The morning air was crisp, colder than it had been in weeks, as George Carter stood on the upper balcony of the mansion. He pulled his jacket tighter around his body, staring out at the snow-covered hills that stretched out before him. The frost had covered everything in a thick white blanket overnight, making the world seem both beautiful and desolate. The sunlight barely broke through the thick clouds, casting a pale light over the mansion and the surrounding forest.
Behind him, the mansion was filled with the sound of survivors, voices chatting in low tones, the occasional clatter of pots in the kitchen, the steady creak of the old wooden floors as people moved about. It was hard to believe that only a few months ago, the mansion had been nearly empty. Now, it was packed with refugees, every room filled to capacity with people desperate for safety.
