Conflict prompt conflict entry - Arctic Imaginings

This is an entry for Fictioneers Writing Contest

You are the first to hear it, the faint wail of the wind, hollow, and tinny, the wrong note on a french horn, and you know, can tell somehow that this storm will be different from all the ones before it, for you, and not in a way you'd want, but there isn't a thing you can do to stop it.

The noise is louder now, more singing than french horn. You rush to the window that you'd claimed years ago, the one you've stood at staring at the white plains, unobstructed, all the way to the smudge of the horizon you could almost see. Almost. You watch as wisps of snow that look like smoke dance slowly upwards from the ripples of white, the ripples that to you have always been frozen over waves of the Arctic Ocean, and there is a hole in your belly, a hollowness you can't explain, but you know, you know as you stand there watching the sky turn indigo, and it's too early in the day for it to do that, but it does so anyway, and you watch the wisps meld together into something you can't quite name, and you can no longer see that drift of black smoke in the distance, the smoke that to you had always been there, waiting until you were old enough to take you away, your very own icebreaker.

The wind rattles the window for a brief moment rendering the picture outside blurry, and you can almost pretend that you are dreaming it, imagining it, as you always imagine things, and they are blurry at the edges, the things you dream. And it hits you, hard and sharp, and the wind is no longer a song, but a booming, rattling thing, a breaking thing, and you can't see anything in the too fast too fast too fast dance outside, and you want to turn away, but you can't let yourself, because somehow, and nobody told you, but you know...

You are watching your ocean die.