The town called him "The Glazier." It wasn't because of his trade, but because of his temperament. Since the accident at the quarry three years ago, Elias had moved through the world like a man carved from a glacier—sturdy, silent, and impossibly cold.
He stood up, the legs of the stool screeching against the floor like a winter gale. He didn't finish the drink. Instead, he buttoned his coat, the first spark of heat returning to his chest.
The neon sign outside "The Deep Freeze" flickered, casting a rhythmic blue glow over the frost-patterned window. Inside, Elias sat at the far end of the bar, his hands wrapped around a glass of rye that he hadn’t touched. He wasn't there for the drink; he was there for the silence. Cold as Ice
"They walked away and kept moving," she countered, sliding a hand-drawn map across the sticky mahogany bar. "You walked away and stopped. You’ve been standing in the same snowbank ever since."
"You're the one who walked away," she said, her voice a low rasp. The town called him "The Glazier
"The ice is safer," Elias muttered, his breath hitching. "Nothing hurts when it's frozen."
Elias looked at his reflection in the rye. He saw a man who had become a statue to avoid the sting of the wind. He realized then that being "cold as ice" wasn't a defense—it was a slow way to disappear. He didn't finish the drink
"Let’s go," he said. "Before the freeze sets in for good."