Logic tells me this can’t be true, since the sky has been spewing snow for days, so the obvious conclusion is I’ve seen snow. But if that’s the case, then why am I only now noticing this beautiful and icy phenomenon?

I have no explanation.

Huddled inside and wrapped in my bedspread, I’m sitting with the balcony door cracked open. The touch of winter cools the tears on my cheeks, and one hour bleeds into two, then three and four, until sobriety is the harbinger of agony once again.

It should have been you on that plane.

Those eight words won’t stop looping in my head, searing me with even more guilt. What I said was cruel and unforgivable, though I have no doubt Liam will forgive me.

You don’t deserve him.

The accusing voice in my head sounds like my own, uttering a merciless verdict that drags me to my feet. No matter how hard I try, I can’t escape my own mind or the chaos it holds. Panic claws at my windpipe, making each inhale a hard-won victory. I’m so exhausted from hurting, fighting, and surviving inside these isolating walls.

Circular walls without end.

Just like this pain.

And yet, even as I drown, my limbs move on instinct. My chest heaves as I secure the blanket around my shoulders, fingers gripping soft cashmere. I’m not sure how I end up in the elevator, but the trip to the main floor passes in a frantic blur. I fling myself outside, bare feet sinking into powdery snow, and the panic subsides by a degree. There’s only one way out of this nightmare.

Escape.

Freedom.

Painless existence.

Those four words are my mantra, driving me forward with every beat of my shattered heart. My footsteps taint the perfection of untouched snow as I trek across the grounds, and despite the blanket of white powder covering the terrain, the scenery is achingly familiar. My soul recognizes this path, finding meaning and home—so much so that the core of my being senses the ghost of its mate.

Because I feel Sebastian watching me from the ninth floor of the tower, his crystalline gaze following my every move. The House of Leo has never been so barren, yet his essence wraps around me in a warm and loving shield. I imagine him painting my grief-stricken likeness onto a canvas, and the corners of my mouth creep up. I can see it so clearly, his portrait of my cold existence stroked to life in shades of dreary grey.

Winter melancholy.

Somehow, Sebastian would make such a scene beautiful.

“It’s going to be okay, baby.”