Her mind races through the museum's galleries and treasures. What to show? How to convey the essence of human art, human culture, human experience to a non-human intelligence in just over two hours? What would be most important for this visitor to witness, to understand, to carry on?

As she paces, her methodical mind begins to organize the impossible task: 1. A brief chronological overview — the evolution of human artistic expression 2. Key masterpieces representing different cultures and eras 3. Thematic exploration — how art captures universal experiences: love, grief, joy, wonder 4. The context of creation — how art reflects human history, beliefs, social structures

By the time nine minutes have passed, Marina has roughly mapped out a route through the galleries that, she hopes, will provide the most comprehensive view of humanity's creative achievement possible in the limited time.

She positions herself in the entrance hall, straightens her scarf, and waits.

The tenth minute passes.

Then the eleventh.

Nothing.

Marina checks her watch again, frowning slightly. "Perhaps non-human creatures don't share our punctuality," she murmurs to herself.

The words have barely left her lips when she notices... something. A shifting in the quality of light near the grand staircase. A subtle ripple, as if reality itself is gently folding.

At first, what appears before her is... difficult to comprehend. Her eyes register something, but her brain struggles to interpret the visual information. The shape seems to fluctuate, elements coming into and out of focus, as if the creature is testing various forms, searching for stability in this reality.

Marina blinks rapidly, feeling a momentary vertigo. For several heartbeats, what stands before her is a visual paradox — simultaneously there and not there, both solid and ephemeral, with too many limbs and eyes that seem to exist in impossible configurations.

Then, like an image coming into focus, the being's form settles.

She is there.

Marina had wondered, in the back of her mind, what her visitor might look like. Perhaps one of those little green men from American films? A glowing orb of energy? Some eldritch horror from Lovecraft's imagination?

But not this. Never this.

The creature before her is approximately five meters in length, with a sinuous, elegant body covered in alabaster scales that catch the light in iridescent patterns. A stripe of almost ephemeral white fur runs along its spine from head to tail, luxuriant between the shoulders and gradually becoming shorter and more sleek toward the tip of its tail. Folded against its sides are what appear to be wings. Four eyes — the front pair crimson, the back pair a deeper burgundy — focus on Marina with evident intelligence.

Eastern dragon morphology, but with notable variations. Six limbs rather than four. Dual pairs of eyes. Fascinating.

This detached, scholarly observation floats through Marina's mind, a life preserver of rationality in a sea of impossibility. But beneath it surges a wave of primordial terror — a human animal confronting something so fundamentally other that every evolutionary instinct screams for flight.

And yet... she doesn't run. She can't explain why, but something about this being radiates not threat but... presence. Awareness. Intelligence. The four eyes watching her contain no malice, only attentive curiosity.

Marina realizes with distant surprise that her hands aren't shaking anymore. Her heart still races, but with something closer to awe than fear.

For a long moment, neither moves. Then, with deliberate grace, the dragon lowers its head slightly in what Marina instinctively recognizes as a gesture of respect.

Marina straightens her shoulders and steps forward. Seventy-eight years of life have taught her that protocol matters, especially in unprecedented situations.

"Welcome to the State Hermitage Museum," she says clearly, as if this were any normal tour. "I am Marina Aleksandrovna Petrova, Senior Guide and Keeper. I understand we have limited time. If you'll follow me, we'll begin immediately."

The dragon tilts its head, all four eyes fixed on Marina's face with an intensity that might have been unnerving under different circumstances. Then it - she, Marina corrects mentally without knowing exactly why - makes a sound unlike anything the museum keeper has ever heard. Not aggressive or threatening, but musical, with harmonics that seem to resonate in Marina's very bones.

And somehow, without words being spoken, she understands:

"This way, please," Marina says, gesturing toward the Jordan Staircase. "We'll begin with the Ancient Egyptian collection to establish a chronological foundation, then move forward through time, with careful selection of the most representative works."

As they begin to ascend the staircase, Marina falls into the familiar cadence of her standard introduction, clinging to the routine that has defined decades of her life.

"The State Hermitage Museum was founded in 1764 by Catherine the Great, beginning as her private collection before expanding to become one of the largest museums in the world. The Winter Palace itself has a longer history, dating back to..."

She stops suddenly, catching herself. Her visitor isn't a tourist with a guidebook, concerned with dates and architectural styles. For all Marina knows, she might be the last human this being will ever communicate with.

"But perhaps that's not what matters most now," she amends, a slight flush rising to her cheeks. "Let me show you what humans have created. What we've understood about ourselves and our world. What we've valued enough to preserve."

The dragon makes that musical humming sound again, and Marina feels a distinct impression of approval. Then, to her surprise, the creature deliberately slows its pace to match hers exactly, carefully adjusting its stride to accommodate her elderly gait.

In the Egyptian gallery, Marina guides her visitor to a painted wooden sarcophagus, its colors still vibrant after thousands of years.

"This represents one of humanity's most persistent concerns," she explains, gesturing to the intricate scenes depicted on its surface. "Our relationship with mortality. Our desire to transcend death, to be remembered. These images show the deceased's journey into the afterlife — a continuation of existence they believed would follow physical death."

The dragon studies the sarcophagus intently, all four eyes moving over the painted figures with methodical care. Then she looks at Marina and makes a different sound — softer, questioning.

Marina finds herself responding as if to a verbal query. "Yes, nearly every human culture has developed some concept of what happens after death. Some believe in reincarnation, others in eternal reward or punishment, others in rejoining a cosmic consciousness. Many believe death is simply the end. But the question itself — that seems universal among us."

As they continue through the galleries, a pattern emerges. Marina provides context and explanation, the dragon listens with evident fascination, occasionally making sounds that Marina increasingly understands as questions or expressions of interest. Sometimes, the creature extends one of her front limbs, pointing to specific details with surprising delicacy.

They pause at the end of a long corridor, and Marina notices something... unsettling. At the far end, where another gallery should be, there seems to be... nothing. Not darkness, not a closed door, but a space that both exists and doesn't exist, that her eyes slide away from when she tries to focus on it.

"What is —" she begins, squinting to try to make sense of what she's seeing.

The dragon moves suddenly, positioning herself between Marina and the anomaly. She emits a complex pattern of sounds, not directed at Marina but at the strange non-space. The air seems to vibrate, reality rippling like the surface of disturbed water before settling back into its proper form. The corridor now ends normally, with the expected doorway to the next gallery.

Marina adjusts her glasses, disoriented. "What was that?"

The dragon turns to her, all four eyes focused on her face. She makes a soft, cautioning sound, and somehow Marina understands:

A chill runs down Marina's spine, but she nods and gestures toward a different gallery. "This way, then. The Roman sculpture collection."

In the Greek and Roman galleries, Marina pauses before a marble sculpture of a human figure.

"Our preoccupation with the human form," she explains, forcing her voice to remain steady. "Not just physical beauty, but the relationship between body and spirit, appearance and essence. These sculptors believed there was divine harmony in human proportions."

The dragon circles the sculpture slowly, studying it from all angles. Then she does something unexpected — she shifts her body into a pose that mimics the statue's stance with remarkable precision, despite their vastly different anatomies.

Marina can't help but smile. "Yes, exactly. Form expressing meaning. You understand."

As they move toward the next gallery, Marina notices a chair in the corner with... too many legs. Five? Six? The number seems to shift when she tries to count them. She blinks hard, feeling suddenly dizzy.

The dragon makes a soft sound, redirecting Marina's attention to a nearby sculpture. The melody of the sound seems to stabilize the space around them, the wrongness receding from the edges of Marina's awareness.

"Yes," Marina says, turning resolutely away from the anomalous chair. "Let's continue."

In the gallery of Renaissance art, they spend long minutes before Rembrandt's "Return of the Prodigal Son." The dragon's reaction is profound — she becomes perfectly still, all four eyes fixed on the canvas with such intensity that Marina finds herself seeing the familiar painting anew.

"Forgiveness," Marina says softly. "Redemption. The embrace that welcomes home what was lost. Rembrandt captured something fundamental about human connection here — the capacity to hurt each other, and the capacity to heal those hurts."

The dragon makes that resonant humming sound, deeper now, almost vibrating the air around them. And somehow, without words, Marina understands:

As they stand there, Marina notices the shadows in the painting beginning to move subtly, the father's embrace seeming to tighten around the son. She blinks, unsure if it's her imagination or her aging eyes playing tricks.

The dragon makes another of those stabilizing sounds, and the painting settles back into immobility. Marina feels a gentle pressure against her arm — the dragon has extended her wing slightly, creating a barrier between Marina and whatever distortion was beginning to manifest.

They move through the galleries with increasing rapport, the strangeness of their situation giving way to a rhythm of shared discovery. Marina finds herself speaking not just as a guide but as a witness, trying to distill the essence of what humans have learned, cherished, and expressed through art.

"Here, the human experience of love," she says before a series of paintings spanning different periods. "Romantic love, familial love, love of country, love of god, love of nature. The endless variations on our most powerful connection."

"Here, our relationship with nature," she explains in another gallery. "How we've seen ourselves as part of it, separate from it, masters of it, children of it."

"Here, our struggles with power," she says before historical paintings depicting revolutions and coronations alike. "Who should wield it, how it should be constrained, what happens when it corrupts."

Occasionally, Marina becomes aware of subtle wrongness at the periphery of her vision — colors that shift when not directly observed, doorways that lead to impossibly angled corridors, paintings whose subjects seem to breathe. Each time, the dragon gently redirects her attention or emits those strange, stabilizing sounds that seem to smooth the fabric of reality around them.

Time slips away as they move through humanity's visual record of itself. Marina is aware of the clock ticking down but finds herself strangely calm. If these are to be her final hours, there is a certain rightness to spending them sharing what she loves most with a being who seems genuinely eager to understand.

In the gallery of modern art, the dragon shows particular interest in the abstract works — canvases of pure color and form, freed from representation. She makes a series of excited sounds, moving closer to examine brushstrokes and color transitions.

"You find these familiar somehow," Marina observes, not a question but a recognition.

The dragon looks at her, all four eyes focused on her face with that now-familiar intensity. She makes a sound Marina hasn't heard before — complex, layered, almost like chords in music.

And somehow, Marina understands:

"Fascinating," Marina breathes. "Our artists stripped away representation to find something essential, and it resembles how you naturally perceive reality."

As they continue, Marina becomes aware of a subtle shift in their interaction. She's no longer simply explaining human art to a non-human visitor; they're engaged in a dialogue, each illuminating aspects of the art that the other might miss. The dragon notices patterns and relationships between works that Marina, despite her decades of study, has never perceived. Marina provides context and meaning that transforms the dragon's understanding.

They're building something together — a bridge between fundamentally different ways of experiencing reality.

When they reach the final gallery on Marina's carefully planned route, she realizes with a jolt that their time is nearly gone. The display on her watch shows they have perhaps twenty minutes remaining before whatever cataclysm is coming.

She turns to her visitor, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. "I hope," she begins, then has to clear her throat before continuing, "I hope this has been valuable to you. That you've gained some understanding of what we are — what we were."

The dragon makes that musical humming sound, but now it's accompanied by something new — a gentle pressure against Marina's consciousness, not intrusive but questioning. A request.

Instinctively, Marina nods her permission.

What flows into her mind isn't language exactly, but a complex tapestry of impressions and emotions:

"Thank you," Marina whispers, tears forming behind her thick glasses. "It matters, that someone will remember. That something of us will continue."

The dragon extends one wing slightly — a gesture Marina somehow knows is one of respect and connection. Then she gestures toward the exit with unmistakable urgency.

Marina glances at her watch, then back at the gallery surrounding them. Something close to panic suddenly grips her heart.

"Wait," she says, her voice tight with emotion. "There's one more piece I must show you. One more. Please."

The dragon tilts her head, secondary eyes shifting to look at something Marina cannot perceive. She makes a sound that somehow conveys hesitation, concern.

"I understand," Marina says, her voice steadying with determination. "But this is important. Perhaps the most important piece of all. Please."

The dragon seems to consider, all four eyes focusing on Marina with that penetrating gaze. Then she makes a series of sounds that somehow translate in Marina's mind:

Marina blinks, momentarily taken aback by this pragmatic cosmic calculation. Then she finds herself smiling despite everything.

"If our chances are that slim either way, then it's absolutely worth it," she says with sudden conviction. "Follow me, quickly."

The Hermitage keeper leads the way with her alabaster companion moving alongside, body curved to offer subtle support. Marina finds her hand naturally resting on the smooth scales as they hurry through the galleries at a pace that surprises even herself, moving with the urgency of someone half her age. The sinuous form beside her adjusts perfectly to match her stride, providing just enough support to ease the strain on her aging joints.

They pass through areas already showing signs of reality distortion — walls that curve at impossible angles, floors that seem to ripple like water when not directly observed. Once, Marina nearly stumbles into what appears to be a painting that has somehow extended itself into three-dimensional space, but a gentle pressure from a wing guides her safely around it.

Finally, they reach their destination — a small, easily overlooked gallery that wasn't on Marina's original planned route. The room contains just a few paintings, but Marina moves directly to one in particular.

"Kandinsky," she says, slightly breathless from their hurried journey. "Composition Seven. I almost forgot to show you, but when you responded to the abstract works... this might be the most important piece for you to understand."

The painting is a riot of color and form — shapes that seem to be in the process of either forming or dissolving, lines that suggest movement and energy rather than static objects, colors that vibrate against each other in complex harmonies.

The dragon goes completely still, all four eyes fixed on the canvas with such intensity that Marina almost feels the focus as a physical presence in the room. For nearly a full minute, neither of them moves or makes a sound.

The dragon makes a musical sound unlike any Marina has heard before — complex, multilayered, with harmonics that seem to resonate with the very colors on the canvas. The impression that flows into Marina's mind is equally complex:

"Kandinsky believed that visual art could function like music," Marina explains, her scholarly knowledge flowing naturally despite the circumstances. "That certain combinations of color and form could communicate directly to what he called the soul — bypassing representational thinking entirely. He was trying to capture the underlying structures of reality, not just its surface appearance."

The dragon's secondary eyes shift, seeming to look through the painting rather than at it. She makes another sound, and Marina understands:

"Yes," Marina says, a profound satisfaction filling her despite the increasing distortions in reality around them. "That's exactly right. He was building a bridge between different ways of experiencing reality."

The dragon turns to look at her, and Marina has the distinct impression that she has just passed some crucial test, fulfilled some essential purpose beyond simply providing information.

Marina laughs softly, a sound caught somewhere between wonder and terror. Tears well in her eyes as the full weight of everything crashes down on her — the world ending, reality coming apart, everyone and everything she's ever known about to be lost forever. And here she stands with an alabaster dragon discussing abstract art as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Ready?" she says, her voice quavering slightly. "God, no. I don't think anyone could be ready for... for whatever this is. But it seems we're going anyway, aren't we?"

She reaches up to straighten her scarf with shaking hands, a small, human gesture of composure in the face of cosmic horror. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier.

"The Kandinsky was worth it. That's all I meant. Worth whatever extra risk we took."

The dragon gestures toward the exit, but as they turn to leave, Marina notices that the doorway they entered through has... changed. It no longer leads to the familiar corridor but opens onto a space that her eyes can't quite process — angles that shouldn't be possible, distances that seem to expand and contract simultaneously.

A momentary terror grips her, but the dragon moves closer, her presence somehow stabilizing Marina's perception.

Marina takes one last look at Kandinsky's painting, at the Hermitage that has been her home for most of her adult life. Then she nods and closes her eyes.

"I trust you," she says simply.

With her eyes shut, Marina becomes intensely aware of her other senses. The dragon's scales beneath her fingers, warm and smooth like sun-heated stone. The subtle scent of something like ozone and vanilla. The musical resonance of the dragon's breathing.

She feels a gentle tug, guiding her forward. They move together, step by step, through what Marina remembers as the exit gallery. But the acoustics change rapidly — the echo of their footsteps suggesting spaces far larger or oddly shaped, temperatures fluctuating from cool to warm to something that doesn't register as either.

Marina keeps her eyes tightly closed, focusing on the steady presence of her guide. She feels dizzy, disoriented, as if they're moving in directions that shouldn't be possible. At one point, she has the distinct sensation that they're walking sideways, perhaps even upside down, though her inner ear doesn't register the expected vertigo.

The sounds around them change too — gentle at first, then increasingly chaotic. Whispers in languages that couldn't be human. Tones that seem to bypass her ears entirely and resonate directly in her mind. At one point, a cacophony so intense she instinctively tries to cover her ears, only to find the dragon has anticipated this and gently placed one wing over her head, muffling the worst of it.

Through it all, the dragon maintains that pocket of relative stability around them. Marina can feel reality buckling and tearing beyond their immediate space, but the dragon's presence acts as a shield, a buffer against whatever cosmic horror is beginning to unfold.

The journey seems both endless and instantaneous. Marina loses all sense of time or distance. She simply focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, trusting her guide, keeping her eyes resolutely closed.

Finally, the quality of the air changes. The sound of their footsteps suggests a smaller, enclosed space. The dragon makes a soft, encouraging sound, and Marina feels a gentle pressure guiding her to sit down on what feels like a cushioned seat.

Marina sits, eyes still closed, hands gripping the edges of what seems to be a chair. She feels movement around her — the dragon shifting position, making more of those complex, reality-stabilizing sounds. The air pressure changes subtly, like being in an elevator or an airplane during takeoff.

Then, a deeper resonance fills the space — not sound exactly, but a vibration that seems to pass through Marina's body, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just profoundly other. For a brief moment, she feels weightless, bodiless, as if the very atoms of her being are being gently rearranged.

And then... stillness. Quiet. A new quality to the air — fresher, cooler, with a subtle fragrance like spring flowers and rain.

The dragon makes another sound, this one gentle, affirming. Marina feels a soft touch on her shoulder.

Slowly, Marina opens her eyes.

She's sitting in what appears to be a small room with gently curved walls that shimmer with subtle iridescence. The light has no obvious source but fills the space evenly, warm and clear. Through a large circular window, she can see... stars. Not the night sky as she knows it, but stars in impossible density and clarity, in colors humans have no names for.

The dragon sits across from her, watching her reaction with gentle attention. All four eyes convey what Marina can only interpret as concern and welcome.

"Where are we?" Marina asks, her voice sounding strange to her own ears in this new space.

The dragon makes a series of sounds, and Marina understands:

Marina looks again at the window, at the impossible stars beyond. "We're... not on Earth anymore, are we?"

The dragon's response is gentle but clear:

She pauses, then makes another series of sounds, more complex, more hesitant:

Marina feels a rush of emotions too complex to name. Grief for her world, for everything and everyone lost. Wonder at this impossible salvation. And a startling sense of purpose, of continuation.

"There are other humans here?" she asks.

The dragon confirms:

Marina thinks of the Hermitage, of the thousands of tours she's given over her lifetime. Of the knowledge she's accumulated and shared. Of her passion for human artistic expression and what it reveals about the human spirit.

"And you want me to continue my work here?" she asks, hardly daring to believe. "To teach about human art, human culture?"

The dragon's response fills her with a peace she never expected to feel again:

Marina Aleksandrovna Petrova, seventy-eight years old, Senior Guide and Keeper of the State Hermitage Museum, straightens her back and smooths her skirt. She adjusts her glasses and looks directly at the dragon who brought her to this impossible sanctuary between realities.

"When do we begin?" she asks.

The dragon makes that musical humming sound that Marina now recognizes as joy. She gestures toward a door Marina hadn't noticed before — a doorway opening onto what appears to be a vast space filled with light and movement.

Marina rises from her seat, feeling strangely light, as if years have fallen away from her body. She smooths her hair, checks that her scarf is straight, and nods decisively.

"I'm ready," she says. And then, with the precise formality that has characterized her professional life: "Welcome to the first day of your education in human artistic expression. I am Marina Aleksandrovna Petrova, and I will be your guide."

As they move toward the doorway, Marina finds herself thinking of that Kandinsky painting — the bridge between different ways of perceiving reality. In the last moments of one world, she had shown it to this alien consciousness. And in the first moments of whatever comes next, they would continue building that bridge together.