The next day dawned grey and brittle.
The snow came hard and fast, blown in sharp streaks by the wind off the river.
The city's ruins vanished beneath veils of white, and the streets turned into ridges of ice and ash.
Dorian stood at the window of the broken room, watching the river.
The boy still slept, curled beneath his ragged coat by the cold stove.
The river had changed overnight.
Its surface was choked with fragments of ice drifting toward the sea.
Where the current ran strong, the water remained black and restless, surging between the jagged floes.
Dorian's breath clouded the glassless frame.
The pull of the river was stronger than ever — the thought of its dark, cold current swallowing everything that hurt.
It whispered to him with the storm's voice:
"This could be the end. Easy. Clean. No more weight to carry."
He closed his eyes and clenched his fists against the window frame.
"Not yet," I murmured inside him.
"Not while someone still needs you."