Warmth
Allen wrapped the white scarf around his frost-tingled neck. It was frighteningly cold in London during the winter. However the coldness that pervaded the gray city seemed heightened by the surge of the inhabitants hidden in the shells of people who fallen victims to their own misery.
The dead have no warmth.
A flurry wind breathed unto the dreary path white specks of snow, flecking Allen's hair that rivals its color of the airy cold substance. The cold gust of the weather tousled his hair as he trudged along the road, looking down, away from the rest of the world while hiding under his black hood.
It was late and he was tired, but he had no desire to return home yet.
'Home.'
Allen wondered if the place really existed. He had none before Mana came and now, like a fleeting breath, he disappeared along with the sense of home and a family to welcome him to it.
Home.
He had been traveling for the 3 years with his master, never settling in a place too much until it was time to leave.
Leave. Just the way the only person who cared for him did.
Allen let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. A mist form from where his lips blew. It felt cold and looked cold.
Today was Christmas. If only he had Mana to share the warmth with.
A strong gust blew; bring with it the pristine scarf, glistening with frozen tears.