When Winter Looked Back

The cold arrived quietly,

not with snow,

but with the way sound stopped traveling.

Footsteps vanished before they reached the road.

Breath fell straight down,

heavy,

as if the air refused to carry it.

Winter didn’t announce itself.

It waited.

Trees stood thinner now,

their bones exposed,

branches scratching the sky

like fingers asking to be remembered.

The wind slid between them,

whispering names it shouldn’t know.

I pulled my coat tighter.

The fabric felt wrong —

too stiff,

as if it had learned how to hold still without me.

Somewhere, ice cracked.

Not loudly.

Intentionally.

The light changed next.

Dusk lingered longer than it should have,

stretching shadows into shapes

that leaned closer

when I wasn’t looking.

Snow began to fall —

soft, polite, almost kind —

but every flake landed with weight,

as if counting something.

Steps followed me.

Not behind —

inside my rhythm.

Matching.

Practicing.

I stopped.

So did the world.

That’s when I felt it —

the cold wasn’t touching me anymore.

It was watching.

The wind exhaled near my ear,

warm with stolen breath,

and the snow reflected a face

that blinked

one second too late.

Winter smiled without a mouth.

And I understood then —

this season wasn’t empty.

It was full of things

that wait

until the world grows quiet enough

to hear them think.