FEBRUARY is exceptionally dull this year.
The streets of Acebridge lay bare—no outdoor seatings, no one stepping outside their door to simply enjoy some sun. The color of the sky matches the one of the pavement. It's all gray. And cold; the faint light in the horizon too harsh, blinding whoever looks its way.
If one makes their way down to the beach, lingers by the coastline long enough—ocean wind in blowing their hair—they can feel their limbs go numb one by one. Townes goes there on her way home from the ice hall, pulls her mittens off and pushes them into her pockets.
Every now and then, she walks close enough to the shoreline to have cold water seep through the fabric of her sneakers. Her dark curls whip in the air and against her forehead, they shadow her view of the horizon and stick to her chapped lips.
She stays there until she cannot feel one single thing. Then, she walks home, welcoming the pain as her cold body turns warm.