"House, Village, Blanket" by Ryan T. Barnard

The day and the night melded, became one. People grew anxious; the scientists could not explain it, the politicians could not explain it, the military leaders could not explain it; not even the gods, the celebrities themselves, could explain it. Then it became cold, and the ashen sky came to meet the ground. Fine particles of soot sifted in through the cracks in the doors and the windows, and the inside and the outside were one.

That was a while ago.

Then we heard the voices, the commands, instructions, requests, stories, fiction, nonfiction, poetry, histories of the world, of the universe, tales of the future. Not in our heads, but on the television, the radio. Some people paid attention. They're gone now. Others didn't; they're gone too, but in a very different sense.

I ran.

The winter followed me everywhere, but many people didn't know what it was. Couldn't they see the darkness? Small villages, enormous cities, forests, mountains, deserts. Weariness strove to overtake me; fatigue, mental and physical, but I refused to stop or to slow.

The cold chilled me deep inside as though it were far more than cold air; perhaps it was the absence of cold and heat of any kind; perhaps it was the absence of emotion: I could no longer feel love, hate, longing, contentment, sympathy, anger. Or even fear.

Then I found a house, maybe it was a village, or maybe just a discarded blanket left on a branch of a dead willow tree. But it was warm, Safe. Someone gave me Safety as a gift, an anonymous donation, undeserved. It was mine to keep, to guard.

I grew accustomed to the Safety; it became a part of me that I refused to give up. But there was safety enough for no more, and outside it was still cold, still dark. If I gave it up, I would again be alone, cold, empty.

He was huddled by the river, impassively staring as chunks of ice floated past. His fingers were blue, his cheeks purple. I couldn't see his eyes.

He's warm now; Safe.