<div style="text-align: right"><span style="font-family:Marck Script"><span style="font-size: 18px">Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still. <br/>
Charles Dickens</span></span>​</div><br/><br/>The rest of the afternoon, they spent watching movies.  It seemed a pleasant way to pass the time, beneath the shelter of blankets.  It would have been, under other circumstances.  Silas tried to focus on the images flashing across the screen, but he couldn't silence his wandering thoughts.  He was careful not to think about the time, but it still passed.  Eventually, the setting sun changed the lighting in the room.  A golden cast settled on them slowly, and that was the breaking point.<br/><br/>It happened slowly.  Like ice cracking underfoot, hairline fractures spreading outward beneath his feet.  A trembling hand raised to the back of his neck.  He wanted to keep it together, but this wasn't in his control.<br/><br/>"Quin."  His voice was barely more than a whisper.  "I need to get some fresh air."  It seemed a reasonable thing to say, but the way he said it was similar to a man volunteering to walk himself to a firing squad.  "I won't be long, you don't have to pause it."<br/><br/><br/>Outside, the snow had stopped falling.  The clouds still hung low, but they weren't as dark now.  It would take some time until the roads were clear enough for driving, but at least the weather had started to break.  At least the skies would clear before morning.  Silas hadn't borrowed a coat.  He stood out on the porch, barefoot, taking shaking, foggy breaths as he stared across the field to the forest beyond.  Something was coming for him.  He could feel it in his bones, a sort of futile fury brewing as he struggled with the situation at hand: he couldn't leave, but neither could he stay.