He put his blackgloved fingers carefully against to the windows’ glass, followed by the pink shell of his ear. He listened to the dreams of those sleeping inside, and watched his breath in the moonlight, the silver of it kissing the pane, frosting it in white dust feathers. It reminded him of the coldness of the glass, and he lifted his head from it, and pulled his hat down to cover his now-red ear.
It was easy to ball up his fist and put it through the window; the noise it made was colder than the night, all crystal bright and somehow blue, and yet it was swallowed up in the dark, lost in the moment.
He reached down and unlocked the deadbolt, then let himself in, and shut the door behind, and headed right for the stairs that would take him up to the second floor, where the small bedroom was.
The gun at his side was heavy, but it would be lighter soon. Not one, but two bullets’ worth.