The river's surface caught the early light of dawn, but it gave no warmth.
Dorian's reflection was pale and hollow-eyed, his scarf dark against the rising sun.
He stared at it as if it were someone else — a stranger left behind after the war had finished tearing his world apart.
His fingers strayed to the tin paint box he had brought with him from the ruined room.
He opened it again, rubbing his thumb across the dry crumbs of pigment.
Once he had mixed these colors to catch the light on a child's cheek, to paint a horizon so soft it looked alive.
Now the colors were nothing but dust.
The wind shifted and carried the smell of smoke from the city.
It brought with it the ghost of a sound — the distant echo of sirens, though the sirens themselves were long silent.
The sound alone was enough to stir the memory.