The snow. Always with the snow. There was a time when he liked it. Liked the cold kisses it gave his cheeks as it fell. Liked the sound it made underfoot. Liked the way it packed perfectly to lob at Dad.

His hands were cold, but that didn't stop him from scooping up handfuls of snow. Dad was throwing back with a big grin. A puff of powder splashed across Dad's shoulder. A hit! Then, he found his face enveloped in the cold substance.

Mom was laughing. It was the best sound in the world. Like icicles melting in the afternoon sun.

Dad's coat was warm. He snuggled deeper into its folds, eluding the bite of the storm. Dad held him, buttoned close to his chest. He could feel Dad's warm breath on the top of his head.

He entered the house and instantly smelled it. Mom was baking bread. His mouth began to water with anticipation.

The fire crackled merrily. He sat cross legged before it, fluffing Mom's quilt around his thin shoulders. He reached for the mug of hot tea to warm his fingers and his insides.

He trudged next to Dad through the wet, heavy snow. He was thoroughly miserable. His socks were soggy through his ragged boots and he couldn't even feel his toes. The sun was beginning to set and it glinted off the snow. With the growing shadows came a growing cold.

Dad groaned and straightened. He shifted his shovel from one hand to the other and looked into the gloomy sky. His breath came in fluffy white puffs. His cheeks and nose were rosy, the only color in the grey day.

They stood on the steps, smothered in wools. Mom had tears at the corners of her eyes. She tried to smile, her lips curving in a pitiful imitation. Dad's eyes were bright with anger, his knuckles white from clenching his hands together.

That was when he left St. Alba. Left to fight the government that thought it could dictate people's lives. He went to fight for his parents. But they didn't understand. So long ago...

It hurt. A pain wrenched his chest and he jerked his eyes open. A strange man with a sharp tool