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Elara was a knocker . Her job was to walk the upper districts before dawn, rapping her iron-tipped cane against the walls of the wealthy. One knock for coal delivery. Two for medical checks. Three, which she never used, for a mercy request. The ember snow clung to her goggles, and each breath tasted of burnt metal.
Not from fear. From wonder.
Elara watched the girl’s ash-stained nightgown turn white. And for the first time in forty years, she told the truth.
The girl stepped down from the parapet. Her feet made no sound on the ember dust.
The girl turned. “I wanted to see if the snow burns before it lands.” She held out a palm. A single fleck of ember landed, glowed, and died. “It doesn’t. It just pretends to be warm.”