Smells, and drifts of smells had been gone for at least a month. Sound had begun to dampen, and the world had begun to turn white. Going on the paths that were known had begun to be hard, and then had started being easy again as the white went from soft to hard. Packed. What remained of the previous times were the tall trees that carried spiny leaves, those with large flat leaves had already stripped themselves naked, and their clothes have rotted. Everything else was either dead, or permanently cold. The sky had only a short time to light up, and often it's only light was gray. Then, the sky forgot to wake up for some time, and all that was seen when looking up was dark.
If one were to stop and listen where they stood, they might hear one of two things: crunchy footsteps of their neighbors, or wind. That wind, the cold bitter wind that bites to the bones, and ignores all the shells of armor and skin one can wear to let the beating heart know that it sees it, is not there to be friendly. It brings the kind of bitter cold that a turned-away shoulder from a deep lover can send, where love has been lost for some time, and all that is left is empty, vacant, frozen caves that are carved out of the arteries and valves.
One might have a frozen fever dream of this kind of place... rather, a nightmare. A cold dark nightmare. But this story is about one that found themselves here without purpose or foresight, only by duty and responsibility.
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