Tracks in the snow. Heading out beyond the end of the tunnel there (where the killer hid). Something to follow, anyway. "But with this crosswind, they'll drift over soon, " she observed. "They're nearly covered now. And their course is confused. Unnatural. As if one person set off in several different directions." (Or several had converged to one.) So she stood there, looking into the not-so-proverbial abyss. Never before this close, but too scared to go any further. "It's getting dark," she decided. "And cold." (Was she talking about her soul? No. The coldest soul is, by definition, the one most in need of warmth. The one that got lost in the night, gave up waiting for morning, and eventually forgot what it felt like to be needed -- or even remembered. So, my soul is the coldest. And, even after thirteen years, I see my tracks are still here. But her soul is darker. Too dark to be associated with a temperature of any kind -- even absolute zero.) After she left, I stood there shivering. Almost immediately, her tracks drifted over, making it impossible to follow. Ironic -- and unsettling -- is the peculiar void left by the departure of a soul so empty.