Jonas wanted to believe he was close.
Close to what, exactly, he wasn't sure, but out in the snow, hungry, and clutching Gabe's shivering form to his chest, he wanted so badly to believe in something.
His legs and arms were numb. As he pedaled the bike it was jerky and awkward, his limbs moving not because they could, but because they had to. The snow he once marveled at now stuck in his hair and bit at his skin. It fluttered gracefully as it fell, but the white specks never lingered in the air long enough for him to follow an individual one. Alluring and enchanting, the snow made his flesh burn with cold, yet was still so horribly, painfully beautiful.
Jonas was reminded of sakuras.
The Giver once showed him the delicate white flowers growing on the twisted and willowy branches of a cherry tree. He remembered the way they drifted in the breeze as they fell, dropping and floating back up again, as if they couldn't decide whether to give up and peacefully sink to earth or spr