This was his morning ritual. He liked to reassure himself that the world around him was real, that his hand was real, that they could affect each other. He opened his eyes and continued to watch the glass as he rubbed his fingers together absently. The cold was already beginning to retake its lost territoty, as the water sliding down the glass slowed and started to solidify. Other students complained about the poor heating, but for him, it served another small function of his morning ritual. It reminded him that he could affect the world, make temporary changes, but the world was going to have its own way in the end. He stood watching in silence for a few minutes more, until his hand was once again warm, and his handprint on the window was a thin sheet of ice.

     He reluctantly broke off his reverie and turned away. He glanced at the pile of books, folders, and loose papers lying against the wall of the room. He sifted through the debris, found what he would need for the morning's classes, and filled his backpack. He put his arms through the sleeves of his heavy coat and buttoned it up with slow care, then pulled on his hat and gloves, pausing to savor the feeling of insulation and warmth. He hefted the backpack onto his shoulders from the unmade bed, then stopped again to feel its weight and balance.

     He locked the door and walked towards the stairs. Feeling the straps digging against his shoulders, he thought about his schoolwork with a casual half-regard. It would get done as it always seemed to, taking care of itself in the late hours of the night or the short breaks in the day when there was nothing else to be done. There were so many better things to ponder than the contents of his backpack. He opened the front door and stepped out, eyes stinging but shining as the cold wind wrapped around him. He looked up at the overcast clouds, at the dim sun trying to punch a hole, at the the naked tree limbs clawing at all angles. But as the snow collected in his outstretched hand, he smiled.