I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, watching the gray morning light creep in through the window. I feel like I haven't slept at all, even though my body aches the way it does after a long walk home in the dark. My eyes burn. My legs are still sore. But every time I start to drift, my mind snaps awake again.

  I keep thinking about Gabriel—about the way everything felt faster and brighter and louder when I was with him, like the night was too full to hold itself together. I pull the blanket up to my chin and squeeze my eyes shut. Just a little sleep, I tell myself, just until breakfast.

  I turn onto my side. Then my other side. The bed creaks under me, complaining the way I want to.

  Then I hear it.

  A chair scraping softly against the floor.

  I hold my breath and listen carefully as I make out two quiet, low voices coming through my door.

  I sit up. The house isn't supposed to sound like this so early. I slip out of bed and pad into the hallway, the floor cold under my feet. The voices come from the dining room. My mother's, and another one I don't recognize. A man's voice.

  My stomach tightens.

  I move closer, careful not to let the floorboards creak, and peek around the doorway.

  My mother is sitting at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Across from her sits a man I don't recognize at first. He's dressed neatly, his coat folded over the back of his chair, as he belongs there. They're speaking in low voices. Close voices.

  I'm halfway across the room when it hits me.

  The man from the town hall.

  I don't remember what he looked like so much as how I felt when I ran into him. My heart begins to race. A sharp heat rushes up my neck, and my heart starts pounding for no reason I can explain. My mind jumps ahead before I can stop it—him telling her, her turning to look at me, the question I won't know how to answer...!

  Ughhh! What do I say?! What do I do?!

  I press my lips together and stay very still, as if that might keep it from happening. I stand there a second longer, my heart pounding, waiting for something to stop me.

  Nothing does.

  I take a step forward. Then another. My legs feel stiff, like they don't quite belong to me. I keep my eyes on the floor as I cross the room, afraid that if I look at either of them too long, I'll turn back.

  "Mama?" I say. My voice comes out quieter than I expect.

  Both of them look at me.

  I swallow. "I... I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "Ah, you must be Daniel," the man exclaims. "Your mother and I were just talking about you."

  "Um, Daniel," my mom begins. She shifts in her chair and gestures toward the man across the table. "This is... um... someone I've been seeing," she says quickly. She hesitates, then adds, "His name is Julian."

  The man rises from his chair without hurry and turns toward me with a brief nod. It's a small gesture, but it feels too formal, like he expects me to understand it.

  "It's nice to meet you, Daniel," he says, his voice calm.

  My mother folds her hands together, staring down at the table. "Julian is... staying in town for a little while," she says, like she's explaining something to herself as much as to me.

  I shift my weight, suddenly unsure of where I'm supposed to be. "I—um—I'll go get dressed," I say.

  My mother nods too quickly. "All right."

  Julian watches me as I leave the room, his expression unreadable, like he's filing something away.

  I close the door to my room and lean back against it for a moment, taking a breath. I take off my union suit and let it fall to the chair, my hands shaking just enough for me to notice.

  There's a stranger in the house. Sitting at our table. Drinking our tea.

  I quickly get dressed, messing up the buttons on my shirt the first time and having to do it again. My chest is tight, as if the air in the room isn't enough. I keep thinking about the stranger's voice, the way he looked at me, the way my mother wouldn't look at me.

  When I'm finished, I pause my hand on the door. I take a deep breath and stand up straight, trying to look more grown-up than I feel. I then push the door open and head back toward the dining room.

  "Sit," my mother says as I enter the room, already turning toward the stove. She pauses, then adds, "I'll make you something warm."

  Julian straightens in his chair. "I hope I didn't startle you earlier." His tone is calm, like the whole situation has already settled in his mind.

  "Daniel's just tired," my mother adds quickly. It's the first time she's spoken for me in weeks.

  I look at her, and for a second, my face gives me away. My mouth trembles, then goes still again. I swallow hard and look down before anyone can see more.

  My mother turns back to the stove, cracking an egg against the edge of the pan. The sound is sharp in the quiet room.

  "You didn't do anything wrong," Julian offers after a moment. He folds his hands together on the table, like he's decided this is a conversation worth staying calm for.

  I nod, even though he didn't ask me anything.

  Julian studies me for a moment, then adds, almost conversationally, "You know... I could swear I saw you somewhere before yesterday."

  My heart stops.

  Julian continues, unaware of the panic he has just triggered. "Yes," he says thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his cup. "At the town hall, wasn't it? You nearly ran right into me."

  My mother pauses at the stove. "The town hall?" she repeats, her voice sharp with suspicion.

  I force a nervous laugh. "Oh! That—that wasn't me," I blurt. "You must've seen someone else. Lots of boys look like me. I mean—dark hair, pale skin—we're everywhere."

  Julian tilts his head, studying me more closely. "No," he says gently. "I'm fairly certain it was you. You looked... startled. Like you were in a hurry."

  My stomach flips, and I can already feel my mother's eyes burning into the back of my neck.

  "I wasn't there," I insist, my voice cracking. "I was home. All day. I didn't go anywhere."

  A long silence.

  My mother turns slowly from the stove, brows drawn tight. "Daniel," she says quietly, "why would Julian see someone who looks exactly like you at the town hall?"

  "I—I don't know," I stammer. "Maybe he's mistaken. Maybe it was dark. Maybe—maybe—"

  Julian lifts a hand, suddenly realizing the tension he's stepped into. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I didn't mean to cause worry. It was only a passing thought."

  My mother stares at me for a long, heavy moment before turning back to the stove, her shoulders stiff.

  Julian clears his throat, trying to smooth the air.

  The eggs sizzle. My mother stirs them slowly—too slowly—like she's buying herself time.

  "Anyway..." my mom begins, "Julian and I have been talking."

  I look up again. She keeps her eyes on the pan.

  "For some time now."

  Julian clears his throat once again. "I'll be returning to the city soon," he continues. "But I didn't want to leave without being honest."

  My mother sets the pan down and grips the edge of the stove. "We've decided to be married."

  The words don't make sense at first. They sit there, plain and quiet, like they're waiting for me to catch up.

  I stare at the table, at the thin crack running through the wood, at anything but their faces.

  "Married?" The word feels too big in my mouth.

  Julian nods once. "If you'll allow it."

  My mother finally turns around. She looks tired. Older than I remember. "I should have told you sooner."

  I don't answer. I don't know how.

  The eggs burn slightly in the pan, filling the room with a bitter smell no one moves to fix.

  "No—no, stop. This isn't right," I say, the words tumbling over each other. "You can't just—he can't just—"

  "Daniel..."

  My mother murmurs my name, the way she used to when I was sick or scared.

  My chest tightens.

  "He's not my father. He'll never be my father. You don't get to replace him like that, you don't get to pretend he was just—just something that can be filled in." I shake my head hard. "You can't marry him. You can't. It's wrong. It's wrong! NO ONE IS EVER GOING TO REPLACE MY FATHER!"

  The words tear out of me before I can stop them.

  I don't wait for my mother to answer. I bolt for the door and shove it open, the cold air hitting my face hard enough to sting.

  I don't get far before my feet stop on their own, right in the middle of the yard. The snow is thin but hard under my shoes. I stand there, stiff, my arms hanging at my sides, my shoulders pulled up without me meaning to.

  I wait.

  Any second now, my mother is going to come after me. She's going to yell my name. She's going to grab my arm and drag me back inside like she always does when I've gone too far.

  The thought alone makes my stomach twist.

  Nothing happens.

  I don't turn around. I just close my eyes and stand there, my face hot even though the cold is creeping through my coat. My chest feels tight, like I'm bracing myself.

  When I open my eyes again, everything in front of me looks blurred and far away. Snow drifts down from the trees, falling quietly onto the ground.

  Then I see him.

  He's stepped outside the house and stopped a few feet away from me. He isn't rushing. He isn't angry. He's standing straight, his coat neat, his hands still, like he's careful not to scare me off.

  I stand there facing him, my face feeling stiff and unfamiliar. My eyebrows pull together without me meaning to, and my eyes burn, wet enough that I have to blink once to keep everything steady. My mouth hangs slightly open, like I might say something, but nothing comes out.

  I press my lips together again, holding them tight. My jaw aches from it.

  I know I don't look angry. I look worse than that. I look confused. Hurt. Like I don't understand what I'm supposed to do or say next.

  I don't wipe my eyes. I don't turn away. I just stand there, staring at him, as I bring my hands together in front of me and interlace my fingers. My grip tightens, then tightens again, until every one of my knuckles starts to ache.

  His eyes stay on mine, steady and focused, like he's paying close attention to every small movement I make.

  We stand like this for a long moment, neither of us speaking. The cold settles in. Snow keeps falling, quiet and slow, when suddenly, a loud bell clangs somewhere in the distance, cutting straight through the stillness.

  I gasp before I can stop myself and snap my head toward it, my heart jumping hard in my chest. The sound echoes down the street, hollow and sharp.

  I turn back just as quickly.

  Julian is looking at me differently now. His face is still calm, but there's something else there—his brows drawn together slightly, his eyes more focused, like he's checking to see if I'm alright. Concern, maybe. Or something close to it.

  I don't give him time to say anything. I break eye contact and turn away, my hands dropping from where they're clasped in front of me. I take off down the street, my shoes slipping a little on the snow as I go.

  I don't look back.

  I just run, my breath coming fast, the sound of the bell still ringing in my ears as I head toward school.

  ***

  By the time I reach the schoolyard, I slow without really meaning to.

  Something's wrong...

  Trucks line the front of the building—dark, heavy, parked at sharp angles like they don't care who sees them.

  My eyes drop to the snow near the steps, and that's when I see it.

  The eagle.

  White against white, half-buried, its metal edges dull and cold.

  For a second, I just stare at it, my brain refusing to catch up. That symbol was thrown away years ago, right after the war began. Everyone knew that. It was gone. It had been gone forever.

  "What the...?" I mutter under my breath.

  Fear hits me all at once, crawling up my chest. I don't know why it's here. I don't know who found it or where it came from. I just know it shouldn't be lying in the snow outside my school.

  I push the door open as my eyes widen in shock at the guards standing along the walls, their uniforms stiff and dark, boots planted like they've claimed the room.

  My classmates sit frozen in their seats, backs straight, eyes forward.

  Looking closely, however, I notice two empty chairs in the middle row of class.

  Gabriel's. Wanda's.

  Both untouched.

  Where could they be?

  My mind jumps instantly to the worst possibility—the soldiers from last night, the stolen document, the risk Gabriel took. What if they found out? What if they came for him?! What if they took him away from me?!

  My pulse spikes so hard it hurts.

  But then I force myself to breathe.

  Gabriel skips class all the time. He only ever shows up when he feels like it—drifting in and out of lessons like school is optional for him. Half the time, he doesn't even pretend to care. His missing a morning isn't unusual.

  And Wanda... she misses school often, too. She has a family to take care of. Younger siblings. A sick mother. Everyone knows that.

  So it's not unusual. Not really. Not enough to panic over.

  At the front stands a woman I've never seen before. She looks young—in her twenties or thirties maybe—with tan skin and dark liner sharply framing her eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, proper knot, not a strand out of place. Her uniform is neat and official, pressed flat against her frame.

  Her gaze settles on me.

  "Student," she says evenly, the word clipped and exact, "you are the last to arrive. This kind of carelessness is not tolerated. Take your seat immediately, and ensure it does not happen again."

  She stands beside Mrs. Majewska, who towers over the woman in comparison, her hands clenched at her sides.

  I linger in the doorway for half a second too long, my chest tight, my mind already pulling me in the opposite direction. Reluctantly, I lower my head and walk stiffly to my chair, every step feeling wrong, every instinct telling me to run.

  I slip into my seat, eyes flicking once more to the empty chairs beside me. I tell myself it's fine. I tell myself they're fine.

  But the room feels wrong. And the silence feels heavy. And I can't shake the feeling that something is about to happen.

  My hands grip the edge of the seat until my legs stop shaking.

  The unfamiliar woman steps forward once, her boots clicking sharply against the floor.

  "My name," she says, her voice crisp and controlled, "is Dr. Lena Ziegler."

  "I serve as a Racial Examiner with the RuSHA. I have been assigned to this district to conduct a thorough evaluation of the student body."

  No one moves. No one breathes.

  Her eyes sweep across the room—not warmly, not curiously, but clinically, as if she's counting objects on a shelf.

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  "Today," she continues, "I will be conducting preliminary assessments. Facial structure. Eye shape. Nose and jaw proportions. Hair color. General phenotype."

  She says it like she's listing ingredients.

  "These observations will determine which students require further examination tomorrow."

  Dr. Ziegler lifts her chin slightly.

  "Your teacher, Mrs. Majewska, has been... cooperative. To a point."

  Something in her tone shifts—not anger, but a cold, precise disappointment.

  "However," she says, "it has come to our attention that she has failed to report certain irregularities among her students. Irregularities that fall under my jurisdiction."

  Mrs. Majewska stiffens beside her, her face draining of color.

  "That," Dr. Ziegler says, "is a violation."

  Two guards step forward at her signal.

  "Remove her."

  "What—? No!" Mrs. Majewska gasps, stumbling back as the guards seize her arms. "You can't do this! I'm their teacher! THEY STILL NEED ME!"

  Her voice cracks, echoing off the walls.

  The class sits frozen, wide?eyed, watching the woman who scolded us, lectured us, punished us—the woman we never thought could be afraid—dragged out of the room like she weighs nothing.

  The door slams behind her.

  Dr. Ziegler steps away from the front of the classroom with a calmness that makes my stomach twist. She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to.

  "You will all proceed outside to the schoolyard," she says, her tone clipped and precise. "Line up along the far wall and remain there. I will join you shortly."

  A few students exchange confused looks. Someone near the back lets out a small, nervous breath. Dr. Ziegler doesn't acknowledge any of it.

  "The lighting in this room is insufficient for accurate observation," she continues. "Natural daylight is required. You will wait outside until I am ready."

  Her eyes sweep across the room once more—not checking for understanding, but checking for compliance.

  "Stand. Now."

  Chairs scrape against the floor. No one hesitates. Even the sound of breathing feels too loud as we file toward the door.

  Mrs. Majewska is gone. The guards are watching. And Dr. Ziegler stands perfectly still, hands clasped behind her back, as if she's already forgotten we exist.

  "Remain orderly," she adds as we pass her. "I will be with you in a moment."

  There's no warmth in her voice. No reassurance. Just a statement of fact — like she's telling us the weather.

  We step into the hallway, then toward the doors leading outside. The cold leaks in before we even reach them, a warning of what's waiting.

  Behind us, the classroom door closes with a soft click.

  And she doesn't follow.

  The moment we step outside, the air slams into us—sharp, brutal, almost violent. It steals the breath right out of my chest. My lungs seize. My fingers burn. My eyes sting so hard I have to blink fast just to see.

  It's the kind of cold that doesn't settle on your skin.

  It cuts.

  A few kids gasp. Someone lets out a small cry before clamping a hand over their mouth. The wind whips across the yard, slicing through coats and scarves like they're made of paper.

  We shuffle toward the far wall just like she told us to. No one talks at first. Everyone's too busy trying to hold themselves together.

  Then the whispers start—thin, shaky, barely holding shape in the freezing air.

  "Why isn't she coming out?"

  "What is she doing in there?"

  "Is she watching us?"

  I pull my arms in close, trying to trap whatever warmth I have left. My breath fogs in front of me in tiny, uneven clouds. My toes feel like they're turning to stone inside my boots.

  The cold keeps getting worse.

  Minutes pass. Or maybe it's longer. Time feels strange out here—stretched thin, like the cold is slowing everything down. My jaw aches from clenching it. My eyes water again, and the cold catches the tears before I can blink them away.

  Someone near me starts shaking so hard their teeth chatter. Another kid rubs their hands together, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps.

  We stand here, huddled in a loose, trembling cluster in the middle of the yard, waiting for her. Waiting for the woman who told us she'd be "right with us." Waiting for the woman who hasn't stepped outside at all.

  The door behind us stays closed.

  And the cold keeps sinking deeper.

  Then, FINALLY, the door prompts open.

  It's quiet at first—just the soft click of the latch—but every kid in the yard hears it. Every head turns. Every breath seems to stop.

  Dr. Ziegler steps out into the cold like it's nothing. No flinch. No shiver. Her coat is buttoned perfectly, her gloves smooth, her posture straight. She looks like she's walking into a warm room instead of the freezing yard we've been trapped in.

  Her eyes sweep over us, slow and steady.

  "Stand properly," she says. "You will present yourselves in an orderly fashion."

  A few kids straighten up immediately. Others try to. Some are shaking too hard to manage it.

  She takes a few steps forward, boots crunching lightly in the snow.

  "You will now separate into two groups," she says. "Boys to my left. Girls to my right. Move with purpose."

  Students scramble, slipping on ice, bumping into each other, tripping over boots. The guards shout when someone hesitates. The whole yard becomes a blur of motion—but inside my head, everything seems to slow down.

  I watch as the boys rush to her left, forming a line that looks stiff and forced, their faces tighten into that same look boys are supposed to have—that hard, blank, unbothered expression that says nothing scares them. Nothing hurts them. Nothing touches them.

  I've tried to look like that before. Tried so many times. But it always feels like I'm pretending. Like I'm wearing a mask that doesn't fit my face.

  Watching them now, something inside me sinks. They make it look so easy. Like they were born knowing how to be that way. And I wasn't.

  To my right, the girls gather. Softer movements. Smaller steps. Their shoulders curve inward against the cold. They stand close together, their breaths mixing in the air. They look like they belong to each other in a way I never have with anyone.

  And I'm stuck in the middle.

  Not moving.

  Not choosing.

  My feet stay exactly where they are, planted in the snow. My shoulders round forward, trying to make myself smaller. My arms fold low over my stomach, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves at the elbows. My head tilts down. My hair falls over my forehead. I stare at the snow because looking anywhere else feels too big, too sharp, too much.

  I'M too much.

  I know I can't join the girls.

  I know I don't belong with the boys.

  I know I'm supposed to pick a side.

  But I can't.

  I just... can't.

  The cold makes my skin pale. My cheeks sting. My lips go numb. My eyes water again, and the tears catch the light, making everything around my eyes look too shiny.

  The snow reflects everything—especially blue.

  That's when I feel it.

  A gaze watching me from the front.

  Her gaze.

  Dr. Ziegler is looking directly at me.

  Not confused.

  Not irritated.

  Focused.

  Her eyes move over me slowly—my posture, my hair, my skin—and then stop on my eyes.

  The snow makes the blue stand out in a way it never does in a mirror, almost too bright, like the color is pushing outward instead of staying where it belongs. I don't understand why they look like that, why the blue seems to grow in the cold, why it feels like the snow is shining them back at her.

  I just know it's the kind of blue people like her notice. The kind that makes them stare. The kind that makes me feel exposed in a way I don't know how to hide from.

  A few kids notice me standing alone. Their eyes flick toward me, then away, then back again—quick, startled looks, like they don't understand why I'm still here. Like they don't know what to do with me.

  The tears gathering at the corners make everything shimmer, turning the blue even sharper. I blink, but it only makes the light catch harder.

  Suddenly, I hear Dr. Ziegler start toward me, her boots pressing into the snow with a heavy, deliberate rhythm that feels too loud in the cold. She doesn't pause. She doesn't slow. She keeps walking, each step steady and certain, until she's standing directly in front of me—close enough that I see her shadow—long, sharp, and looming over the snow. I see the hem of her heavy coat and the polished shine of her boots.

  "Raise your chin," she murmurs, standing so near I can feel the cold of her breath against my cheek.

  My body won't move. It feels locked in place, partly from the cold and partly from the fear pounding in my throat. Before I can react, her fingers slip beneath my jaw, nudging it upward with a kind of calm certainty as she lifts my head, whether I want to move or not.

  The instant her frozen glove touches my chin, however, my head jerks downward before I can stop it, my body reacting faster than my thoughts.

  "Look at me!" she commands. "Not at the snow. Look into the scale."

  She catches my chin before I can drop it, her fingers pressing harder this time as she forces my head back up. The sunlight hits me full-on, blindingly bright as it flares around her head and bounces off the snow, until I can't see anything at all.

  A silver box appears in her other hand. It clicks open and suddenly, my whole body goes silent—they're... eyes. Real eyes. Dozens of them, perfectly lined up in rows, all staring.

  She reaches in without hesitation and lifts a bright blue one, and holds it right next to my eye. Only when she turns it do I realize it's glass, but the fake eye still makes me flinch. I can feel the cold radiating off the surface.

  "Extraordinary," she breaths.

  Her face is so close I can see the tiny pores in her skin. She isn't looking at me. She is looking at a part of me, as if I were a piece of clockwork she was trying to identify.

  She lets go of my chin, only to grab a lock of my hair. She yanks it upward, squinting at the roots where the black meets my pale scalp.

  "Jet black," she muttered, the sound of her pencil scratching against a clipboard. "Yet the texture is fine. Not Eastern."

  Then came the measurements.

  She pulls a pair of steel calipers from her kit. They look like a bird's beak made of knives. I flinch as the tips hovered near my temples.

  "Do not flinch," she snaps, her eyes narrowing. "If you move, the measurement is void."

  I stay still. I dare not breathe. I felt the icy points of the metal press into the skin beside my eyes, then slide down to the bridge of my nose. The "clink-clink" of the sliding metal bar sounds more like a countdown.

  She steps back, her eyes raking over me with a look that isn't exactly mean, but isn't exactly human either. It is the way a farmer looks at a cow he's thinking of buying.

  "You stand in the center because you do not know where you belong," she says softly. Her breath misted between us. "You have certain features deemed desirable, yet others that are not. And the temperament... the temperament is far too fragile."

  She scribbles something—harsh, jagged letters on a yellow form. I catch the Roman numeral II.

  She leans in, her voice a chilling whisper. "Go to the left, little one. Stand with the boys. Tomorrow, we will see if the rest of your characteristics are as 'beautiful' as your eyes, or if you are merely a well-painted mask."

  I stumble toward the line of boys, my legs feeling like lead. I don't feel very "beautiful." I feel like I have been dissected while I'm still alive.

  The Examiner turns away from me and moves to the next student. Her coat snaps in the wind as she walks, clipboard tucked tight against her chest.

  She stops in front of a girl, tilts her chin up with two fingers, and studies her face for barely a second.

  "Dismissed."

  The girl backs away, relief flooding her features before she turns and hurries toward the gate.

  She moves through the others with cold efficiency—a girl with a crooked braid dismissed for 'weak temperament,' a boy with red ears for 'insufficient symmetry,' and several more waved off just as quickly.

  I stand still, watching, trying not to think about the cold metal that had pressed into my skin. My cheek still tingles where she held me.

  The line grows thinner as more students are sent away. Some walk off quickly, eager to escape. Others linger, confused, glancing back at the rest of us like they're not sure if being dismissed is good or bad.

  Finally, she reaches the last student—a thin boy with a mop of blond hair that keeps blowing into his eyes. He's shaking so hard his breath comes out in short, uneven bursts.

  She circles him once, then twice, studying the way he holds himself. She stops abruptly in front of him and writes something on her clipboard.

  She then turns to face all of us. The wind dies out for a moment as she announces, "The preliminary sorting is complete."

  Her voice carries across the yard.

  "This facility is now reserved for official state business. Regular instruction is suspended. You will return to your homes immediately."

  A ripple of unease moves through the remaining students.

  She looks down at her clipboard. "Those whose names were marked for further observation—Daniel B?cker, Roman Stahl, Emil Hartmann, and ?ukasz Weber—step forward."

  My stomach drops.

  Roman steps out beside me. Emil and ?ukasz shuffle forward too, both pale as the snow.

  The Examiner's gaze sweeps over us, unreadable.

  "You will report here at 08:00 sharp tomorrow. Do not be late. The Reich has no use for those who lack punctuality."

  The dismissed students scatter toward the gates, boots crunching, coats flapping in the wind. The four of us stand there for a moment, unsure if we're supposed to move. Then the others began to drift away, too. One by one, until there is nothing left but their backs.

  I let out a deep sigh, when suddenly, I realize I'm standing all alone in the middle of the yard. The cold has settled so deeply into my legs that I can't feel my knees.

  After forcing my legs to budge, I head toward the gate, keeping my eyes on the ground.

  ***

  Once I'm outside the yard, the town feels different. Quieter. Like everyone can tell that something happened.

  I keep my head down as I walk, watching my boots push through the thin layer of snow on the road. People pass by, talking, carrying bags, going about their day, but it all feels far away, like I'm behind a wall of glass.

  My mind keeps replaying everything in my head—the eyes in the box, her hands on my face, the metal pressing into my skin, the possessive way she said my name... The nerve! I try to shake it off, but the memory gives me a quick twist of disgust in my stomach.

  I lift my head just enough to see where I'm going, when suddenly, I spot two very familiar faces in different corners of the square.

  Micha? is leaning against the wall outside the repair shop, kicking at a frozen patch of mud with the toe of his boot, bored out of his mind. A little farther off, near the fountain, Gabriel is perched on the edge, swinging his legs and flicking bits of ice across the surface like he's trying to see how far they'll slide.

  My face lifts up for the first time all day—my eyes wide, my mouth breaking into a quick, breathless grin I can't hold back.

  "Gabriel. Micha?!" I call out, voice cracking with relief as I break into a run without thinking.

  My boots skid a little on the packed snow, but I keep going, breath puffing out in quick bursts as I push myself forward.

  Gabriel hears my name first. He jerks his head up from the fountain, eyes going wide before a grin spreads across his face. He hops off the edge like he's been waiting for something interesting to happen all afternoon.

  Micha? reacts more slowly. He pushes off the wall he'd been leaning against, frowning in confusion at the sight of me barreling toward them. Then the confusion melts into relief as he straightens up, his shoulders loosening.

  By the time I reach them, both boys are already moving toward me—Gabriel with quick, eager steps, and Micha? hurrying after him.

  Gabriel reaches me first, practically bouncing the last few steps, grinning widely, his breath puffing in the cold.

  "Pup!" Gabriel blurts out excitedly, already grabbing hold of my sleeve like he's been waiting for me. "You got out early."

  I try to smile back, but it wavers. "Yeah. They... they let me go after the examination."

  Gabriel's expression shifts—barely, but enough. The grin fades into something quieter, more searching.

  "They actually did one?" he asks, voice low, careful.

  I nod, swallowing. "It was—" I stop, catching my breath. "It wasn't like anything I've ever done before."

  Gabriel's hand tightens on my sleeve. "Did they hurt you?"

  I shake my head quickly. "No. No, just... questions. And soldiers everywhere." My voice cracks on the last word, and I look away, embarrassed. "I didn't know they were coming."

  Gabriel looks away, too, jaw tightening. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I heard they were around."

  I frown. "You weren't at school."

  Gabriel shrugs, still not meeting my eyes. "Didn't feel like going."

  I almost laugh—not because it's funny, but because it's familiar. "You always feel like not going."

  "Yeah," Gabriel says, but his voice is too tight, too controlled. "Guess today was a good day to skip."

  I study him for a moment, confused, but before I get the chance to ask anything, Micha? comes hurrying up, nearly slipping on the snow before catching himself with a tiny flail. His whole face brightens when he reaches us.

  "Daniel! I've been waiting to see you!"

  "It wasn't that long," Gabriel says, nudging him lightly.

  Micha? shrinks a little at the nudge, then looks back at me with wide, earnest eyes. "It felt long," he mutters.

  I manage a real smile this time. "I'm okay. Really."

  "Give him a second to breathe," Gabriel says, though he's still holding my sleeve. He doesn't let go, but his voice is gentler now, like he's trying to keep things from overwhelming me again.

  Micha?'s head snaps toward me. "Wait—what happened? Did someone say something to you?" he asks with concern.

  "No," I say softly. "Nothing like that."

  Gabriel lets out a dramatic sigh. "Good. Because I already planned our escape route to Switzerland."

  "You don't even know where Switzerland is," Micha? says, blinking at him like this is the most baffling thing he's ever heard.

  "I do too," Gabriel fires back.

  "You pointed at Spain yesterday," Micha? says.

  Gabriel waves a hand. "Maps are confusing."

  "They're not confusing," Micha? says, genuinely baffled. "They're just maps!"

  Gabriel smirks. "Exactly. Too many lines."

  Micha?'s jaw drops. "That's not—what does that even—?!"

  Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Daniel was the one panicking about you last night."

  My face goes hot. "I wasn't panicking."

  "Yes, you were," Gabriel says, grinning. "You kept asking if he'd made it home. 'Do you think he's okay? Should we check? Should we go back?" He mimics my voice terribly.

  Micha?'s eyes go huge. "You... you were worried about me?"

  I rub the back of my neck. "Well—yeah. You ran off alone."

  Micha? turns pink, ducking his head. "Oh."

  Gabriel shrugs like he's just delivered a profound truth. "Also, you almost wiped out on the snow twice."

  "I did not!" Micha? squeaks, immediately slipping a little again.

  Gabriel gestures at him. "That."

  I finally crack into bursts of laughter. "You two are impossible!"

  Gabriel beams. "Yeah, but you missed us."

  Micha? gives a tiny, shy nod—but only toward me. "I... I'm glad you're okay," he says, voice small but sincere.

  My smile softens. "I'm glad you're okay, too."

  Gabriel elbows Micha? again. "See? He missed both of us."

  Micha? sputters, "I didn't say he didn't!"

  I laugh—a real, warm laugh—and for the first time all day, everything feels normal again.

  ***

  A moment later, someone behind us clears their throat, and I realize we're standing right in the middle of the walkway. A couple of people are trying to squeeze past, giving us polite but pointed looks.

  "Oops," I mutter, stepping aside.

  Micha? glances up at me, worry still lingering in his eyes. "Are you sure you're alright? You look tired. Maybe we should sit down somewhere."

  "I'm fine," I say gently.

  "He said he's fine," Gabriel cuts in, a little sharper than necessary.

  Micha? shoots him a look. "I'm just checking."

  "You've asked him three times," Gabriel says.

  "Because he looked pale," Micha? fires back.

  "He looks fine now."

  "You don't know that."

  "I'm standing right here, you know," I murmur, but neither of them hears me.

  Micha? reaches across me and nudges Gabriel's arm—not hard, but enough to make a point. "Stop acting like you know everything."

  Gabriel stops walking for half a second, eyes narrowing. Then he steps closer behind me and taps Micha?'s arm in return, just as pointed. "And stop you hovering."

  Micha?'s mouth falls open. "I'm not hovering!"

  "You are."

  "I'm making sure he's okay!"

  "I said he's okay."

  "You're not him!"

  "Don't start," I say, a laugh slipping out with a sigh. "Please."

  Both boys freeze for a heartbeat—then look at me, guilt flickering across their faces as they've just remembered I exist between them.

  Gabriel clears his throat. "Right. Sorry."

  Micha? nods quickly. "Yeah. Sorry."

  They exchange a look—half challenge, half truce—and as we keep walking, shoulders brushing now and then, the three of us fit together so naturally it feels like we've always walked this way.

  As we walk, the street grows busier, vendors calling out from both sides. Gabriel and I drift a little ahead, still talking, while Micha? slows behind us, distracted by a small stall tucked under a faded awning.

  I don't notice he's stopped until he jogs back up to us, breath puffing in the cold.

  "Daniel," he says, a little breathless. "Here."

  He holds something out—a tiny wooden wolf carved onto a thin stick, its ears pricked, its tail curled.

  My face warms. "Micha?... you didn't have to—"

  "I wanted to," he says quickly, cheeks pink. "You looked like you needed... something."

  I take it gently, fingers curling around the stick. The wolf is light, easy to twirl between my hands. I can't help smiling down at it.

  Gabriel glances over, eyebrows lifting. "You bought him a toy?"

  "It's not a toy," Micha? snaps. "It's— it's something nice."

  "It's a toy," Gabriel repeats, deadpan.

  "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first," Micha? mutters under his breath.

  Gabriel scoffs. "Jealous? Of that?"

  "You are," Micha? insists.

  "I'm not."

  "You are."

  I giggle again, unable to help it. The wolf bobs a little as I play with it, turning it between my fingers.

  We're halfway across a little stone bridge when a voice rings out behind us.

  "Micha?!"

  He stops dead, groans, and drags a hand down his face. "Oh no..."

  Gabriel smirks. "Sounds like someone's getting hauled home."

  Micha? scrunches his nose and glares at Gabriel. He then turns to me instead, flustered. "Daniel, my mom's calling. I—I gotta go."

  Before either of us can answer, he spins around and bolts down the street.

  Gabriel watches him run. "He took off fast enough."

  I nudge him lightly. "Be nice."

  "I am nice."

  "No, you're not," I say, smiling down at the little wooden wolf in my hands. "He's embarrassed. That's all."

  Gabriel huffs, but the edge fades. "He's always embarrassed."

  "That's because you tease him every five seconds."

  He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, looking away like he knows I'm right.

  The park is mostly empty by the time we get there, just a few trees and a wide stretch of untouched snow. Gabriel drops down first, folding his hands behind his head. I lie down beside him, copying him, the cold seeping through my coat in a way that somehow feels nice.

  For a minute, neither of us talks.

  Gabriel glances over. "You really like that wolf, huh?"

  I lift it a little, the stick poking up toward the evening sky. "It's cute."

  He looks at me again—quick, like he didn't mean to—and then stares straight up as if nothing happened.

  I shift a little closer, pretending it's just because the ground is uneven. Our shoulders brush. He doesn't move away.

  Gabriel suddenly says, "You ever think you could just... run off and never come back? Like in those stories."

  I blink at him. "Run off where?"

  He shrugs. "Anywhere. Somewhere, nobody tells you what to do."

  I smile a little. "You'd miss home."

  "No, I wouldn't."

  "You would," I say softly.

  He huffs, like he wants to argue but can't think of anything. "Maybe a little."

  I turn my head toward him. "I wouldn't run off without you."

  He freezes for a second, then looks back up at the sky fast. "I didn't say you had to come."

  "I'd want to."

  That's when he goes still. Not just stiff—still. His shoulders pull in, his throat works in a hard swallow, and he stares straight up at the sky as if moving even an inch might break something. His jaw tightens, and there's this quick, scared flicker in his eyes before he forces them back to the clouds. He doesn't pull away, but he goes quiet in that way boys do when they're trying not to show they're scared.

  And it hits me suddenly, sharp and cold, that I must've said the wrong thing.

  After a moment, he mutters, "You say things... odd."

  My stomach drops. "Odd... how?"

  He winces, realizing what he implied. "Not—not like that. I just meant... You talk differently from other boys."

  My smile drops fast. It's like it just slips off my face before I can stop it. My brows pull down tight, and I look away from him, down at the snow by my hand. My throat feels tight, and I have to swallow before I can breathe right again. I don't say anything. I just keep my eyes on the ground so he won't see how much it stung.

  Gabriel groans and drags a hand over his face. "Alright, fine. I said it wrong. Forget it."

  I look back up at the sky, embarrassed. The wooden wolf rests on my chest. I tap its tail with my finger.

  After a moment, he shifts closer—not much, just enough that our shoulders touch again.

  He mutters, "I didn't mean anything bad."

  "I know," I say softly.

  "You just... talk nice. That's all."

  My eyes drop for a second before I look back at him. "Nice?"

  He shrugs hard, ears red. "Yeah. Don't make a fuss."

  I look over at him, and the smile that hits me is too big, too warm, yet I can't hold it back. It's the kind that makes my chest feel full, the kind I only ever get around him.

  Gabriel glances over—quick, nervous. "You're doing it again..." he mumbles uncomfortably.

  "Huh?"

  "The look."

  "What look?" I ask, more annoyed than before.

  "That one," he mutters. "The soft one."

  My face goes hot. "Quit saying stuff like that," I tell him, rolling my eyes.

  He huffs a laugh and keeps glancing over at me now and then when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

  I let my eyes fall shut for a moment, the wooden wolf warm in my hand, and breathe.

  lying here beside him, I try not to think about what tomorrow will bring, but it keeps sitting in the back of my mind—the examination, the officers, the way she looked at me, the way she touched me... It's all waiting for me again in the morning. But for now, at least, I know I'm not alone.