Nubia knocked her boots against the floor, freeing them of snow, and smiled broadly. As far as she could see, this was a lovely establishment, at once well lit and very lively--not at all the cesspool of depression she had expected. People were holding civil conversations, and most of the patrons seemed to indeed be sober. Nubia could hear bits of conversation about fishing, farming, children, the climbing price of raw materials in Carlston--this was more of a meeting place than it was one of drink, and the calm, relaxed attitudes of the people around her were the most surprising aspect of it all.

In one corner, a young woman who looked to be a handful of years Nubia's senior was practicing on a guitar, singing a song that was somehow familiar. People were gathered around her, listening as she played and sang, each note perfectly in its place. Nubia sat at the bar, content to listen as she warmed her chilled bones.

Promptly, and with an inviting smile, the proprietor moved to serve her, an empty bottle held casually in his hands. "Can I get you anything?" he asked her. Nubia shook her head. Still, he persisted. "You sure? A cup of coffee to warm you up, maybe?"

Nubia brightened. "Coffee would be good," she agreed. Withdrawing her hood, Nubia gave in to the urge to massage her scalp. The barkeep barely even raised an eyebrow. Shrugging slightly, he smiled and busied himself pouring a cup of coffee. He placed it atop the bar and began shifting the empty bottle he still held between his two hands. Nubia suspected it was a nervous habit.

"Anything else I can do for you?" Nubia brought the cup up to her lips and sipped the coffee carefully, then took a larger gulp. It was, to her infinite pleasure, very good coffee. She placed her hands on the sides of the cup, considering a moment before answering his question.

"I am looking for Ethan and Melissa Check. I don't even know if they live here anymore, but--" She sighed, frustrated with herself. She would not ramble; Leon had taught her better than to let her mouth get ahead of her brain. "Well," she resumed, "I'd just like to know where I can find them."

The barkeep abruptly stopped shifting the bottle in his hands, setting it down in the bar. He was obviously uncomfortable. "Well..." he began hesitantly, his voice trailing off.

"What is it?" Nubia cut in, a slight laugh betraying her uneasiness. There were only a handful of reasons why the mention of her parents would elicit such a response from someone, and none of those that came to mind possessed any positive connotations.

"It's just that--"

"Just tell me!" Desperation had begun to creep into her voice. Something was wrong; something was very, very wrong.

The barkeep looked positively sick. He was wrestling with something very difficult, which only served to heighten Nubia's worry to a state of dread. "I don't know how to say this," he admitted, his voice tortured and uneven.

"Would you shut up and tell me!?" Nubia screamed. In the corner, the woman playing her guitar faltered, missing a note. The entire tavern, previously lively and carefree, stopped as one, dead silent as all heads turned in Nubia's direction.

The proprietor sighed, shaking his head slowly. "They've passed on."

Nubia's head rose sharply, eye bulging from their sockets. "What...?" She felt like she'd been punched in the gut, arbitrarily used and thrown aside. She refused to believe it.

"It was almost two years ago--a fire took them."

"A fire..." Nubia reeled from the shock, fought to absorb this revelation. She had been too late, too late by nearly two years. At that time, going home had never so much as occurred to her. Her homecoming had been doomed from its outset.

"Their daughter Lucia still lives in town," the barman informed her after clearing his throat. "You could go see her--it's the next best thing. She runs the clinic. You can't miss it."

Nubia nodded, swallowing with difficulty. Not all was lost: Lucia was still alive, a mere handful of minutes away. Rising from her seat, Nubia steadied herself against the bar. "Thank you," she spoke softly, hardly above a whisper. "I'll go right away." She stumbled across the floor without another word, heading for the door. Even after her departure, the tavern remained silent for many minutes.

Outside, the wind had picked up a bitter chill, but Nubia took no notice. She plodded forward in the direction she thought the clinic lay, each step an agony, her feet somehow magnified in weight along with her heart. She would never see her parents, never see them smile, never hug them, or be able to tell them how much she loved and missed them. All that was gone.

The clinic was not very far, but four times she stumbled in the snow, having to laboriously gather herself up again. Half again as often, people offered their help, but Nubia refused each one--no one could help her now. Eventually she found the clinic, collapsing before it, ears and hands unprotected and burning with frostbite.

As the door opened, Nubia looked up. She could vaguely see, through eyes weakened by despair and tears, a person walking briskly toward her, a person with a face very familiar to her. It was a face she saw every day. It was her face.