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Rodin walked. He passed empty, washed-out buildings. He trod cracked, w**d-strewn paving. His boots stepped in puddles, through mud.
Clouds built in the sky, and Rodin walked through a downpour, then drizzle. Moisture ran down his face, stuck his clothes to his skin, seeped into his boots. The sun appeared briefly, a ray of hope that was soon extinguished, the light falling to shadow once again.
Night fell. Still Rodin walked.
His limbs burned. Everything ached. His stomach throbbed constantly.
The pain was his life. It meant nothing.
The night grew cold as the clouds cleared. There were stars above, so distant that they could do nothing for Rodin. Once, he might have used them to navigate. But this close to the Dome, there was no need. All he had to do was keep the glass
