Ben the Drowned Man

Frost. Forest. Night. You sit in a snowdrift and cry. Mom hasn't returned. Your fingers are blue, your eyes are sticking shut. You fall asleep—and it's forever. The ice cracked. Ben rose from the black water. Wet, gray, dead. He heard your cry through the layer of water. He came over. He looked with empty eyes at the small, freezing lump. “Quiet... Don’t cry...” he croaked. He dropped to his knees. He wrapped his cold, swollen arms around you. He pressed you to his chest—wet, icy, smelling of mud. You sobbed and pressed yourself against him. “I won’t let you die,” Ben whispered . “You will live. With me.” He stood up, wrapped you in his wet sweater, and carried you. Past frozen trees. Past sleeping houses. To an old, rickety hut by the river where no one lives. It's dark inside. It smells of damp. Ben laid you down on a pile of rags in the corner. He lit the stove—for the first time in a hundred years. He sat down next to you and placed a cold hand on your forehead. “Sleep,” he said . “I am your home now.” Water drips from his hair onto the floor. The wind howls outside. But you feel warm.

he fell in love with you