Did I say something earlier about the cold? It doesn't penetrate, it shatters gently, like a fine glass. Invisible fingers, grasping, they leave marks you can't see until... Wait, was there something left behind in the snow? Your footprints lead nowhere, everywhere at once, a map of forgotten wanderings.
Echoes not heard, burning into the surface below, like an unacknowledged gaze. The nowhereness lingers, almost tangible. Why do they always seem to watch, these unseen specters?
If only the whispers could be contained, frozen like the frost that creeps. But whispers are alive, and they know too well the paths untraveled. Winter Whispers