She took it up again, the yarn she'd left twisted and half-done on a pair of needles. She didn't know what she made, it was just fingers clicking and wrapping line after line of knitted yarn, never thinking, never rising into any sort of being. It was still winter, and her shoulders still hunched against the coldness seeping through the walls, still hunched against the ash skies and dreary gloom. The fire didn't burn brightly these days, coal remained rationed and all the chairs about the place were brought ever closer to the grate. The feeble flames sent a skimming sort of warmth across her knuckles and her quarry grew longer, a straight ribbon of grey that mirrored the long clouds outside.
