The First Cold
The forest didn't care that the world had ended.
Leaves whispered overhead. The wind sighed through the branches. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled.
And beneath an ancient tree, two children lay huddled together in the roots, wrapped in silence, staring at nothing.
The boy hadn't spoken since they ran.
He sat with his knees drawn to his chest, eyes glassy, breath shallow, arms streaked with dried blood that wasn't his.
His sister sat beside him, holding a broken stick like it could fend off monsters. Her jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. She kept glancing toward the orange glow in the distance—the remains of the village still burning.
The sky above was painted in dark ash and frost. Morning hadn't come yet.
---
He whispered, finally. "Do you think they're still alive?"
She didn't look at him.
"No."
He nodded, like he expected that. But the way his face twisted after said otherwise.
"I saw her face," he said. "Before she… when the blade…"
His voice broke.
She gripped his hand and didn't let go.
---
🍂 Later that morning...
When light finally began to seep through the trees, the boy had stopped crying. He wasn't better—just empty.
The air was bitter with the sharp bite of late autumn. Their village was gone. They had nothing: no food, no weapons, no coats.
Just each other.
"We have to move," she said.
He didn't argue.
---
They walked through the forest in silence.
His legs were sore. Her hands were scratched raw from pushing branches aside. Once or twice, they stopped to listen—half expecting soldiers to come crashing through the trees, swords drawn.
But there was only wind. Crows. Leaves underfoot.
They didn't speak until their stomachs started to growl.
"I'm hungry," he muttered.
"We'll find something," she said, but there was nothing in her voice but exhaustion.
---
They found a stream and drank until their bellies hurt.
He spotted a few mushrooms but she pulled his hand away.
"Don't. Some of those kill you from the inside."
He nodded again.
Everything hurt. His feet were blistered. His mind was burning with flashes: his mother screaming, his father's blood pooling in the dirt, the arrow slamming into the man beside them.
Every few minutes, the images would rise—and he'd flinch like it was happening again.
---
As the sun lowered again, they came upon something unexpected.
A body.
Lying on its back in a clearing.
A man, not much older than a teenager—his face pale, blood dried across his tunic, an arrow still in his shoulder.
He was breathing.
The girl stepped forward first. Her eyes narrowed, hand tightening around the stick she still carried.
"Hey," she said. "Are you alive?"
The boy watched, tense.
The man groaned. His eyes fluttered open. He looked at them like ghosts. Then he grinned weakly.
"Thought I was dead already," he mumbled.
---
🩸 A choice
"Who are you?" the boy asked.
"No one important," the man replied. "Just another one who ran. Guess I didn't run fast enough."
He tried to sit up, winced. "Arrow's deep. Might be dying. That's alright."
The girl crouched near him. Looked him in the eyes.
"You're not a soldier, are you?"
He shook his head. "No. I hate them more than you do."
She nodded. Then turned to her brother.
"If we help him, he'll slow us down."
"So we leave him?" the boy asked quietly.
"I'm just saying what it means."
The boy looked at the man again.
He didn't look dangerous. Just hurt. Just scared. Like them.
"…We can't leave him," the boy said.
His sister looked at him for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
---
They helped him pull the arrow out.
He screamed into a stick, then passed out.
The boy vomited after. He couldn't help it.
That night, they stayed near the clearing. Kept the man alive. Used moss and torn cloth to stop the bleeding. No fire. Just the three of them, under the stars.
And for the first time since the village burned—
They weren't completely alone.
---