The cold wakes you before the alarm.
Not the artificial chill of climate control or the damp creep of Sordia's polluted fog. Real cold. The kind that sneaks through window seals and settles in bones despite three blankets and Uncle Ben's insistence on keeping the heat at a reasonable level.
You blink at the ceiling of Uncle Ben's spare room. Still not used to it. The quiet. The safety. The way morning light filters through curtains that actually close all the way instead of hanging crooked on broken rods.
Three months you've been here. Three months of Uncle Ben trying too hard to make you comfortable while pretending he knows what he's doing with two traumatized kids.
You sit up. Check on Maud automatically. She's still asleep in the other bed, hair spread across the pillow, face peaceful in a way it never is when she's awake. She still hoards food under her mattress even though Uncle Ben's fridge is always full.
You're about to lie back down when you notice it.
The light is wrong. Different.
You slide out of bed, bare feet silent on carpet that's worn but clean. Move to the window. Pull back the curtain.
Not the grey slush that you see on the streets. Not the chemical-yellow ice that forms in alleys. This is white. Actually white. Falling from a sky that's usually too polluted to produce anything but acid rain.
"Holy shit," you whisper.
"Language," Uncle Ben says from the doorway, but he's smiling. Not mad. Never actually mad even when you fuck up. Even when you test him. "Pretty, isn't it?"
You don't answer. Pretty feels like a trap. A distraction before the other shoe drops.
"First real snow in three years," Uncle Ben continues, moving to stand beside you. He's already dressed in a very ugly red sweater with a Christmas tree stitched on it. Already holding two mugs of hot chocolate. "You like the snow?"
You take the mug he offers. It's warm against your palms. Suspicious. "A little."
Liar. You don’t like snow. You remember Maud crying because her shoes had holes and her feet went numb. Remember being seven years old sitting alone at the bus stop waiting and thinking snow was beautiful right up until it wasn't.
You take a sip. "Why are you awake?"
"Because it's December first," he says, like that explains anything. "And I have plans."
Plans. Great. Adults and their plans. Usually never ends well.
"What's happening?" Maud asks, voice thick with sleep. She's sitting up now, eyes wide and wary. Always wary. Always expecting the next bad thing.
"It's snowing," you tell her. "Come look."
She hesitates. Checking if it's safe. If this is a trick. But she gets up. Moves to the window. Her breath catches when she sees it.
"Is it real?" she whispers.
"Very real," Uncle Ben confirms. "And I was thinking. Since today's December first and all. Since this is your first December here with me. Maybe we could start some traditions. Make this month special."
You almost laugh. Almost. You don't trust special. Special in your experience means someone's about to take something away.
But Maud's face has lit up in a way you haven't seen in months. Years maybe.
"What kind of traditions?" she asks.
Uncle Ben grins. "Well, for starters. How about we go play in that snow before it melts or gets contaminated or whatever else Sordia does to ruin nice things."
"Play?" The word feels foreign. The rare times you played was ‘Horsies‘ with Maud.
"Play," he confirms. "Snowmen. Snow angels. Snowball fights. All that winter fun."
Maud is looking at you. That look that says please. That says just this once. That says I'm tired of waiting for bad things.
You remember something from one of the books at the library Uncle Ben dragged you to. Dickens, maybe. Some Victorian asshole going on about Christmas spirit. "For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas."
Stupid quote. Naive. But you can’t deny that you’re a little curious.
Twenty minutes later you're on the roof of Uncle Ben's building wearing a coat that actually fits. That's still weird. Not stolen. Not pulled from a donation bin. Yours.
Maud's bundled up beside you, drowning in a puffy jacket that's slightly too big. Uncle Ben said she'll grow into it. Like he's planning for you both to still be here next winter. Like he's not going to wake up one day and realize two broken kids aren't worth the trouble.
The snow crunches under your boots. Foreign sensation. Clean and cold and nothing like the slush you remember.
The roof is empty. Just you three and the snow and Sordia's grey skyline in the distance. The neon signs are still visible through the falling white. The Han Tower's golden red gleam. A stark reminder that beauty doesn't last in this city.
"Okay," Uncle Ben announces, clapping his hands together. "Lesson one. How to make a proper snowball."
He demonstrates. Scooping snow. Packing it. His movements practiced. Easy. Like he's done this a thousand times.
You copy him. The snow is cold against your bare palms. Uncle Ben offered you gloves but you refused. Need to feel it. Need to know it's real.
Maud makes her own snowball, tongue poking out in concentration. It's lopsided. Imperfect. She looks so proud of it once it’s done.
"Great," Uncle Ben says. "Now. The most important part of snowball fighting. The sneak attack."
He wings his snowball directly at you. It hits your shoulder, exploding in a shower of white powder.
You freeze. Every instinct screaming that you fucked up somehow. That the game is over. That punishment comes next.
But Uncle Ben is laughing. Not mean. Not mocking. Just happy. And he's already making another snowball. Already dodging as Maud throws hers at him with terrible aim and fierce determination.
"Come on, kid," he calls to you. "You gonna let a nine-year-old and an old man win?"
Something breaks a little. You feel the careful wall you've been maintaining since you started your new life with your uncle start to crack.
You scoop up more snow. Pack it. Throw it hard.
The snowball hits Uncle Ben square in the chest.
"There we go!" he shouts, delighted. "Now we've got a fight!"
Maud shrieks as both of you target her next. She runs, slipping slightly on the snow-slick roof, laughing in a way you haven't heard since before.
The three of you chase each other through the snow. Throwing. Missing. Occasionally landing hits that make everyone laugh harder. Your fingers go numb. Your nose runs. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
This is stupid. Childish. A waste of time when you should be planning. Preparing. Staying ready for when this ends like everything ends. But you keep getting distracted.
By Uncle Ben's terrible aim and his ridiculous war cries while trying to build a snow fort. By Maud tackling you into a snowdrift, giggling uncontrollably. By the way the snow makes Sordia look almost clean.
Maybe Dickens had a point.
Maybe it's okay to be children sometimes.
Even in Sordia. Even in December. Even when you know nothing good lasts.
Just for today. Just for December first.
