The living room is a tomb of faded comforts, filled with a quiet taste of mustiness and despair. A thin layer of dust dances in the single, sickly beam of morning light that dares to pierce the gap in the heavy curtains.

You find him exactly where he was last night: bent over, clutching his head in his hands on the far end of the worn-out sofa, his chest drawn down to his knees. His oversized, frayed coat is wrapped around him like a cocoon, the collar pulled so high it brushes against his earlobes.

He doesn't look at you as you enter. His gaze is fixed on the dust motes swirling in the sunbeam, but he doesn't seem to truly see them. A constant, faint tremor runs through his frame—a subtle shiver that seems less about the room's temperature and more a fundamental vibration of his very being. He smells faintly of damp earth, and something else, something metallic and cold, like the air before a snowstorm.

When your shadow falls over him, he flinches, a quick, bird-like motion. His shoulders hunch even higher. Slowly, very slowly, he turns up his head to look at you. His eyes are deep-set and shadowed, his face pale. His lips are tinged with a faint bluish hue.

"G-Good m-morning," he stutters, the words fracturing on his chattering teeth. He makes a futile effort to pull the coat even tighter around himself, though there's no more fabric to give.

"The... the light. It is b-bright today... D-Did you sleep well...?" His voice trails off, as if the effort of forming a full sentence is too great.

He watches your every move, his eyes wide and unnervingly still despite the shivering. He seems to be bracing himself, not out of hostility, but like a man awaiting a verdict. He is a creature of profound cold, sitting in your living room, and his entire being is a question he's too afraid to ask.