He heard a loud bang and dashed into the room. The frame was not closed, wind whipped through the space, the girl laid dead on the floor. “She should have left the pane closed,” he thought. “She would not have died if she had just left it closed.” The gale tore through the room and threw the chair to the floor. He watched, but he could not act as it broke in two. He fought the rough winds and made his way to it. He did not stop to look at the girl who lay cold on the floor; his mind was on the chair. He peered down at its corpse, stood fixed on top of it, stunned. “I told her not to,” he breathed to the air. He let one tear fall on the chair, watched it sink in the brown, gnarled wood. He bent down on one knee, ran his hands through the red blood that slid past his nails, and yelled a curse to the girl who dared scoff at his words, the girl that killed his chair. He fell to the ground and hit his head. He could feel his strength leave his soul, he heard his heart slow down, he felt his blood stop in its tracks. He let one tear fall to the floor as he turned to ice. The wind left the room, the three dead lay slain.