The last of the storm dripped from the brim of his hat. The memory of it hung thick in the air, diffusing the vague streetlights and smearing the angles of the windows. The fog was heavy on his chest and warm in his lungs. Buildings loomed eerily in the mist; dripping water echoed his sharp footsteps in the silence.
Even as he was marveling at the emptiness of the city around him, another set of footsteps surfaced in the fog. They were cat-soft, accompanied by a girl's bell-like laugh. The gamine brushed past him and slid into the mist with hardly a ripple.
He stopped for the briefest moment, then broke into a run, calling after the child. He was certain that he knew those eyes, the shape of her mouth, the tones of her voice. The mist swirled about him, wrapping catlike around his legs and brushing itself against his cheeks. Each time he called the girl's name his sharp voice was cushioned and smothered in the velvety haze.
The street ended in a short wall, but asteep ramp dipped into the fog, now as thick and solid as goose down. He descended without a thought, and the fog obediently diluted itself to permit his entrance.
The mist presented him with the grate, and he inched forward, sudden dread flushing his veins with ice. His chest was heavy with apprehension, each inhale becoming a struggle. He looked into the grate.
White fingers were curled around the bars, their owner's face caught forever in hopelessness. He knew the woman. For years he had kissed those cheeks as did the rats that now swarmed over her body. He had often pressed those icy fingers to his lips.
At her side was the child, gaunt and pale like her mother. As he gazed at her, those youthful eyes opened, and the girl smiled and reached out to him.
He seized the grate and shook it, but it was locked. He did not have the key.
The child's smile slowly faded.
