His hand.

So different to before.

Standing there, ash falling all around, masquerading as snow.

The wiggle of the fingers. An invite. Stay or go. He would never hold it against her if she did. But he was offering himself to her yet again. But could she accept? This man who looked so different yet insisted he was the same.

She took his hand.

It was what they had always done, but this was new, different, like the man, a beginning.

Smoother.

Less worked.

No rough patches, not a single callus. The grip was new too. Still strength behind it, but a new strength. Unfamiliar yet just as it always had been.

She'd go with him. She always would.

The hand felt cold in hers. He, the old he, had never felt cold to her before. This new one though, he'd been cold from the start. But now he was slowly his cold, as her trust grew again. She just hoped the warm would come back, it had to, she couldn't live without it.