Early morning sunshine casts a dim grey light over Vintermarche as it battles the thick clouds. Slithering through the narrow streets, the southern winter winds leave a coating of frost on the stonework. In his meagre terraced house in the lower district, Victor Cain coughs up a lump of phlegm, waking himself in the process. Flickering his eyes to adjust to the low light peeking through tattered curtains, he heaves his body upright, then to his feet. He tucks his second best shirt into his third best trousers – which moonlighted as his best pyjamas.

Ten years and two months ago, The Wall appeared, separating the world. Two months ago, The Wall fell, and the world feels more divided than ever.

Victor scans the room for his coat while shielding his unadjusted eyes. Tossed on a chair in the corner, lay his coat. He peers around, looking for any loose silver pieces that hide on the decrepit furniture. He rubs his eyes, then his face. Clearing his throat of the remaining phlegm, he stumbles over and dons his coat, scoops four rogue silver coins into his frayed pocked, steps into his black boots, and begins another morning.

His warm breath obscures his first peek of the morning footfall as he steps onto the hard cobblestone street. The early birds of Vintermarche’s citizens are out in full force, navigating the icy lanes and icier people. Victor falls into the latter category. Tucking his head into his upright collar and wrapping his unbuttoned coat around him, he embarks with haste despite the cold conditions. The tight alleys that wind around the stone foundations radiate the bitter air. The overhanging wooden upper floors block any sunlight that tries to force its way through.

Keeping his head tucked into his collar like a frightened tortoise, Victor arrives at the first stop of his morning routine. A small market stall sits alone on a wide street. It offers limited stock in a wide range of goods; Baked goods, local newspapers, jewellery and homeware, not-so-fresh fruit and tobacco products. All tightly packed into a tent, leaving enough space for the shopkeeper to turn on the spot. Victor peruses the array on offer, toying with the four silver pieces in his pocket. Nestling in his nose is the delectable aroma of the freshly baked goods, answering the call of his rumbling stomach. The shopkeeper, a Lysarii man, gives him a cheery look, happy to see him again.

“Good morning, sir, what will it be today?” The Shopkeeper asks, looming over the stall. Victor twiddles a frayed thread caused by a missing button in his coat and claws his eyes away from the food.

“Pack of smokes.” Victor answers, pointing behind the shopkeeper. “What’s the cheapest you got?”.

“Draper’s Cigarettes, sir. Three silvers, sir.” The shopkeeper raises a shoddy pack up to show him.

“Yeah, they’ll do. Thanks.” Victor says, dropping three silver pieces on the counter.

The shopkeeper pockets the coin. A clang rattles off beside them as the stand of baked goods launch backwards, scattering the food on the floor. Victor flinches and swivels around to see a group of teenagers across the street, wrapped up in their warm gear and masks, laughing and pointing at the stand with rocks in hand.

“Hey! Come here, you lot are going to pay for this. I know who you are y’know!” The shopkeeper flails his arms as he shouts across to them. The teens laugh harder. Victor watches, a deliberate bystander. The shopkeeper picks up the stand and Victor relents, helping pick up the fallen baked goods with him. “Bloody kids. Take one if you want one.” Victor nods his head and leaves the shopkeeper to it. He chomps the pastry and continues onwards.

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As the morning progresses, the clouds regress. The blue-grey sky shines a hopeful radiance upon the city centre. Victor’s breath can still be seen in between the bites of his impromptu breakfast. Poking his head further out of his shell, he surveys his surroundings in preparation for his day ahead. He spots a couple leaving their house, barely making eye contact and exchanging blunt words. He passes a small crowd gathering around a little girl who’s slipped on the icy stone. He notices a teenager, bouncing on the spot to get a glimpse over the sea of people. Victor pauses, and returns to the teenager. Their eyes meet – the teenagers face beams and Victor recedes into his collar. Calling and chasing him, Victor yields to his pursuer.

“Mr. Cain! Mr. Cain!” The boy pants, catching up to a slowing Victor.

“Hello Cole.” Victor replies monotonal. Cole recovers fast, bouncing from left to right with an odd amount of energy.

“How are you Mr. C? How are things? Everything good? All good?” Cole picks at the scab on his palm furiously.

“Everything is fine, kid. What do you want?” Victor keeps pace through the crowd.

“Me? I don’t want anything- I just want to see how you are, how things are going. Checking in with you y’know?” Cole talks with his head down and continues on walking. Victor stops and raises his eyebrows. A few steps later, Cole notices, bites at his lip, and gives in. His nervous energy leaves him with a heavy sigh. “I just wanted to check to see if you’ve… asked for me yet?”.

Victor rolls his eyes.

“Gods, you have no patience. I told you I’ll ask, so I will ask. I’m just waiting for the right time. If you keep nagging me about this, then I won’t do it, ok?” Victor replies in a harsh, but playful tone. Cole pauses to process, then jingles his head in agreement. Victor takes a big bite out of the pastry and with a full mouth, offers the rest to Cole. He looks at it in awe and swipes – missing it as Victor pulls away. “Go home?” Cole furiously nods, carefully taking the re-offered pastry.

Victor remains still, fighting off an internal conflict. He loses the fight.

“Hey kid.” Cole plants his feet and spins at the call. “I forgot to ask for you, I’m sorry. I’ll do it today.” Victor admits, ending with his lips pinching out a smile.

Engrossed in the heart of Vintermarche, Victor makes one final detour. A snaking line appears long before the building does. Traversing alongside it, Victor hurries towards the overflowing Post Office. The number of eyes burning into the back of him grows exponentially as he squeezes his way through the door bringing murmurs of discontent from behind. Two frantic clerks sort through the pile of mail in an attempt to lessen the queue. They shift a stack of letters onto an already full counter, causing a paper avalanche that neither of them acknowledges. Wielding a letter up high, one of the clerks steps over the scattered mess on the floor to the old woman who’s been taping the counter with her nails incessantly. She glances at Victor and halts him with a hand signal, shaking her head.

“I assume that means nothing has arrived for me. Not even a letter? Are you sure?” Victor insists while the clerk ushers in the next in line. She takes the customers details and strides back to the stack of felled letters.

“To be truthful, Mr. Cain, no. I am not sure.” She gestures to the bombsite behind the counter. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the new arrivals though, and you’ve had nothing. If you want me to do a full check for you, the queue starts a few streets over.” She turns to give him a wry farewell smile, but he has already left.