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When the images came, Rodin took them for memories. The nightmares were from his past, and he must welcome them. They were nothing he had not already faced. He could face them again.
He had been cold in the hideaway. There was ice in the mornings, and he could see his breath. Even under the blankets he had raided from nearby houses, he was freezing.
Many of the abandoned buildings had already been looted for all their worth, but there were still some goods worth scavenging. He found old curtains that he wrapped around himself at night. He found old wooden furniture that he used to make a fire, although the room would soon fill with smoke. He would open the hatch, letting the smoke escape. In his desperation he didn’t even think of the possibility of it being seen.
There was
