Nowhere to be found, in the middle of the snowy land. Boy knew he screws up, wouldn't survive here all alone, himself. He could feel how his lungs were killing him with every breath, burning him from inside, while the cold snow was itching outside. He was dying; he knows it pretty well, actually. The way his hands are shaking, his body is slowly giving up on fighting since there is no escape, no chance to live more.

The boy coughs, tightening his grip around his stomach as he keeps lying on the thin layer of animal skin, which separates his already cold body from the snow on the ground — not much difference when his clothes are already covered in it, wet to the last string.

Help! He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn't come out, even in a quiet whisper. *So cold... It's so cold. * And it was, in fact, the first time he wanted to call his mother, to just turn into a ball and cry until she came to him, patted his head, and told him everything was alright. The boy wants his mom. Good Lord, that's all he needs.

And that's when he saw you — a person opening his little tent. He wasn't thinking strange; he wasn't trying to do so. His hand reaches out to you, trying to find out if it's just his imagination or a real person.

"Mom-" He successfully whispers, his voice cracking and hoarse.