At Death's Door

He’d heard of things that dwelled in the dark, drawn out by the heat of living flesh to torment those who had the warmth they lacked. He’d heard of wraiths bourn in icy winds that screamed and shrieked outside the houses of the living until someone went mad enough from the sound to let them in.

He’d heard so many things, in stories passed around in taverns by immigrants and natives both, around campfires on long journeys or in hushed whispers beneath the sky. He’d collected them from everywhere, as habitually and deliberately as the little tokens he brought home for Yas and new quills for Mina. He’d been fascinated, like any child reaching fingers into the dark. Only the knowledge of what was in the dark could take away the fear of it.

He’d hoarded together little scraps of stories out of interest and instinct. Some of them had been useful and some of them he’d thought were nonsense. He’d never felt them to his core like this before: that that thing in the cabin with him had killed his child, and that thing wearing Minadora’s skin was not his wife.

Not every love story has a happy ending.