He liked the snow. It dominated the landscape with a cold and empty presence, which made home feel a little bit warmer, even when it was just a shabby little downtown apartment with too many draft windows and no fireplace. The wind was harsh, and he could smell more precipitation in the air. It would probably be snow. The temperature had risen during the week, but it was starting to drop again. Briefly, he thought again that it was probably a good thing his father had died the way he had, in flames, in warmth, and before the heart of winter really set in. It would have been harder for him to freeze away to die by the new year. But he didn't really like to think about his father much. His family had never felt as far away as they did now.
Arkham still had his cloak, and it still smelled of mint. It was a dried, fading scent though. He hadn't come across a mint plant in a long while, and the cloak was more for warmth than disguise anymore anyway. The city always felt a little too quiet, a little too empty, and blanketed with snow, it was even easier to feel isolated. The streets went on for miles, and the buildings all looked on with grey facades. The staircases echoed like subway tunnels, and the wind rattled half-broken bottles, cans, and papers, acting like the only life in the area. Sitting down on a bench at a bus stop, the coyote thought about going away again.