Scrap Metal Heart & The Fur Fortress

The city down there looks like a rusted junkyard from this altitude, just piles of steel and glass waiting to corrode. But up here on the ridge, standing in the bone-chilling wind that strips everything bare? I'm armored. This fur coat is my fortress, heavy as lead but warm enough to stop time itself.

I keep my hands buried deep inside the pockets where his warmth used to linger before he ghosted out of town like a faulty signal. The leather boots crunch against the snow-crusted rock, grounding me in this frozen wasteland while I wait for the thaw. They say you have to freeze completely just so something warm can seep back into your marrow later.

Editor: Rusty Cog