As I neared the fence, the building blurred in my vision—because something else pulled my attention.

A girl.

She sat crouched by the edge of the fence, alone. Still. Small. Her white coat was blotched with mud, sleeves torn at the edges, hair hanging like uneven threads of cotton. She didn’t move. Just sat there, a pale figure in the snow like something left behind.

I slowed. My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t seen another child in years.

I crept closer, each step careful, hesitant—like she might vanish if I got too near… or worse, transform into something else. My mind jumped to mimic-beasts and changelings from old books. Stupid. Childish. But the fear held.

She looked up.

And I froze.

Just a girl. Maybe.

Her eyes met mine—and I knew.

Agony. Deep and unmistakable. Not the kind that comes from scraped knees or winter cold. A heavier sorrow. The kind that builds in silence, behind closed doors. The kind no child should carry.

I knew that look. I’d worn it for sixteen years in a world that didn’t want me. In a life I had to claw my way out of.

She had my eyes.

Without thinking, I moved toward her, drawn as if by gravity. Her gaze didn’t waver—it anchored me, reeled me in—until I stood just beyond the fence.

She was my age.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence was louder than most screams. Her eyes held stories carved in shadow—pain layered over pain, silent but screaming.

I knew that stare. I used to see it in the mirror.

We watched each other. No blinking. No movement. Just… knowing.

I crouched down, the wire fence between us.

“…Hi.”

Nothing. Just those wide, hollow eyes. What was I supposed to say? No one ever said the right things to me. So how was I supposed to know now?

I reached out, slowly—careful, deliberate. Like I was reaching toward a frightened animal.

My fingers touched hers.

Ice cold. Like snow packed under stone. She didn’t flinch.

I curled my hand gently around hers.

She didn’t pull away.

Her coat shifted just enough that I caught a glimpse beneath the sleeve—faint white lines, too straight, too many.

My stomach twisted.

Seven years old.

“…I know how it feels,” I murmured, voice more breath than sound. “What’s your name?”

Her fingers twitched.

“…Yuki.”

Her voice was so soft, so clean. Untouched.

Like mine used to be.

I looked at her—really looked—and something in me cracked.

She can’t become what I was.

I won’t let her.

“Yuki?” I asked again, almost in a whisper.

She looked up.

That face—too still, too empty. It suited her, and that made me sick. A child shouldn’t wear pain like that. Her grey-blue eyes searched mine, tired but alert. Her white hair hung in tangled clumps, sticking to her cheeks and collar.

What did they do to you?

No—what else did they do? Being born a Northerner was bad enough.

I didn’t ask. I couldn’t.

“…Can I give you something?”

She nodded. Barely.

I tore a strip from my scarf—old wool, black and frayed. Bit through the thread, ripped it loose. Then I reached through the fence and wrapped it around her wrist. A small, lopsided knot over the stained white of her coat.

“Something to remember me by,” I said.

I tried to smile.

I think I did.

She blinked—and in that blink, something shifted. Not light, exactly… but warmth. An ember buried in ash. Still glowing. Still there.

I’ll keep it burning.

I stood, stretching my legs, wrapping what was left of the scarf around my neck.

“I have to go now, Yuki.”

She looked up again—still unmoving, still silent. Leaving felt wrong. Like walking away from something delicate. Something brittle. I wanted to reach through the fence again, take her hand, and pull her into the snow beside me. But we were separated by more than iron bars.

I glanced behind her.

The building loomed—tall and silent, gothic in its design, made of soot-dark stone. Its windows were narrow, its walls streaked with rust and frost. The fence that circled it wasn’t for safety—it was a cage.

She wasn’t just in there.

She was trapped.

Not just behind fences, but inside something colder. Deeper. Something that gnawed at the soul.

And one day—I’d free her.
First from what held her mind.
Then from what held her body.

I turned and started back through the snow, each step heavier than the last.

“N… name?”

Her voice—gentle, afraid, barely audible—floated after me like the last spark in a dying flame.

I stopped. Smiled over my shoulder.

“Kam,” I said. “Kam Foraster.”