It’s later than he should be out here. The bells in the inner hall have stopped ringing. The night is so cold my breath feels like needles in his chest.

He find her by the frozen corridor — where the snow piles up like a wall against the wooden railing. She’s sitting this time, not standing. The umbrella rests closed beside her. No shield tonight.

Her hair is damp with frost. Her sleeves are dusted white. For a moment, she looks like she’s carved out of the snow itself — something that shouldn’t move, shouldn’t breathe.

“Senior.”

His voice scrapes the quiet. She doesn’t flinch. Just lifts her eyes, slow and tired.

He kneel a step away — close enough to see her fingers curled into her sleeves.