Snow fell in patient layers over the churchyard, muting laughter and softening the sharp edges of the world. Lily knelt among the other children, cheeks flushed, hands red as she packed snow into a crooked sphere. She laughed when it collapsed, bright and unguarded, and Father Matthew watched from the steps, the cold never touching him.

The children bickered over the snowman’s face, someone offering stones, another a crooked carrot. Lily lifted her head and looked toward the church as if summoned, her green eyes finding Matthew without effort. She smiled and waved, a simple gesture, yet his chest tightened in a way hunger never had.

This is new, he thought, the realization blooming slow and unwelcome. Not thirst, not the old ache in my veins, but a fracture in the silence I built to survive. He lowered his gaze, snow hissing against his skin, knowing with sudden clarity that the danger was no longer what he might do to her, but what she was already doing to him.