In the final half-hour before dawn, the snowfield lay like a blank sheet of paper, unnervingly flat. Samira secured Karim tightly to her back with an old scarf. The Pole Star postmark the old man from the weather station had given her pulsed faintly warm in her palm, a reminder: one step further north was truly uncharted territory.
The newly formed snow ridge crunched softly underfoot. The wind had died, but the air itself cut like knives against her cheeks. Karim's breath warmed the nape of her neck, carrying the sweet scent of honey and tea—the sugar the old man had secretly slipped into his pocket last night, now their only remaining warmth.
In the distance, a low ice cliff marked the end of the snowfield. Atop it stood a wooden pole, a small red lamp hanging from its tip like a sentinel in the polar night. The old man had said this was the "End of the Aurora". If she could carve their names onto the ice stele beneath the pole before dawn, a postman would raise his sail from a fissure and ferry them across the final crack in the ice.
Samira quickened her pace. The snow reached her knees, unnaturally soft, threatening to pull her down. She thought of Ilyas's final ashes, the key handed by the orchard woman, the third lamp suddenly snuffed out in the signal box—all fires extinguished, save for the stubborn, cooling star within her chest.
The ice cliff drew nearer, the red lamp blinking through the haze. At its base, a stele of ice, half a person tall, stood starkly. Its surface was smooth as a mirror, reflecting her flushed face and Karim's closed eyes. She lowered her brother and drew the red-threaded knife from the mailbag. Its tip touched the ice and made the first cut.
Ice shavings flew like shattered stardust. She carved "Samira", then "Karim". When it came to the third name, her hand hesitated—"Ilyas" was too long for the remaining narrow space. She bit her lip, adding a small "&" before "Elias", binding him too into this journey beyond turning back.
As the final stroke was etched, the red lamp flared brilliantly. A deep *crack* echoed from within the ice stele, like a bolt sliding open. The snow split apart, and a small white-sailed boat rose slowly from the fissure. Its sail bore the same Pole Star postmark. At the bow stood the captain in his sealskin coat, the missing notch in his left ear like a bite taken from the moon of the polar night.
"Names received," the captain said, his voice fragmented by the wind. "Board. Don't look back."
Samira lifted Karim and stepped onto the deck. The sail filled with wind. The boat, as if pulled from the ice crack by an unseen hand, slid into the deeper northern darkness. Behind them, the snowfield sealed shut. The names carved on the ice stele, kissed by the aurora, glowed with a phosphorescent white light—an unfading vow.
At the bow, the captain hung a small green lamp on the mast. Its light illuminated Samira's face and Karim's finally peaceful sleep. The wind blew from the Pole, carrying unnamed freedom, a silent farewell on its breath:
Northward. Further North.