A lone man, in a cold world, walking aimlessly through ice.

      This can't be any clearer than that; it's not a metaphor, nor a representation of any kind. This man's life is the literal of what that sentence spells out – a man, alone in this vast space of lifeless white, on a planet with nothing but stark, brooding darkness and the eternal blow of winter.

      A planet with nothing but snow. And not a single sun in view.

      He roamed the surface, walking and praying, clutching onto that thin red line of fragile conception that is hope.

      Digging through snow was the most effective method to staying alive as of late. When the wind blows or the chills start coming, whichever is first, he'd dig a hole through the snow, make shelter there, and breathe – a thousand breaths that he couldn't outside. He'd dig, find what he's always found around him that is snow, or sometimes when he's lucky, he'd find ice.

      Ice has particularly become a precious commodity to his overall yearning. He used to just chew it, melting it in his mouth to rehydrate, but somehow, he's started seeing them as a presence.

      An entity of comfort, rather than a piece of solid nothing that melts at the faintest touch of heat.

      He looked for one in every hole he dug, and noticed it's the only other thing that had form on the planet. It's become tiring to see just snow all the time, after all. Digging through it all the time. Feel cold all the time. Walk all the time.

      But that's all he really had.

      He walked straight ahead towards a single direction, desperate for a saving in any form, other than just the ice. He treaded, leaving a series of marks only a man could leave in a newfound world such as this. A planet he knew nothing about.

      A planet of snow, and ice, and then nothing else.

      As he ventured for nights – whatever's there to count those – his steps have grown weaker, his body aching for the slightest warmth as he wobbled about, struggling to keep his balance intact.

      As he walked on, his face now a frozen projection of all his desperate calls, the sky, a formerly unbeatable filament of darkness, lit up at the slash of an orange line. A straight diagonal descent, contrasting what's become of the man's walking.

      A second line flew by next, and then a third. He didn't see everything unfold, as his eyes looked down onto nothing, his steps a ragdoll mimic to a soft crushing of snow. His body fell shut, flopping down on the ice as the sky fell silent, its darkness rejoicing in the absence of the orange.

      A few moments later and the darkness cowered back.

      Another line had appeared.

      It stretched even wider and burned brighter, and stayed for longer than the three.

      This was enough time for the man to get back up and see. The glorious sight had thawed out the cold in his long-defeated heart, and so, with such merry an expression, he ran towards the crash site, eager to see the object that made the night sky light.

      Four cube blocks, positioned side by side oddly perfectly, were in similarly oddly unmoved snow when he arrived. The blocks brimmed with an inviting orange glow, the glow seemingly stronger under the planet's blanket night.

      He ran excitedly towards one block, hugged it and placed his cheek on the surface, expecting heat to be felt there.

      The man jolted, jumping right back in distress.

      Damn thing was ice.