Winter settled differently inside a house than it did outside.
Outside, it makes a scene — wind pushing at everything, pale light washing the color out of the street, frost creeping along the iron gate. It's obvious. You can't miss it.
Inside, though, it's quieter. The windows are shut tight. The shadows seem a little deeper than they were before. Small sounds stand out — the soft rustle of fabric, the low hum of the heater. Somewhere in the walls, a pipe ticks as it adjusts to the cold outside.
Franz stood at the kitchen counter holding a glass, not really sure how long he'd been standing there. The condensation had turned cool against his hand, but he hadn't taken a drink.
Across the room, Arianne hadn't moved in a while. She sat at the table, back straight, one elbow resting on the wood. A file lay open in front of her. She looked at it, but she didn't turn the page.
