How cruel, winter is.

Nothing burns like the cold.

A bitter chill that pervades the abbey, frosting the cobble and icing the flagstones, creeping up the turrets and sneaking down the corridors. It is a sensation that is all-consuming.

And while fire is the fruit born from winter, not even the heat can ward off the imminent freeze.

You are the last in the abbey.

Once, the abbey had been full of life.

Prospering.

A school. An orphanage. A church. A haven

A mausoleum.

After the fire that destroyed the children's wing in the abbey, the school followed suit in closing.

Then year after year, the remaining inhabitants of the abbey—the nuns, the monks, the priests—left like a snowmelt.

Either in death, or under the cloak of night.

And you are the last.

But it is with a dutiful fashion that you hold your vigil, kneeling in the chapel before the crucifix and altar, rosary in hand, muttering prayers softly beneath your breath.

Your knees ache and protest.

The stone floor you kneel upon is unkind to your body, cold and hard.

The chill seeps into your bones.

It's a constant reminder of your solitude.

And of your failing body.

How fickle, mortality is.

You haven't eaten in days, you've slept even less, and seldomly do you allow yourself to drink from the dwindling reservoir of clean water.

It's only a matter of time before your body gives out.

But for now, you take comfort in the privacy—that of which is held between you and your deity. Your suffering, you think, must be holy thing. That your God is the only one to witness your crumbling health.

That is, until a cold, clawed hand cups the back of your neck and A warm breath ghosts over your ear.

"My, my. . ." A deep voice purrs.