I can see the soft bits of golden light reflecting off of her translucent lenses.
Her shoulders cold and rigid in the bitter, winter wind.
Her skin prickled and burned with the cold.
Her tears freezing as they slide down her cheeks.

The glowing shards of wood fall through the night sky,
Passing through the star-lit sky, and falling on the ice crystals below.
The acrid smell of burnt paint mixing with the balloons of smoke,
Straining out of the chimney into the chalky, early-morning sky.

The fire begins to burn into the snow,
Creating ashy black in the wake of the orange

Her cheeks, dry.
Her eyes, dead.

In the wake of the fire,
In the skeleton of house,
Nothing.