Toward evening, the boy wandered out while Dorian was tending the small fire.
He had spoken little since they met, but he often stared at the snow falling through the empty window as if drawn to the silent white world beyond.
When Dorian realized he was gone, he stepped out into the bitter wind, following the small trail of prints in the snow.
The footprints led toward the river.
The sky had sunk to a heavy dusk, and the wind keened through the hollow streets.
Dorian called out, his voice rough in the cold.
"Hey! Where are you?"
No answer.
Only the whisper of the storm and the crunch of his boots.
Then, faintly, he heard it — a thin cry carried by the wind.
The sound of someone calling, not loud but full of fear.
He ran, slipping on the frozen stones, until he reached the riverbank.
The boy stood at the edge of the water, one foot on a slab of ice that jutted from the bank.
The floe shifted beneath him as the current tugged at its edges.
His small hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
His eyes stared at the river, wide and wild.
"I just… I just want to see them again," he said, voice nearly lost to the wind.
"My mother. My sister. I can't find them."
Dorian's breath caught in his chest.
He saw not the boy but a mirror of himself — a smaller, more fragile version of the same grief.