The austere white walls reflected not only the coldness of the room, of this whole bloody house. It didn't used to always be so, for a younger Nate remembered when the room was bright with folk tunes and stories around the fire. It was now preserved as immaculate monument to stubbornness and indifference.

Nate looked at the photo; he couldn't recall the exact date that was taken but did remember the eternity he had to stand there looking dower for the photographer. Now that same image stared down at him from the mantle on high, as if in judgement. His father's gaze saying:

"Ye have failed indeed, my son."