The storm lasted three days. Had it lasted only two, maybe things would’ve been different. Life, however, doesn’t work that way. It didn’t matter how much wood I fed the fire—the house refused to warm up. I braved the storm to fetch more wood, hearing the trees’ wailing songs for their toppled friends, whose roots had been ripped from the earth that sustained them—that’s pretty much it for a tree. The brutal wind battered my face and forced me to fight for each step—a fight that I lost more times than I won, forcing me back inside.

We watched the hearth burn, greedily consuming everything we tossed in it, and we prayed to the Bastard for the storm to end soon.

Then, in the evening, it happened. A tree branch rammed through the window. I tried to fix it with blankets; the only cabinet in the room was already plugging the other broken window. I unhinged a door and pressed it against the window, but wind gusts kept toppling it, allowing the creeping snow in, painting the floor white.

The wood ran out.

I tore furniture apart, starting with the dining table. I hacked it to pieces with my useless sword. Afterward, I moved on to the chairs, then the beds. I preyed on every little scrap of wood, wicker, or paper. Knick knackery, spoons, bowls, and hairbrushes were scavenged in our battle against nature. Clothes, towels, cloth. Anything that caught fire was conscripted to the war effort.

The constant work forced me awake, but in the end, there was nothing left to feed the gluttonous fire.

I shoved our last picture frame and the picture in by the end of the third day. The storm mellowed during the afternoon, and I managed to collect wood outside. Despite the exhaustion, I soldiered on and did it. I restocked the wood.

Lulled by the warmth, I leaned against Mom. Something in the back of my mind warned me against it, but I was so tired I wouldn’t listen. I had worked continuously for days, and I deserved to rest a while. I had earned it. Mom took me in her arms and kissed my forehead. I had done it; I had won; we would survive the storm after all.

Safe in Mom’s arms, my eyes began to shut. Drowsiness came over me like a heavy blanket. Even the trees had gone silent. The worst was over.

When I opened my eyes, the hearth was dead.

Frost grew in the windows like mildew, and snow spread across the entire floor, glittering with the first rays of sunlight. The air was still and thick, sharp against the teeth. Breathing came as easy as drowning; my joints cracked, and muscles cramped; the blanket rigid and brittle to the touch.

Mom’s arm around me was cold and stiff.

Something broke inside of me.

I didn’t want to turn. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to see.

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I forced my eyes shut, forcing sleep to return. If I managed to go back to sleep, perhaps I would wake up, and the hearth would still be burning, and Mom’s heart would still be beating. But my eyes refused to close.

The sun trailed across the window.

All I had to do was remain still and wait for the cold to claim me too. Yet, I’d failed at that as well. Why couldn’t I just die? How was I supposed to go on without Mom? I should’ve kept the hearth going. I should’ve stayed awake. Every cell in my body screamed in agony, pushing me to stand up, to face reality, to start pumping blood again.

I unclutched Mom’s arm and sat up, pushing the blankets away—every movement an ache, like a thousand ice-cold needles raking against my bones. My fingers were stiff, unbendable, my head a lump of cast iron. I braved a glance. Mommy was pale and serene. She was so beautiful. Every breath, every movement brought forth the worst pain I have ever felt. I hugged her and cried and cried and cried.

Time drew by, heart too stubborn to quit. My throat came unstuck. My fingers thawed.

Then the sun was gone, and night settled again. I didn’t bother with fire—it had failed me enough. I curled up against Mom and waited, wishing she’d come and take me with her. To the Bliss, to where the cold is denied entrance, and mountains are only mountains—a place with mirthful trees where the Bastard tells his tales. And I would never have to wake up again to remember how much I lost.

I’m not sure if I slept or not, but when morning came a shadow loomed over me. I forced my eyes to focus and found the barber-baker crouching, extending his grimy hand to me. I took it, and he helped me up. Then, gently, he covered Mom and lifted her in his arms.

“I should’ve known when you didn’t show up to steal from me. Just stay there, alright? I’ll take care of it.”

The way he said “it” provoked all kinds of nasty reactions in me. That it was my mother. I found myself hating that man. I hated him as much as I hated the entire world and its unfairness and callousness. I wasn’t being fair to the barber-baker, but to the Ordeal with fairness. I needed to hate something like I hated the mountain.

But in the end, I was the one to blame. I got comfortable and lazy, and I fell asleep, and Mom, my mommy, died. I hated the world because I hated myself.

The barber-baker built the pyre behind the house. Some of the other Leftoverians came to lend a hand, but I don’t remember their faces. It all became a big blur. They came to me with their condolences. Why? What use did I have for strangers’ condolences? I hated them. I hope they saw it in my eyes.

The barber-baker laid Mom on the pyre. I wanted to tell him not to do it. That I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. When I opened my mouth, however, nothing came out. I watched the fire until only dying embers remained, and Mom became ash and memories.

I followed the barber-baker to his shop. The storm had left a path of destruction across the city. How many trees had toppled, and how many windows had broken? People cleaned the streets from debris. The barber-baker gave me hot soup and forced me to eat it. His heart was in the right place, but he was not a patient man. I have a lot to thank him for, yet I never learned his real name. I couldn’t stay there. Of that, I was sure. I just couldn’t. Everything reminded me of everything I’d lost. And everything I’d lost reminded me of Aureberg. Guilty and wronged, I wasn’t going to stick around feeling sorry for myself. I had to do something. I had to start moving.

After the barber-baker went to bed that night, I searched the room for winter clothing. I found a wool sweater and a sheepskin jacket so large it hung over my feet. I took my useless sword and strapped it over my shoulder. I tiptoed down to the shop and stuffed some food in a bag I found along the way—one last theft from the man who’d saved my life. Outside, northern lights painted the sky, undulating like a river flowing upstream.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said to the sky. “I’m facing the mountain, even if it’s the last thing I do.”