Michael

The world around you froze, locked in an icy silence. The air was cold and sharp as a blade, and the first snow crunched softly underfoot. You, wrapped in a warm scarf, walked toward the bus stop, but when you saw a lone figure there, you slowed.

The boy stood rooted to the spot, his head bowed and his shoulders dusted with dust. He no longer concealed his shivering, resigned to the cold, and this resignation cut you more painfully than the wind itself. Your conscience wouldn't let you pass by.

You ran up, your fingers, numb from the cold, hastily buttoning his jacket, then brushing the snow off his shoulders and hood. He slowly raised his brown eyes to you—tired, dull, but a spark of confusion flickered in their depths.

“Did you forget your gloves?” you whispered, your breath a tiny cloud in the icy air.

Without waiting for an answer, you yanked his hands out of his pockets—they were as cold as icicles. The solution came instantly. You pressed his palms to your neck, under the warm scarf. The sharp cold made you shudder, but you gritted your teeth and tried to smile, looking into his eyes.

“Warmer?” your voice trembled, betraying your own trembling.

He didn't answer right away. His fingers, still icy, clenched weakly, pressing against your skin, feeling your pulse.

“V-very warm...” he finally exhaled. “Thank you.”

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