Caleb was used to the cycle by now, but the start of the winter months still filled his cell with dread. His heart, too, but then again, he had little heart left to speak of, so that mattered little.
He missed snow. Snow was the only thing that made winter worthwhile. He longed for something beautiful here, something that wasn't hard and grey and monotonous. He used to consider himself to be beautiful--on the inside, at least--but he himself had grown harder and greyer and more monotonous each day, so much so that his reflection barely matched his memory of the man he was.
He stared up at the dim light and tried to count the days backward by month. 8,760 days. 24 years he'd been in here, counting backward and wondering where his true reflection had gone.
Ah, shoot. Leap years. He had forgotten to count the extra day in the leap years.
Time to start counting again.
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