With a touch, life turned to dust. A rabbit grew limp in his embrace; a fledgling fell from its nest. So quietly, tenderly, he observed the silence. And safely, his hands were tucked into his cloak.

The sky hung low and bruised, swollen with the last light of day as Myra slammed the car door shut with a bang. The old Toyota trembled under the force of the blow as she trudged down the street, coffee cup in one hand and her work bag in the other. Swatting at a fly buzzing in her ear, the lid of the coffee cup came loose and a good portion of the coffee splashed onto her white blouse.

“It’s the first snow of the season,” his new father said, handing him a mug of something nutty that warmed his stomach when he drank. “It’s good luck.” His new parents stood close behind him, not touching as he pressed his nose onto the windowpane. They had learnt, slowly, that contact was a language that he did not yet speak.