Dorian moved carefully, step by step, until he was near enough to reach out.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and firm despite the storm.
"They're gone. I know. I know what it feels like. But the river won't take you to them. It will only take you away."
The boy's shoulders shook.
Snow clung to his dark hair in thin flakes.
"I don't want to be alone," the boy whispered.
Dorian felt the words strike deep into the hollow place in his own chest.
For a heartbeat he almost looked past the boy into the black water, as if it had called to both of them.
Then he stepped forward and grasped the boy's arm, steadying him on the ice.
"You're not alone," he said quietly.
"Not anymore. I'm here."
The boy turned his face toward him.
His eyes, rimmed red with cold and grief, met Dorian's.
A spark of something passed between them — not hope yet, but the faint recognition of a shared pain.
Dorian drew him gently back from the river's edge.
The boy came without resistance, his small frame shivering in the wind.
For the first time since the war had taken everything from him, Dorian felt the weight of his guilt shift — not gone, but moved aside by the need to keep another life standing.
Behind them, the river kept flowing, dark and cold beneath the drifting ice.
But its whisper had grown weaker.