Fall coming in, and the weather's getting grim, chilly, all lead-gray skies. It leaves Cleo tired and sluggish, even more than usual. She stays in bed all day trying to keep warm. Her siblings come by, usually with steaming drinks or hot meals, or—in case of Dante—a book for her to read. She thinks they do, at least. The cold's seeped into her skull, fogged up her whole head, and time stretches into a long blurred stream of . . . well, of nothing at all, to her.
Bastian thinks it isn't the cold at all. He blames sunlight, or rather the lack of it. There's a joke in that: Cleo, a girl born in summer, withering from a lack of sun. It's not very funny when you're the one stuck in bed too tired to move. And she knows her siblings are worried about her, the little sister always chattering, always fidgeting, always climbing out of the windows to get closer to the stars, left listless every year by a condition outside of their control. Of course they're worried.
Oh, she'll get over it, somehow. She'll drag herself out of bed, bundled with oversized sweaters stolen from her family's closets; she'll choke down a proper breakfast, maybe even a coffee just to burn her tongue on it; she'll walk out the door, chin held high, like every step doesn't feel like it's costing her life to take. And the next day, the routine will get a little easier. And the next day, again. Again, again, again. It's worth it, Cleo thinks, whatever it's costing her to get up in the morning. The colder it gets, the brighter the colors. Alphabet Soup in autumn can be so pretty.
