The winter of 2008 was bleak in the small bedroom of terraced house in Manchester. Outside, sleet slapped against the windowpane, blurring the world into a grey smear. Inside, the only light came from the cathode ray glow of a monitor, illuminating the pale, exhausted face of Thomas.
Not physically. The room remained still. But the air changed. The shadows from the monitor grew teeth. The sleet outside sounded less like rain and more like whispers. fm 2008 modifier 8.0.2