A shrill, hysterical scream cuts across the air, but no change came across the only person in earshot, a man old far beyond his years, his face drawn and hollow, his hair thinning, his wiry muscles bulging from under his sickly slender frame. He staggers along the icy path, hugging himself as some vain protection from the biting cold that attacks every inch of exposed flesh. The scream that echoes in his wake is not startling to him, only a final haunting reminder of the terror and mistrust that he has left behind. How can anyone live, looking at the faces around them and not knowing who will be the next to plunge a knife into an unsuspecting neighbor's back? This man could not, and, breaking ties with those he had lived with for years upon years, walked right through the village and down the road Westbound. The road he walks is narrow, uneven, and slick, and he can only move slowly. Concentrating as he is on keeping himself warm, he fails to see a patch of ice, and slips, falling into a drift of snow. The harsh wet cold surrounds him, and he spasms involuntarily. He tries to pull himself up, but the chill saps his strength, and he falls back down. He hold up his hands, tensed into claws, in front of his face, and there is already ice in small patches bonded to his fingers. Tears begin to drip from his eyes, and freeze before they reach the ground.

He lies there still, arms sticking up in the air, hands still clutching the empty air, body locked in death, a solemn reminder that there are still dangers to taking the paths you feel you are called to walk.