Ice held the door like glue. Every breath was visible, and I watched as they floated up to meet the steel ceiling, where they turned to droplets and ran down to the floor, sucking the thermostat down, further, still. There was a crack in the plastic vent that kept a stream of bitter wind flowing in. I looked down at the useless bar heater, untouched by its puny efforts to keep the cold at bay. Last night, I must have woken up fifteen times. Cramp and a sore throat kept comfort out, as I waited for a glimmer of relief, but sunrise was hours away.

There was no point in trying to do anything to keep my mind off the cold, because everything except wrapping up tight meant relaxing my grip on the thin layers that only just made it around my shaking outline. Sleep was unlikely. In my last dream, I was here. Damn this place and damn these months. I should have been far south, by now. But there's always something keeping me here, and it's not nostalgia.

I gazed across the dark space, to see the shape of my boy, snoozing, happily, beneath the covers.
His small, furry body is easier to heat than mine. At least he was doing ok.

Stayed awake 'til the sun came around, passing out, seemingly, just a few seconds before Byron awoke and began sniffing around for his breakfast. I huffed to myself, but couldn't begrudge him a timely meal. He'd need a walk, right after, of course, but it wasn't so bad. I was already dressed, anyway. Drained and weary, I slid back the bolt that secured the back doors and pulled at the catch until they popped open and the early morning sun sliced its way through the isolation. Even in this state, the sun makes things better. When Byron saw it, he pushed the door wide open with his nose, sent me an optimistic and sweet look, and sat on the door step, to take in the cool breeze and stare out over the village and the forest that mothered it with a careful eye - not smothering, but not staying far.

After a few minutes on the door step, Byron hopped down to feel the wet grass and stretch his legs. I followed him out, reluctantly appreciating the moment. Light was cinematic at this time, casting long, interesting shadows over all things. Fog hung low, over the forest, mingling with the branches and slipping between trunks like water through a sieve. Its thick gray splitting the dense wood into layers that gave everything an unreal depth.

The village was all but dead; only birdsong reached my ears. It felt safe and comfortable, and, even though I was exhausted and freezing, a smile found its way to my face, and noticing it only made it wider and harder to shift.

Things would be ok.

As the day began to pick up, I took my notepad and pen, and headed over to a cafe for breakfast. I like to write out my ideas and plans over a warm drink, and Byron likes to lay across my feet, while I do it, receiving occasional doses of adoration from other customers. The waitress brought him a bowl of water and a few rubs, and he looked up at me like an excited child. It was funny, being so tired and still getting up and seeing things. It had a nice feeling about it that I couldn't put my finger on.

I skimmed the morning edition, not looking for anything in particular, and found exactly that. The mood stayed for a while, and we left after a lengthy session of thinking and sitting. Byron was content, no matter what, as long as he was by my side. With nowhere to be and nobody to see, we spent the day walking and resting in equal measure, down by the waterfall, along the river, and back up the mountain, until we were both ready to head home and relax. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Time to get up and time to start up.

A walk beside the waterfall.

Crossing the river.