The snow fell gently, blanketing the world in wintery silence. So did the icy flakes which drifted lazily from the grey sky, piling upon the uneven rooftops of makeshift wooden and metallic houses scattered across the settlement.
Each house was a patchwork of rusted tin sheets, uneven and crude, barely held together by nails and desperation.
The snow clung to the metal, dulling its sharp edges, turning the settlement into a ghostly, slumbering village beneath winter's heavy hand.
At the furthest edge of the settlement, where the houses thinned and the wind howled without obstruction, a boy swung an axe.
The sound of wood splitting echoed faintly, swallowed almost instantly by the snow and distance.
The boy was gaunt and pale. His face, though young, carried none of the warmth or softness of youth. It was expressionless, blank like a mask, his dull eyes fixed solely on the task before him. His woollen clothes hung on his thin frame, fluttering slightly with each swing of the axe.
Blue calluses marred his small hands. The skin was raw and broken, painful even to look at, yet the boy swung without hesitation or pause.
Each swing of the axe was slow and labored, his body trembling with effort, but his movements were steady, deliberate. One piece at a time, he split the frozen wood as he knew it would refuse to burn in this cold unless he made preparations.
The boy crouched low and arranged the wood in the form of a pyre. With icy hands, he layered smaller and thinner sticks as kindling, breaking them with his bony fingers.
At the center, he carefully placed cloth soaked with kerosene. Around it, he positioned the heavier, snow-chilled logs, stacking them in a way that would allow oxygen to feed the flames.
When the pyre was assembled, he stood back, his breath misting in the frigid air.
He turned away and began to walk back toward the cluster of ramshackle homes. His progress was slow, the weight of exhaustion dragging his small steps through the snow.
Suddenly, a strap of his ragged sandal snapped.
The boy paused. For a moment, he simply looked down at the broken footwear. He neither sighed nor frowned.
Expressionlessly, he bent down, picked up the sandal, and flung it aside into the snow. He continued forward, now with one bare foot sinking into the frozen ground, leaving shallow, uneven imprints behind him.
As he approached the rows of tin-sheet houses, he felt them, the gazes.
From cracks in doors and crooked windows, unseen eyes followed him. Their silence weighed heavier than the snow. No one called out to him. No one stopped him.
The boy walked on, undeterred, until he reached his destination, which was a small metallic house at the edge of the settlement.
It stood as ragged as the others, its walls constructed from old wood and uneven, mismatched sheets of tin. The wind howled through the gaps, yet within, the faint glow of a single bulb pushed back against the shadows.
He opened the crooked door and stepped inside.
The air within was warmer, faintly smelling of kerosene and dust. The room was sparse but tidy, a stark contrast to the outside world.
Contrary to one's expectations the house was also an old laboratory, its equipment outdated and worn, which lay carefully arranged on tables pushed against the walls.
Beakers and glassware sat clean and empty, their surfaces catching the dim light. Here and there, basic necessities were scattered which were none other than a dented cooking pot, a rusted kettle, a pile of thin blankets folded neatly in a corner.
In the corner of the room was a bed. And on that bed was a pale woman who lay lifelessly upon it, her frail form hidden beneath heavy white sheets. Her face was sunken but peaceful, framed by thin, silvery strands of hair.
The boy stood at the doorway for several moments, unmoving. Slowly, his eyes dropped to his feet. The exposed one, bare and red, had begun to lose its color. The skin was raw, and a faint trace of blood smeared the snow-dampened floor beneath it.
He muttered something under his breath, a few soft, indiscernible words.
Turning away, he walked to a corner where worn shoes and boots were stacked haphazardly. He sat on the floor, removed his remaining sandal, and pulled on thick socks, followed by a pair of oversized boots. They felt heavy but warm.
He tugged on fraying gloves next and reached for a small pile of supplies, a box of matchsticks, a rusted kerosene can, a scrap of cloth, and an old, dented pot.
With these, he fashioned a makeshift torch, wrapping the cloth tightly around the end of a broken wooden handle.
After gathering his supplies, he scoured the house for a metal sheet, dragging it back toward the bed.
With effort, he wedged it beneath the woman's body, his hands trembling as he lifted and adjusted her frail form. Her pale face remained calm like a still lake, untouched by the boy's difficulty or the biting cold that crept through the cracks in the house.
Finally, he covered her face with a thin cloth and pulled the metallic sheet toward the door. It scraped loudly against the floor as he towed it outside.
The wind hit him immediately, tearing through his thin clothes, but he didn't stop. Step by step, he dragged the makeshift sledge across the snow, the woman's body wrapped and hidden beneath layers of white.
The stares returned. They pressed on him from every direction, from windows, from doors, from narrow alleyways. Eyes that watched but did not speak. Eyes that judged but did not intervene.
The boy ignored them. His expression remained blank, and he walked on, pulling the sledge with both hands, his small shoulders trembling under the effort.
At last, he reached the pyre. He paused to catch his breath, his exhalations forming white clouds in the freezing air.
Carefully, he lifted the woman from the sledge and placed her onto the wood. He adjusted her until she lay peacefully at the center, her face uncovered. Snowflakes fell softly, landing on her closed eyes.
He turned and retrieved the kerosene can, pouring its contents over the pyre. The smell mixed with the cold air. Finally, he pulled out the matchbox, struck a match, and touched it to the makeshift torch. The flame flickered to life, small and fragile at first before growing steady.
The boy stepped forward and lowered the torch to the pyre.
The fire began to spread slowly, crawling across the wood and igniting the cloth. The flames crackled softly, their orange glow clashing beautifully with the falling snow.
Soon, the fire roared, consuming the pyre, sending black smoke and grey ash spiraling into the pale sky.
The boy stepped back a little. The heat kissed his frostbitten skin, a painful contrast to the cold. He dropped to his knees, his boots sinking into the snow, and kowtowed low to the ground.
The snow continued to fall, whispering softly as it met the roaring flames.
Ashes danced on the wind, carried toward the grey sky like fleeting remnants of something once whole. The fire crackled and hissed, its heat pushing back the winter's cold.
His knees sank deeper into the snow as he lowered his head. The bitter chill stung his face, but he paid it no mind. His voice, soft yet clear, cut through the solemn silence.
"Thank you…" The words came slowly, carefully chosen.
"...Thank you for saving me, for taking care of a homeless orphan like me…..You fed me, taught me, gave me knowledge without asking for anything in return…..I know what you gave me was priceless."
He paused, his breath misting in the cold air, before continuing.
"Thank you for showing me something beautiful amidst this filth, …. When everyone else hid behind their lies and their bitterness, you never faltered…. For me you shone brightly, you followed your desire like it was the only thing that mattered, burning for it, no matter how others judged you."
His hands, still trembling from the effort of building the pyre, pressed firmly into the snow as he bowed deeper.
"I sincerely bow to you, who lived following her desires and burned brightly till the very end ... .It was an honor for me to meet someone like you in this world... someone who refused to compromise, even as her everything else fell apart."
The flames roared higher, swallowing the pyre, casting shadows that flickered across his pale face. His voice fell to a whisper, almost lost in the wind.
"Rest now."
And there he remained, small, gaunt, and alone, kneeling before the pyre as the snow fell and the fire burned, two contrasts that seemed as natural together as life and death.
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[A/N: From this point onward, chapter lengths will range between 1,500 and 2,000 words. This format is more comfortable for me and allows for a smoother editing process. Thank you for your understanding and support!]