Chapter 3 - The Frozen Bench
The wind near the Chicago River was a terrifying force. Unchecked by tall buildings, it swept across the open, dark water, carrying sheets of river spray that instantly froze upon hitting the concrete plazas.
Marcus lowered the SUV's speed to a crawl as they approached River Esplanade Plaza. The grand plaza was entirely deserted. Benches, planter boxes, and decorative trees were smothered in heavy, white dunes. The streetlights here flickered erratically, casting long, eerie shadows across the frozen stone.
"Nothing out here, sir," Marcus reported, peering into the whiteout. "Visibility is down to twenty feet. We should head toward the shelter on Wabash before the bridges freeze completely."
Nathan was about to agree when Chloe leaned forward, pressing her face against the glass.
"Daddy! Stop!" she cried, pointing out toward the river railing. "There's a lady on the bench! Look!"
Nathan leaned over Marcus’s shoulder. At first, he saw only snow. But then, through a tear in the blowing fog, he caught the faint outline of a concrete park bench facing the dark water. Sitting motionless upon it, completely exposed to the gale-force winds, was a solitary figure. She was covered in a thin, snow-laden coat, her head bowed deeply into her lap, perfectly still.
"Is she sleeping?" Chloe asked, her voice dipping into an anxious, quiet tone.
Nathan’s stomach plummeted. At negative fifteen degrees with windchill, sleeping on an exposed metal-and-concrete bench meant death within an hour.
"Marcus, lights on her! Now!" Nathan ordered sharply.
Marcus slammed the high beams on and brought the vehicle over the curb, mounting the sidewalk to block the fierce river wind with the SUV’s heavy body. Nathan unbuckled his belt and opened the door before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop.
"Stay in the car, Chloe!" Nathan shouted over the roar of the wind.
"No! She needs the tomato soup!" Chloe shouted back with unexpected fierce rebellion. Before Nathan could catch her, the little girl scrambled out of her child seat, grabbed a thermal cup of soup from the floor console with both gloved hands, and slid out the side door into the snowstorm.
"Chloe!" Nathan called out, stepping out into the blizzard after her.
The little girl was already trudging through the knee-deep snow, her pink-and-white figure moving steadfastly toward the frozen bench. Her small body buckled against the wind, but she held the warm soup container tightly against her belly like a sacred trust.
Nathan caught up to her in three large strides, shielding her with his body as they reached the bench.
The woman on the bench was completely covered in a fine layer of fresh snow. Her thin, threadbare winter coat was soaked through and frozen stiff as cardboard. She wore no gloves; her hands were tucked deep into her armpits, her fingers swollen and blue. She wasn't moving. She wasn't even shivering anymore—a terrifying sign of severe, advanced hypothermia.
"Lady?" Chloe called out gently, stepping close to the bench. She extended the steaming paper cup forward in both hands. "Lady, can you hear me? My daddy and I brought you warm soup."
For three agonizing seconds, there was no response. Only the screaming of the river wind.
Then, slowly—excruciatingly slowly—the woman’s shoulders twitched. The layer of snow on her back cracked and sloughed off. She raised her head.
Her face was deathly pale, covered in frost, her lips a deep shade of purple. But as her sunken, shivering eyes opened and locked onto the small child standing before her holding out soup, a violent tremor ran through her entire body.
The woman’s eyes widened in sheer, breathless shock. She stared at Chloe’s face—at the golden-blonde hair peeking out from her pink beanie, at the clear, bright blue eyes glowing in the dark—and a sound tore from the woman’s throat. It was not a moan of pain or a plea for help. It was a shattered, choked sob of instant recognition, the sound of a mother weeping over a ghost.
"Chloe...?" the woman gasped, her voice barely a cracked whisper against the storm.
Nathan froze in his tracks. The cold in his veins had nothing to do with the winter wind.
The woman didn't reach for the warm soup. Instead, with her last remaining thread of physical strength, she reached out her bare, ice-cold hand toward Chloe’s cheek, her fingers trembling wildly in the freezing air.
"My baby..." the woman sobbed, tears freezing into silver tracks on her cheeks the moment they left her eyes. "My little girl..."
Nathan stepped forward, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He grabbed the flashlight from his belt and shone it directly onto the woman's face.
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As the harsh white light illuminated her sunken cheeks, her high brow, and the distinct, faint crescent-shaped scar above her right eyebrow, the breath was knocked entirely out of Nathan's lungs.
"Elena...?" Nathan choked out, his voice cracking. "God in heaven... Elena?"
