Ever since Soren first laid eyes on that photo, he had been infatuated with it, clutching it tightly in his hands every day.
The edges had been worn thin and pale from the sweat of his palms.
Worried that the picture would deteriorate, Kal-El had placed it in a small metal frame, so Soren could keep it with him without damaging it.
Kal-El set the pancakes in front of Soren.
Soren looked up and smiled again, flashing two rows of pristine white teeth.
Then, as if showing off, he held the photo up for Kal-El to see.
He pointed at the tall figure of Clark Kent in the photo, dressed in a shirt, and, as if identifying the names, said confidently, "Kal-El."
Then he pointed at the thin figure beside him, whose face was obscured by a red scarf and hat, and said, "Soren."
"Very clever. Yes, that's you and me," Kal-El praised him gently.
Soren turned the photo back toward himself, stretching out his arm and holding it next to Kal-El.
His gaze shifted between the young man in the picture and the god-like figure standing before him.
A hint of confusion flickered across his face as he reached out with his other hand to touch the white strands in Kal-El's hair at his temples.
He seemed puzzled—why did the man in the photo now have white hair?
But he didn't know what gray hair was.
He thought it was paint that had accidentally gotten into Clarm's hair while drawing.
So, with his soft fingers, he gently rubbed at Clarm's temples, trying to wipe away the white streaks as if they were just errant colors.
Kal-El slowly took hold of his fingers, his voice trembling with pain as he whispered, "It can't be wiped away, Soren."
Soren looked up at him, confused, and innocently asked, "Why?"
Kal-El lowered his gaze, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Because once a person grows white hair, there's no going back. I've gotten old, Soren."
Soren kicked his little legs back and forth, his face full of curiosity. "Does getting old mean you grow white hair? What does 'no going back' mean? Why can't you go back once your hair turns white?"
He was still as curious as ever, just like before, but Clarm knew that Soren would never be able to understand the answers to these questions now.
Kal-El didn't respond.
After breakfast, he carried Soren to the window, dressing him in thick winter clothing: a white woolen hat, a knitted scarf, and a down jacket.
Then, he opened the window, which, like the room, was made of Korentium Steel.
The snow and cold wind from Washington rushed in.
A snowflake landed on Soren's face, and he let out a sharp scream, throwing himself into Kal-El's arms in terror.
Tears quickly welled up in his baby-blue eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
—He was scared.
Something was clearly wrong.
He trembled violently, his body convulsing as he cried so hard he could barely breathe, on the verge of suffocating.
"Soren, what's wrong? I'm here, don't be scared, don't be scared—" Kal-El patted his back, desperately trying to soothe him, but when Soren looked at his face, his screams only grew louder.
His body shook even more violently, and despite being wrapped in thick layers, his thin arms seemed fragile enough to snap in Kal's grasp.
It was as if a deep, instinctual terror of Clarm had rooted itself in Soren's very bones.
Soren's cries grew louder and louder, until it seemed like he might pass out.
He began clawing at his own neck and hands, hurting himself in a panic.
Clarm, alarmed, quickly closed the window and carried him back to the bed, holding him tight while repeating over and over, "Don't be scared, don't be scared, Soren. What's frightening you? Please, tell me, Soren. Be a good boy, tell me, sweetheart."
Soren wrapped his arms around his head, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably, like a fledgling who had lost its mother, trembling in a violent storm.
Between his cries, he choked out in despair, "No more snow, no more snow—please, I'm scared, I'm scared, sob…"
He kept repeating those words over and over, as if driven to madness, his mind teetering on the edge of collapse.
He couldn't hear Kal-El anymore, but at that moment, Kal-El understood exactly what Soren was saying.
The pupils of Kal-El's Kryptonian blue eyes constricted sharply.
The Blizzard—
In the Arctic blizzard, right in front of Soren, he had ripped the Kryptonite from his own chest, killed Billy, and snapped Batman's spine.
That snowfall, which covered the endless icy plains before the Fortress of Solitude, had also blanketed the hopeless path their lives had taken.
Kal-El held Soren tightly, his head bowed, his eyes lost in the shadows cast by his brow, feeling as if a thousand arrows were piercing his heart.
"…Soren," Kal-El's hands were trembling, his voice hoarse.
He wiped the tears from Soren's face with his thumb, pressing that tear-streaked face gently against his chest. "It's okay, it's okay. I won't ever let it snow in Washington again, alright? Don't be afraid, Soren, my love, I promise you'll never see snow again—"
The small body in his arms shook so violently it was almost convulsing.
Only after a long, long time did Soren finally begin to calm down.
The emotional outburst had drained what little energy Soren's already frail body had left.
Exhausted from crying, he soon fell asleep in Superman's arms, a few tiny droplets of crystal-clear tears still clinging to his lashes.
Superman carefully laid him back in bed, tucking the blankets snugly around him, and then quietly slipped out of the room.
He flew into the snow-filled sky, rising to over six thousand meters above the clouds, and used his heat vision to melt all the cloud layers producing snow.
The vapor transformed into torrential rain, pouring down over Washington, D.C.
It would never snow in Washington again.