She wrapped her hair in a towel and fluffed the pillows behind her, sinking deeper into the bed. Her eyes fluttered shut.
And, as always, Collin came.
He appeared behind her eyelids like he always did, steady gaze and all. Those blue eyes—still full of questions, still full of home. He looked at her like he was asking her to return. And god, how she wanted to say yes.
She could almost reach him. She could smell the crushed herbs from his garden, the sun-warmed wild grass from his meadow. She could feel the faint scratch of stubble on his jaw, the strength of his arms as they curled around her. Their hearts had once beat together, breath syncing in fear and love as they survived the aftermath of the forest panther. It had all been so vivid then—terrifying and electric.
And somehow, it still was. All of it surged back like it had happened yesterday, as if Collin were standing in the room, waiting.
Many minutes after the stag disappeared, Collin remained still, staring into the distance. Now that he’d stopped, it was difficult to move again. Ahead of him stretched a smooth, unbroken canvas of white—waiting for someone to leave a mark.
He glanced back. A long, winding trail of footprints lay behind him, soft impressions pressed into snow. Mortal shapes in an immortal world. The sight made something in his chest ache.
Where was his place in this vast world? The snow would melt. The wind would cover his trail. Just like a heartbeat—here, then gone. Would anyone remember he had existed? Would anyone stumble across these quiet tracks and wonder about the man who left them?
A soul’s silent journey, a destination unknown.
Do footprints find purpose, or fade all alone?
He let out a long breath, heart still beating, steady and sure. There was nothing to do but go on. More miles to walk. More marks to leave.
He was the ephemeral artist. And his canvas awaited.
At the tail end of autumn, Collin had a strange encounter with a young gray wolf. One evening, during a pounding rainstorm, the creature stumbled into his lean-to, seeking shelter. For a long heartbeat, boy and beast stared at each other—two startled hunters caught in the same refuge. The wolf was straggly, silver-coated and soaked to the bone. Then, with a flash of movement, he bolted past Collin and vanished into the drenched meadow.
But he didn’t go far. Collin spotted him again a few days later, prowling through the tall grass, lean body low, chasing field mice and birds. The young wolf must have been starving to come so close to people.
When winter arrived and laid its first quiet veil of snow, paw prints began appearing near the fence line and the edge of the woods. But that was the last sign he ever saw. Collin had resisted the impulse to leave food—he knew too well the danger of taming a creature meant to be wild. Still, a trace of guilt clung tohim. Perhaps he should have done more. Perhaps he had failed a fellow wanderer.
What had separated the wolf from its pack? Wolves weren’t meant to be alone—not at that age. Had it lost its family in some accident, or had it simply wandered too far and lost the trail? Was it looking for someone? Searching for its place in the great, indifferent wilderness?
Sometimes, Collin liked to imagine the wolf still out there—traveling across the snow-blanketed world, restless and driven. A lonely traveler, just like him. Chasing after something it couldn’t name. Hoping it would recognize home when it finally found it.
After miles of perfect footprints, Collin finally looked down.
Snow clung to his arms, his shoulders, the fur-lined edge of his hood. A few damp flakes had caught in his lashes. He blinked them away, disoriented, as if waking from a dream. Or a winter spell.
He hadn’t even noticed the clouds gathering, the way the light had dimmed. The air had changed—he could feel it now, heavy and thick with coming snow.
Big wet flakes fell slowly, soundlessly, as if the sky were plucking petals from some endless white blossom. And if he weren’t so bitterly tired of this winter that refused to end, of this world that refused to soften, he might have found it beautiful.
He clenched his jaw. A knot inside him twisted—tight, sharp, unbearable.
A roar clawed up his throat before he could stop it. He threw his arms wide, fists crashing into snowbanks, striking at nothing, at everything. His voice cracked through the woods like a broken branch.
He wanted the snow to hit back. To rise up and fight him. But it just kept falling, slow and gentle, like it pitied him.
He drew his knife and slashed at the empty air, at ghosts, at gods, at fate. Swore until his voice was hoarse, until there was nothing left to spit but silence. No one answered. The trees stood still. The heavens kept shedding its petals.
His fury burned out fast, leaving only smoke.
Collin dropped to his knees in the snow, breath ragged, arms slack at his sides. His body shook, not from cold, but from the hollowness that followed the storm.
He stared at his lap, unmoving, as the snow settled over him—on his shoulders, his hood, his hands. It buried him slowly, gently, as if trying to make him another piece of the empty landscape.
He didn’t fight it.
Time slipped past. He didn’t know how much.
