Sluagh

In the winter of nineteenth-century Russia, faith is not a comfort, it is an order.
Toska has lived her life inside ritual, candles lit correctly, prayers spoken without hesitation, suffering endured without question. She believes obedience is the only thing holding the world together. But something within her has begun to warm where it should be cold, to answer prayers she never dared to voice.
Peter walks beside her through snow-buried roads and silent churches, saying little, noticing everything. He carries a secret of his own, one that must never be named, never confessed, never forgiven.
As strange answers arrive and heaven grows disturbingly attentive, Toska's devotion begins to fracture. Angels are not gentle. Miracles are not merciful. And silence, once holy, becomes unbearable.