Night came early, pressing its weight over the city.
The wind slipped through the cracks in the ruined buildings, carrying the smell of wet stone and smoke.
Dorian found an old stove in the corner of a crumbling room and coaxed a small fire to life with scraps of wood and torn bits of paper.
The flames burned low, throwing faint shadows against the cracked walls.
The boy sat near the stove, his thin hands stretched toward the warmth.
He said nothing, just watched the flames with wide, hollow eyes.
Dorian sat across from him, elbows on his knees, staring at the same flames.
The scarf still hung around his neck, and he kept one hand pressed against the tin paint box in his coat pocket, as if it anchored him to the world.
For a long while, neither spoke.
The silence was not uncomfortable; it was the silence of two people who had nothing left to offer but their presence.
At last, the boy murmured, voice rough from disuse.
"Is it going to snow more?"
Dorian glanced at the small window where the night pressed close against the glassless frame.
"Maybe. The river will freeze soon."
The boy nodded once, his gaze returning to the flames.
Dorian felt a strange heaviness in his chest — not grief this time, but a pull he had almost forgotten: the urge to protect.