A loan bird called out across the desolate landscape. Its sad cry a desperate plea left unanswered. Not a soul stirred except the line of mounted men, traipsing with heads bowed.


    The snow had stopped for a brief moment, but it left behind a quiet that unsettled Louis more than the wind ever had. His horse’s breath puffed in front of him like steam from a boiling kettle, the only sound besides the faint crunch of boots and hooves on the frost-covered earth. The narrow path they had been following was beginning to blur, buried under layers of fresh snow. They trees had mostly thinned out by now, but with the lack of visibility he couldn’t tell if they were still in the forest.


    Louis tightened his scarf around his nose and glanced over his shoulder at the others. The company looked like ghosts, their uniforms faded and heavy with frost, faces hidden behind scarves and helmets. Corporal Danton’s mount trudged close to Renard, holding onto the injured man’s arm to keep him steady on horseback. Renard’s face was pale, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but he kept walking, his boots dragging through the snow. At least he had stopped coughing for now. Louis had started flinching at each worsening gasp.


    “Stay close!” Valère’s voice cut through the stillness. “The trees will swallow anyone who falls behind.”


    Louis turned his attention forward, where Valère rode at the head of the column, his back straight, hands steady on the reins. Lieutenant Chalon rode just behind him, occasionally adjusting his position to check on the men. Louis rode just behind him, so their eyes would meet briefly, sharing their growing dread.


    The path twisted slightly, leading them through unknown landscapes, choosing their fate. The air smelled of damp pine and decay now that the snow had stopped, but Louis was certain it would return soon. Mist still hung around them, a thick wall of grey.


    After a few more paces, Valère pulled his horse to a stop.


    “Wait here,” he said. He dismounted, his boots sinking into the snow with a soft crunch, and pulled a map from inside his coat. Chalon dismounted as well, joining him as they leaned over the map.


    Louis remained in the saddle, rubbing his gloved hands together to fight off the numbness creeping into his fingers. Danton and Vautrin exchanged glances, their breath hanging in the air between them.


    “I thought you said this was a straight path,” Danton said, his voice barely above a whisper.


    Vautrin shrugged, his eyes darting toward the trees. “That’s what they told us back at the camp. Follow the road, they said. Hard to follow a road when it disappears.”


    Renard coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and leaned heavily on Danton. “Can we stop soon?” he pleaded weakly. “I can’t—”


    “You’ll keep moving,” Danton said, his voice soft but firm. “We’re not leaving you here.”


    Ahead of them, Valère and Chalon were arguing, their voices muffled by the snow. Louis nudged his mount forward to join them.


    “The ridge was supposed to be south of here,” Valère said, tapping the map with a gloved finger. “We should’ve seen it by now.”


    Chalon frowned, rubbing his chin. “We’ve drifted, Captain. Probably to the north. We can’t see anything out here.”


    Valère folded the map sharply and tucked it back into his coat. “We keep heading west,” he said. “We’ll find the ridge eventually.”


    Chalon hesitated, but then nodded. “If you’re sure.”


    “I am.”


    Valère remounted his horse, his movements stiff from the cold. “Move out!”


    The company fell back into formation, their footsteps crunching softly against the snow. The silence pressed down on them, broken only by Renard’s labored breathing and the occasional rustle of unseen branches in the mist.


    Louis rode beside Beaulieu, who hadn’t said a word since they left the last camp. The man’s face was hidden beneath his scarf, but his eyes flicked constantly toward the trees, scanning for threats.


    “You don’t believe we’re going the right way, do you?” Louis asked.


    Beaulieu shrugged, his breath fogging the air. “I believe we’re not dead yet. That’s enough.”


    “At least those Cossacks won’t be able to find us in this mist,” Corporal Danton called out, attempting to instill some confidence.


    They passed a half-buried tree stump, its roots clawing at the air like skeletal fingers. Snow covered everything now—the trees, the rocks, the remnants of an old wagon abandoned by the side of the path. Louis wondered how long it had been sitting there, forgotten in the wilderness.


    “Do you feel it?” Vautrin asked suddenly, his voice rising.


    Louis turned toward him, confused. “Feel what?”


    “I know it’s not true, but… doesn’t it feel like there is something out there?” Vautrin said. He stopped his horse for a moment, his eyes scanning the darkened trees. “Watching us.”


    Danton laughed nervously. “You’ve been listening to Morel’s stories too much.”


    But Morel, who was at the rear of the group, didn’t respond. He kept his gaze fixed on the path ahead, his jaw clenched.


    “Let’s keep moving,” Chalon said, glancing over his shoulder. “The longer we stand here, the colder we’ll get.”


    Reluctantly, Vautrin fell back into line, though he kept casting glancing out into the mist. Louis tried to shake off the unease creeping up his spine, but he couldn’t ignore the weight of the silence around them. The snow muffled everything – no birds, no rustling animals, just the faint crunch of their footsteps. The mist hemmed them in.


    As they continued forward, Renard sagged in his saddle and nearly collapsed, but Danton caught him just in time. “I’m fine,” Renard muttered, though his voice was barely audible.


    Ahead, Valère slowed his horse and looked around, his brows furrowed. Louis could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the reins tighter than necessary. The captain’s confidence was cracking, even if he didn’t show it.


    “We should’ve reached something by now,” Chalon said quietly.


    “We will,” Valère replied, though he didn’t sound convinced.


    The snow began to fall again, heavier this time, the flakes swirling around them in lazy spirals. Louis pulled his scarf higher, his breath hot against the fabric. The cold seeped into his boots, numbing his toes.


    Danton fell into step beside him, his face pale. “Do you think the main column is still ahead of us?”


    Louis hesitated. “I don’t know.”


    Danton glanced at the trees, then lowered his voice. “Morel says the forest is cursed. He told me about the stories the locals shared. Things that live out here, waiting for lost travelers.”


    “Don’t listen to him,” Louis said quickly. “I’ll tell him to stop. He shouldn’t be sharing his superstitions with the men at a time like this.”


    But as the snow fell heavier, a small doubt crept into Louis'' mind.


    The road was gone. Trees began to emerge from the mist, more and more with every step they took. It seemed they had entered another forest. Subconsciously, the men pulled closer together.


    It wasn’t just the cold that made Louis feel tense in his saddle, his hair standing on its end. He’d begun to feel it too, that someone was out there, watching them.


    “Keep together!”


    The wind had teeth now, gnawing at their exposed skin through layers of wool and leather. The gusts of the blizzard swept across the forest floor, kicking up snow and flurries of ice that stung their faces like needles. Louis kept his head down, squinting through the narrow slit of visibility his scarf allowed, but even that was starting to fail him. His greatcoat was covered in snow, and his breastplate was a heavy block of ice on his chest.


    The trail they had been following, if it had ever truly been there, was gone now, erased by the steady, suffocating snowfall. The world had shrunk to just a few paces ahead and behind.


    “Stay close!” Valère called from the front, his voice muffled by the wind. The command had become a mantra, repeated every few minutes like a prayer, as if saying it enough would keep them from disappearing into the storm. Half of the time it was unintelligible, but he knew the men needed to hear it. Needed to hear their captain urging them forward.


    Louis glanced back, making sure the others were still behind him. Renard was slack in his saddle, his horse led by Danton, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. Chalon walked beside them, occasionally reaching out to steady Renard when he faltered. Morel and Beaulieu followed at the rear, their heads bowed as they pushed through the knee-deep snow.


    Most of the horses were dead already, they’d suddenly started dying one after another. Though, Louis thought, it wasn’t really sudden. Their deaths were overdue. The majority of the companies had lost their horses long ago. Only two of the horses remained, Valères and Louis own. But, Louis had given the horse to Renard. If they lost that horse…


    Trooper Lefevre cursed loudly, shaking snow from his helmet. “How are we supposed to find anything in this?” he yelled, though no one answered. His voice was quickly swallowed by the wind.


    Louis’s horse snorted behind him, its hooves slipping on the ice beneath the snow. The weight of Renard on its back would kill it eventually. They all knew it. The animal was struggling, and so were they all. Louis legs burned, his fingers ached, and his breath came in ragged gasps that made his lungs feel like they were filled with glass.


    The cold was more than just cold. It was a living thing, a predator sinking its claws into their skin, sapping their strength with every step. Louis’s thoughts became sluggish, as if his brain were freezing along with his body. They couldn’t keep on like this.


    Valère raised his arm, signaling a halt. The men huddled together, their breaths mingling in the frigid air, forming a thin cloud of steam that quickly dissipated.


    “We need to keep moving,” Chalon said, stepping closer to Valère. “If we stop for too long, we’ll freeze.”


    Valère nodded, but his eyes lingered on the swirling white abyss ahead of them. “How far do you think we’ve come?”


    “Not far enough,” Chalon replied grimly.


    Danton looked up at Renard, trying to adjust the wounded man’s coat to cover more of his chest. Renard shivered violently, his lips turning blue.


    “He can’t keep this up,” Danton said.


    “Neither can the rest of us,” Vautrin muttered, kicking at a patch of snow. His breath came in short bursts, and his eyes darted toward the trees, as if he expected them to close in on him at any moment. “We should turn back. We’re not going to find the column in this storm.”


    “We can’t turn back,” Valère snapped. “We’d be just as lost going the other way.”


    Lefevre crossed his arms, his teeth chattering. “Then what do you suggest, Captain? Because at this rate, we’ll be frozen like the corpses we passed this morning.”


    Louis winced at the mention of the bodies. He could still picture the hollow eyes of the dead soldiers, their faces twisted in agony as frost consumed them. Some had been huddled together, as if they’d tried to share warmth before the cold claimed them all.


    “Watch your tongue Lefevre!” Sergeant Morel growled at the trooper. But, his threat had lost much of the weight it used to carry. The power in his voice was faded, hollow.


    “We keep going,” Valère said firmly. “If we stop now, we die.”


    The wind howled again, this time sounding almost like a scream. Louis shivered and pulled his scarf higher, trying to block out the noise.


    “I heard something,” Vautrin said suddenly, his voice rising.


    The group turned to look at him. His eyes were wide, darting around as if trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    “What did you hear?” Chalon asked.


    “Footsteps. Someone’s out there.”


    Lefevre scoffed, though his voice was tired. “Don’t be an idiot. It’s the wind playing tricks on you.”


    “It wasn’t the wind,” Vautrin insisted. “It was footsteps. I’m telling you, we’re not alone.”


    “There aren’t any Cossacks out in this storm,” Danton reassured him, “they’re smart enough to be tucked up inside. This is their country, afterall.”


    “You didn’t hear anything,” Valère said, mounting his horse again. “The cold and the wind are messing with your head. Let’s move.”


    Louis hesitated, pausing on Vautrin. The man’s breath came fast and shallow, his hands shaking slightly at his sides, resting on his blade. Louis wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or fear, or both. They probably wouldn’t even be able to draw their sabres in this. Cossacks would tear them apart, though Danton was right, they wouldn’t be out here.


    “Come on,” Chalon said quietly, placing a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “Let’s not fall behind.”


    Louis nodded and urged his legs forward. The company pressed on, their movements sluggish and mechanical, driven more by instinct than determination. The snow was falling harder now, a curtain of white that blurred the lines between earth and sky.


    As they marched, Louis’s mind began to wander. He thought of home – the small cottage in the French countryside where his mother had baked bread every morning, the smell of flour and yeast filling the air. He imagined the warmth of the hearth, the way the fire crackled as they sat around the table. The memory felt like a dream, something too distant to be real anymore.


    He’d spend the evenings in the tavern, laughing with friends and family. Strolling home in the warm moonlight, the thought of wearing so little was incomprehensible now. It was a world away, a different life altogether.


    A sharp whistle cut through the wind, jolting him from his thoughts. He stopped, pulling his horse to a halt.


    “What is it?” Chalon asked, turning back.


    “Did you hear that?” Louis whispered.


    Chalon frowned, listening for a moment, but the only sound was the howling wind. “It’s nothing. Just the storm. Don’t start taking after Vautrin and Morel.”


    Louis nodded, though his pulse was racing. The whistle had sounded real. Not like the wind, but like something deliberate.


    “Keep moving,” Valère called from ahead.


    The group continued, but Louis couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest was closing in around them, the trees leaning closer, their branches reaching out from the blizzard like claws. The wind whispered through the gaps in the trees, forming words he couldn’t understand.


    They had entered a place where the world no longer made sense, where time and direction slipped away like sand through frozen fingers. And somewhere out there, hidden in the swirling snow, was their impending death.


    The snow had thickened, falling in fat, heavy flakes that clung to their coats and helmets, weighing them down like wet sand. Louis’ horse, a chestnut mare named Marianne, stumbled for the third time in as many minutes, her hooves slipping on the icy ground. Renard shook on her back, but he was at least awake now. Louis heard the animal’s labored breathing before he saw her falter.


    “Come on, girl,” Renard whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. He leaned forward in the saddle, stroking the mare’s neck. “Just a little further.”


    She tried, her legs shaking as she fought to take another step, but her strength had drained. Her front legs buckled, and she collapsed into the snow with a heavy thud, sending Renard tumbling off her back. He landed awkwardly, groaning as he clutched his injured side.


    “Renard!” Louis ran over quickly, dropping to his knees beside him. “Are you hurt?”


    “Just winded,” Renard muttered, coughing into his glove. His breathing was laborous, and Louis wasn’t sure if it was the fall or the cold choking him.


    Valère and the others gathered around, their figures blurred by the swirling snow. Chalon knelt on Renard’s other side, helping him sit up.


    “She’s not getting back up,” Danton said, pointing to the horse. The mare lay on her side, her breath coming in slow, shallow gasps. Her flanks heaved, and steam rose from her nostrils, but her eyes were dull.


    “We can’t leave her,” Louis said hopelessly. “She’s been with me since Smolensk.”


    Valère didn’t hesitate. “We strip her of supplies and leave her behind.”


    “She’s strong, just give her a minute,” Louis pleaded.


    “She won’t.” Valère’s tone was cold, final. “The horse is finished, Sublieutenant. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”


    Louis saw Renard’s hands trembling as he tried to push himself up, but Chalon gently held him down. “Don’t move too fast. You’ll only make your injury worse.”


    Danton shifted uncomfortably. “The captain’s right,” he said softly. “It’s cruel to leave her like this. We should end it quickly.”


    The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.


    “I’ll do it,” Beaulieu said quietly, stepping forward. He pulled the infantry musket he’d scavenged from his shoulder, fixing its bayonet.  His expression was unreadable, but there was no hesitation in his movements.


    Renard turned away, his shoulders shaking. Louis couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was just the cold making him tremble.


    Beaulieu knelt by the horse’s head, stroking her mane gently before pressing the bayonet point against her neck.


    “I’m sorry, girl,” he murmured. A quiet sound slipped from the dying animal.


    For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the faint whisper of snow falling onto the mare’s lifeless body. Then Valère cleared his throat and straightened.


    “Strip the saddlebags,” he said. “Take everything useful.”


    The men moved quickly, their numb fingers fumbling with the leather straps. They pulled off the blankets, the saddlebags, and Renard’s bedroll. Chalon helped Louis lift Renard to his feet, steadying him as they shuffled forward.


    “Will he be able to keep going?” Valère asked.


    Chalon hesitated, then nodded. “For now.”


    Lefevre, who had been silent until now, tossed the empty saddle into the snow and exhaled sharply.


    “This is getting worse by the minute,” he muttered. “We’re carrying an injured man, we’ve lost our last horse, and we still don’t know where the hell we are.”


    “Shut your mouth, Lefevre,” Morel snapped, his voice trembling with frustration. “You’re not helping.”


    “I’m stating the obvious,” Lefevre shot back. “We’re all thinking it.”


    “Enough,” Valère said, his tone like steel. He stepped between the two troopers, a hard survey of his men. “We keep moving. The main column isn’t far.”


    “How do you know that?” Lefevre asked, his eyes narrowing. “For all we know, we could be heading further into the forest, not out of it.”


    “Lefevre!” Chalon turned on the man.


    “Do you want to take over command?” Valère asked coldly. “Because if you do, say it now.”


    Lefevre looked away, muttering under his breath. Louis could see the tension radiating off him, but he said nothing else.


    “We move,” Valère repeated. “Everyone stays together. No exceptions.”


    “Give me a few minutes sir. It’ll be worth it,” Beaulieu said, drawing another knife from his waist.


    They waited for a short time, shivering in the snow, while Trooper Beaulieu carved chunks of meat from the recently deceased horse. It was a harrowing sight for Louis. His previously prized mount was reduced to food for their desperate survival. Yet he couldn’t even bring himself to feel grief, his emotions were numbed and stunted by the immense cold.


    Beaulieu finished quickly, handing wrapped steaks out to those close to him.


    Then the column re-formed, and Louis took his place near the middle, helping Renard along. The wounded man leaned heavily on him, his breaths ragged.


    “I’m sorry,” Renard whispered.


    “For what?” Louis asked.


    “For slowing you down. For making this harder.”


    Louis shook his head. “We’re all slowing down. You’re just the only one being honest about it.”


    They trudged forward, the snow swallowing their footprints as quickly as they made them. Behind them, the mare’s body lay abandoned, already half-buried under the falling snow.


    The group was quieter now, the tension from the argument still lingering in the cold air. Louis walked beside Chalon, their boots crunching softly in the snow. The lieutenant, famous for his hearty laugh and noble manner, was unrecognisable.


    “That could’ve been worse,” Chalon said, his voice low enough that only Louis could hear.


    “What do you mean?”


    “Lefevre,” Chalon replied. “He’s testing Valère. It wasn’t open defiance, but it was close.”


    Louis sighed, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Do you think Valère’s losing control?”


    Chalon didn’t answer immediately. His breath fogged the air as he stared straight ahead, watching Valère’s figure lead the column.


    “I think,” he said finally, “that Valère’s trying to be the officer he was when we left France. But he’s not that man anymore. None of us are.”


    Louis looked down at the snow, letting Chalon’s words sink in. The man they had followed into battle was cracking under the weight of failure and the relentless cold. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Louis wondered how long he could keep following a man who was barely holding himself together.


    “We need to do more to support the captain,” Chalon said, his eyes distant.


    A distant howl echoed through the forest. Louis’s head snapped up, his heart racing, but it wasn’t a wolf. The sound was too distant, too fragmented. Just the wind, he told himself. Just the wind.


    But the unease coiling in his chest refused to let go.


    The light was dying quickly. The sun, if it had ever truly risen that day, was nothing more than a faint smudge of gray behind the swirling clouds. Darkness fell upon them. The wind had softened, but the cold had deepened, pressing into their bones like the weight of iron chains. Snow fell in fine, delicate flakes, coating the trees and making them look like frozen sentinels guarding the path.


    Louis wiped the frost from his lashes and adjusted his scarf. His breath came in short, ragged puffs, each exhale hanging in the air before vanishing. The march had slowed to a crawl, their legs barely able to push through the deepening drifts. Every step was a battle, and their silence was suffocating.


    Ahead, Captain Valère pressed forward, his shoulders stiff, his eyes locked on their distant, lost objective. Chalon stayed close to him, occasionally looking back to check on the others. Renard leaned heavily on Danton, his head drooping, his face pale. Louis could see his lips turning blue.


    “We can’t keep this up,” Danton said, his voice hoarse. “We need to rest.”


    Valère shook his head. “We rest when we find shelter.”


    “Shelter,” Vautrin muttered under his breath. “Might as well ask for a miracle.”


    Lefevre shot him a glare but said nothing. The tension between the men hung like a storm cloud ready to burst.


    Louis slowed his pace and fell back toward the rear of the group, where Sergeant Morel was trudging with heavy steps. The older man’s face was barely visible beneath his helmet and scarf, but Louis noticed how his shoulders slumped and how his boots dragged through the snow, barely lifting off the ground.


    He remembered the same man, but so different, his sabre flashing in the air. He’d led them across a field only a few months back. A magnificent charge into a deep square of Russian infantry. Like thunder they had broken the Russians under their hooves, Sergeant Morel whooping as he swung his blade in a terrific display.


    “Sergeant?” Louis called softly. Morel didn’t respond.


    He placed a hand on Morel’s arm, feeling the cold even through the layers of fabric. “Sergeant, are you all right?”


    Morel stopped, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His eyes, bloodshot and distant, met Louis’s for a moment. There was something hollow about them, as if the warmth that had once filled the man had drained away.


    “Just a moment,” Morel whispered. His voice cracked like brittle ice. “I need to catch my breath.”


    Louis’s pulse quickened. He glanced over his shoulder at the trail of footprints behind them, already being swallowed by the falling snow. The trees swayed gently in the wind, their branches groaning like dying men.


    “We can’t stop here,” Louis said urgently. “You know that. You told me yourself. If you stop, the cold takes you.”


    Morel gave a weak chuckle, though it sounded more like a choke. “I know what I said, Fournier. But I think the cold has already taken me.”


    “No,” Louis insisted. “We’ll get you back to the others. Chalon will help. We can–”


    “Louis.” Morel’s hand tightened briefly on his arm before going slack. “I’ve been a soldier longer than you’ve been alive. I know when it’s time.” He paused, exhaling a long, slow breath that seemed to take the last of his strength with it. “There’s no shame in it.”


    Louis felt the sting of tears welling in his eyes, but the cold froze them before they could fall. His breath hitched in his throat, and he shook his head.


    “Don’t say that. We’re not leaving you.”


    Morel smiled faintly, the lines on his face softening as if he’d finally made peace with something. “You will. And that’s all right.”


    The forest around them seemed to grow quieter. The wind died down, and for a moment, Louis thought he could hear something else – a faint whisper, distant but persistent, like someone calling his name from far away.


    Morel heard it too. His head tilted slightly, as if he were listening to something only he could understand.


    “What is it?” Louis asked, his voice barely above a whisper.


    Morel’s stare drifted past him, toward the trees.


    “You hear them too, don’t you?” His lips trembled, but it wasn’t from the cold. “They’ve been calling me since this morning.”


    “There’s no one there,” Louis said, though his voice wavered.


    Morel chuckled softly. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re waiting for you too.”


    A sudden gust of wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the faint sound of laughter, or was it crying? Louis couldn’t tell. He turned sharply, scanning the forest, but there was nothing there. Just shadows and snow.


    When he turned back, Morel had sunk to his knees, his hands resting limply in his lap. His eyes were half-lidded, and his breath barely fogged the air.


    “Sergeant, please,” Louis begged, his voice cracking.


    Morel’s face softened.


    “Keep moving, Fournier. Don’t think. Just move.”


    His head tilted forward, and he went still.


    Louis knelt there, staring at him, as the snow began to gather on Morel’s shoulders. The warmth of his body faded quickly, stolen by the unforgiving cold. Louis reached out, his gloved hand trembling as he touched the sergeant’s arm, but there was no response.


    “Louis!” Chalon’s voice cut through the haze. He was running back toward them, his coat flapping in the wind. “What’s wrong?”


    Louis didn’t answer. Chalon knelt beside him, taking in the sight of Morel’s lifeless body. He let out a heavy sigh, his breath clouding in front of him.


    “We have to go,” Chalon said gently. “He’s gone.”


    Louis shook his head. “I can’t—”


    “You can,” Chalon said firmly. “You have to.”


    Louis’s fingers tightened around Morel’s sleeve, but the fabric was stiff with frost. Slowly, reluctantly, he let go.


    Chalon helped him to his feet, guiding him back toward the others. Valère stood a few paces ahead, his expression unreadable as he watched them approach.


    “Morel?” Valère asked.


    Louis shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “He’s gone.”


    Valère’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He turned back toward the path ahead. “We keep moving.”


    Danton glanced back at Morel’s body, now half-buried in snow, and muttered a prayer under his breath. Lefevre cursed softly, kicking at the ground before falling into line. Vautrin stared at the trees, his eyes wide and darting, as if he expected something to emerge from the shadows. Beaulieu showed no reaction, but the sadness was obvious even in his eyes.


    Sergeant Morel had been the most experienced man in the company. A veteran of countless campaigns, he’d been a strong presence throughout the journey, keeping the men together. How could they keep together now? Louis didn’t know the answer, but he had no choice except taking the next step.


    As they marched forward, the wind picked up again, carrying with it a whisper that sounded like Morel’s voice calling out to them, faint and distant. Louis shivered, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, but no amount of fabric could block out the sound.