From the hilltop, she can see the mist, draped over the sleeping city like a sheet.
The fire crackles, its flames casting dancing shadows over the dewy grass. When she holds her hands out to warm them, they tingle, too close to the scorching heat – but it’s a relief, a welcome sensation in numb flesh. It’s too cold to be sitting out in the open. Rain on the biting breeze threatens to take from her what she has worked so hard to set up; her palms are chafed from the rough edges of flint. It is no surprise to her, however. No misfortune comes as much of a shock anymore.