The air flows, the breeze freezes the touch of the skin. A simple reach away, at the fingertips, a hole in the frame of the window, the air flows. Across from the window, a bed recently slept in, still warm. By the side of the bed a small table, a clock ticking time away, the cup of water, half frozen still drinkable.

A mirror hangs, a lifeless world, the view of a box, a moment in time, a bubble that holds the only essence of life, a reflection of the time and space, it is also imprisoned in the same space at that same time.

Across from the mirror, dangling by a thread. Brush strokes which lay upon one another, colour on colour. The representation of life, the lines creating shapes, these shapes only interpretable by a person. Is it a person? The long flowing hair, the glossy lipstick, as if painted recently, still seeming wet, a kiss away yet it is completely outside of reality, this reality it seems.

The door stays still, left ajar breathing the air in and out of the lifeless box. Light seeps through, possible life? The box is mine, I can't leave it alone.

The air flows, still yet consistent with determination yet uncertainty. The wind whispers sweet nothings, cold and lifeless yet it is a voice, nonetheless. The creaking of the wood, the box is strong but old, ancient to many, young at heart, at least it may have been. The walls talk to me, they sing to me, my friends... they used to be.

Cold to the touch the very surface the dust rests on, the long-accustomed scent of recent life, I'm still here, I'm... here. Burning, fire, the scent of charred oak, it seeps, every crack allows the dance of the one sense that still remains. Warmth not to be felt, it is far, it travels. I can smell it, I can reach it, I must... the box...

I'm... I must, I must keep going, I will... I must. Step by step cold stomping, no sense of direction however filled from heart to soul with determination, each step with less firmness, the fortitude wanes. Cold, very cold. The fire... I must reach it, the cold, the wind...

The cold and lifeless air, it bites with teeth of a ferocious wolf, the gentle whisper, the voice of a gentle mother, yet cold and ever lifeless the wind blows. Within my grasp, yet never to be mine, the warmth, it calls to me, it summons.