Your Hand Is Cold

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvDdIml5Egs [Embed]

>You walk home. The cold dusk December air forming small clouds as you gently exhale.

>Your hand is cold.

>The walkonly disrupted by the gentle rustling of the leaves, and crunch as your boots make a trail in the snow.

>The cold wind makes you shudder for a moment, but quickly you continue on.

>You hold your families' old war rifle in your arms, at rest but ready.

>Things have not been good lately, thieves have been spotted at other farms.

>Your father is away to help with the war effort, so you are the only man of age capable of handling the rifle.

>It's solid wood stock reassuring as you walk on, scanning the fence line to your right.

>Once again, you shudder. Your hand wouldn't be as cold if you hadn't forgotten one of your gloves.

>But you have a task to do, and a family to do it for.

>The wind picks up, and there is a rustling to your left.

>Grabbing your snow cap to make sure it doesn't blow away, you can't react to the man in uniform that is suddenly before you.

>A uniform you don't recognize.

>A sudden crack disturbs the night air, echoing into the long dark.

>You stumble and fall onto the ground, rifle dropping in the snow next to you.

>Your chest feels cold now.

>You hear the crunching of boots, becoming quieter as they disappear, the wind seemingly masking their retreat from your ears

>You look over, towards the distant lights of the house.

>You know now you are too far from home, a distance time nor space will allow you to ever overcome.

>But there is someone right next to you.

>She smiles, sadly. Her chestnut brown hair reminding you of something familiar.

>She grabs your hand, a reassuring feeling emanating from it.

>You can no longer see her, or anything else, but the feeling persists.

>And at last your hand is no longer cold.