Chapter 88 The Weight Of Warmth

• Dawn seeped slowly through the frost-glazed windows of Lucy’s small two-story house — the one her mother had left her, now shared with Daren, the children, and the foxes. The pale morning light cast long silver streaks across the floorboards, catching on the edges of the old heater that hummed softly in the corner. Outside, the world remained a muted expanse of white, the wind calm, the air brittle with cold.
• The house was still — too still for Lucy’s racing thoughts.
• She had barely slept after that dream. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel again the biting cold, the cries, the cruel brightness of that false sun. Even now, the memory lingered, clinging to her chest like frost that refused to melt.