My home.

Our home.

I stand in front of it now. Had I not been here for seven years, hiding, observing every inch, I would have not found it.

It once was our sanctuary. Now that place is long gone, buried, frozen in sheets of ice. Icicles hang from the ceiling.

To others, it’s nothing. Just a small, dark, wet insignificant place that no one wants to enter, much less stay in. A place bleary and colorless, only for the desperate. We were desperate. Desperate enough to go in and uncover the inner sanctuary.

However, with others calling us, we had to leave. And with no one to tend to it, to keep it alive, it died out, freezing every beautiful things it had to offer.

I had hoped it wouldn’t turn out this way. Hope can be a powerful thing, a small flicker in the endless night, blazing through the obstacles. But it can’t battle reality.

I should’ve known.

Should’ve prepared.

But I was born here.

So I’ll die here.