Happy birthday, my son

The windows whistled in the cold and sharp December blizzard. The room for eight boys was dark and quiet, everyone had been asleep for a long time. A warm light was coming from under the door, reminding me that life hadn't stopped after all. The clock was ticking unbearably and slowly, it seemed that this night would never end. That night it was terribly sad and Seryozha cried into his pillow, trying not to make any sounds and not to shake the bed. I wanted to scream, of course. But Sasha, from the second tier, probably wouldn't have liked it much. He would have punched him. I tried in vain to fall asleep, already five times, closed my eyes, lay there for what seemed like an eternity, and then tried again. Unsuccessfully. A vague, absolutely animal fear seized Seryozha even before heavy footsteps were heard in the corridor. He became quiet, buried his head under the blanket and began to observe what was happening through a small crack. Suddenly the door swung open, at the same time quietly and at the same time creaking, the room flooded with yellow. A dark silhouette appeared on the threshold, which seemed very familiar to Seryozha. Here it is – an absolute horror. There was a short woman standing in the doorway, with lush shoulder-length hair, she didn't look like one of the night caregivers, she radiated a different energy. The girl went to Seryozha's bed, sat on her knees and pulled back the blanket. Those white curls, face, dimples, he will never forget.       — Happy birthday, son. – She smiled – Do you know that it was your father who killed me? You should say “thank you” to him, you look so much like him. Seryozha shrank back into bed, and a deathly icy hand smoothed a wet lock of red hair from his forehead. This cold was searing.       — Don't worry, I'll just leave you a gift. She put something under the bed, kissed her forehead with her icy lips and left. Seryozha suddenly fell into a sleep, dark and cold, as if he, too, had died and been covered with earth right in the backyard, as his father had done. He's not dead. He's still alive. He hasn't been buried yet. He took a deep breath, it was seven o'clock in the morning, the room was flooded with the dawn sun, the boys were still asleep. Seryozha carefully got down and looked under the bed. Empty.