Cold Collateral

The child trudged through the snow, each step sinking deep into the frozen terrain. The oversized gas mask bobbed awkwardly on their small frame, fogging up with each shallow breath. The straps dug into their skin, but they didn't dare remove it. The air was poisoned—thick with invisible ruin.

With gloved hands clutching the straps of a tattered backpack, the child pressed forward, eyes fixed on the road ahead—an endless stretch of white disappearing into the horizon. Somewhere beyond the veil of falling snow, beyond the whispers of despair carried on the wind, there had to be an end to this. There had to be warmth, shelter, hope.

Their thoughts drifted to the stories their mother used to tell—the ones about green places, where the sky wasn’t always gray, where the air didn’t bite at your lungs, and the world still felt free and alive. A time before the war. Before the factories bled into the rivers. Before the bitter cold came and took everything. They clung to those stories now, even though they could barely remember the sound of her voice.

Where did this road lead?
To salvation, perhaps. Or to ruin.

But they had no choice but to follow it—to keep moving, to keep hoping—because stopping meant becoming part of the landscape, another lost thing buried beneath the snow, another ghost swallowed by the relentless, bitter cold.

And so, they carried on.