In a forgotten village, under the yoke of an eternal winter, lived Ivan, a servant with distant eyes and calloused hands. His world was the land he plowed, the gray sky that covered him, and the lord who commanded him. But Ivan had a secret: between the rotten boards of his bed, he hid a book.

The book was a mysterious object, its yellowed pages whispered stories of distant lands and forbidden ideas. Ivan had discovered it by chance, buried in the field, as if the earth itself wanted to get rid of that seed of revolution.

Each night, by the light of a stolen candle, Ivan devoured the words, letting them transport him beyond the frozen steppes. He read about freedom, about men who were masters of their destinies, about truths that didn't bow before thrones or crowns.

The book became his teacher and his solace, teaching him that there was something more than snowy fields and servitude. And with every page he turned, a flame was lit in his chest, a warmth that the cold could not touch.

But books are dangerous in the hands of those who dream. You have discovered Ivan's secret and, with it, the book. Before the servant's terrified eyes, the volume was thrown into the fire, the words that spoke of freedom consumed by the flames.

Ivan was punished, but something inside him had changed. The burnt words became marks on his soul, and he knew that while books can be destroyed, ideas are resilient seeds that, once planted, never truly die.

And so, even as winter persisted and snow covered any trace of the book, Ivan carried with him the springtime of a new thought, the warmth of a hope that no winter could erase.