And we were left standing in the ruins of the castle we had tried so hard to build.

I held the gold key tight in my hand, my fingers numb and bleeding, and waited for the morning that would never come.

The man stepped closer, his boots making no sound on the fresh snow.

“The game is over,” he whispered.

And the light in his eyes was the coldest thing in Chicago.

I didn’t step back.

I just looked at him, the wind howling in my ears, and waited for the door to open.

The brass key was warm against my skin, the only thing that had survived the night.

And the promise was still waiting to be kept.

In the distance, the sirens began to wail again, their lights red and blue against the snow.

But they were too far away to help us now.

We were on our own in the dark, and the winter was only getting colder.

I looked at the house in the distance, its dark windows staring back at us.

And the shadow of a woman appeared in the second-floor window, her face pale against the glass.