He realized Amy had come to a stop. He struggled forward and halted at her side, breathing great gulps of air. The snow was thinner here, pushed away by the wind. She was scanning the sky, her eyes narrowed, as if she were listening to some distant sound. Beads of ice clung to her pack, her hair.

“What is it?”

Her gaze settled on the line of trees to their left, away from the open valley.

“There,” she said.

But there was nothing, only the wall of trees. The trees and the snow and the indifferent wind.

Then he saw it: a gap in the undergrowth. Amy was already moving toward it. As they neared, he realized what he was seeing: the gate of a half-fallen fence. It ran the length of the woods on either side of them, entwined with a dense mass of camouflaging vines, now denuded of leaves and covered in snow, making the fence all but invisible, a part of the landscape. Who knew how long they had been walking along it without his noticing. Beyond the opening stood a small hut, more suggestion than actual structure. The building, not more than five meters square, seemed tipped, one part of its foundation having collapsed beneath it; the door stood half open, angled on its hinges. He peered inside. Nothing, only snow and leaves, rivers of rot running down the walls.

He turned. “Amy, where—”

He saw her darting through the trees, away, and lumbered after her. Amy was moving more quickly now, practically running. Through the fog of his exhaustion and the trudge of his frozen feet, Peter had become aware that they had reached the end of their journey, or nearly. Something was leaving him; his strength, stripped away by the cold, was leaving him at last.

“Amy,” he called. “Stop.”

She seemed not to hear him.

“Amy, please.”

She turned to face him.

“What’s here?” he pleaded. “There’s nothing here.”

“There is, Peter.” Her face was lit with joy. “There is.”

“Then where is it?” he said, and heard the anger in his voice. His hands were on his knees; he was panting for breath. “Tell me where it is.”

She lifted her face to the darkening sky, letting her eyes fall shut. “It’s … everywhere,” she said. “Listen.”

He did his best; with every ounce of his remaining strength he sent his mind outward. But all he heard was the wind.

“There’s nothing,” he said again, and felt his hopes collapsing. “Amy, there’s nothing here.”

But then he heard it.

A voice. A human voice.

Somebody, somewhere, was singing.

•   •   •

They saw the beacon first, rising in the trees.