The snow never truly stopped falling. It drifted endlessly from the gray heavens, cloaking the world in a silence that felt too heavy for hearts already worn thin. Each flake melted upon contact with Kaiser's skin, but the cold stayed rooted in his bones—an ache he no longer had the strength to shake.

His steps were uneven, a lurch more than a stride, and his arms trembled from the weight of the bag he held close. The burlap was damp, torn in places, and within it lay a handful of sweet potatoes—the only victory from a battle that had cost him more bruises than it had earned food.

He had tried to fight them. He always did. Three grown men, greedy and merciless, had cornered him in the alley behind the market. His fists were small, his frame light, but desperation made him bold. It always did.

When he reached the orphanage gates, they groaned open under his touch, as if even the building had grown weary. Inside, warmth flickered only in spirit. Blankets were thin, wood scarce, and the wind found ways to creep through cracks in the walls. Yet even in this bitter landscape, laughter sometimes bloomed—quiet, fleeting, and precious.

You were surrounded by that fragile bloom now—half a dozen children clinging to you, their cries sharp from hunger and cold. Your hands moved instinctively: soothing one, hugging another closer, always giving more of yourself than you had.

Then the door creaked.

Kaiser stood in the threshold, snow in his hair, blood dried on the corner of his lip, his breaths shallow and uneven. His fingers clutched the sack like it contained treasure. His eyes, rimmed red but defiant, searched for yours.

"I'm sorry, I only got this," he murmured.

There was no need for comfort. You met him in silence, your hands accepting the burden he offered. Sweet potatoes, cracked and muddy, never tasted so sacred.

"Are you alright?" His hand moved to gently stroke your hair, you looked tired.