The Star's Return Through Snow
By Leaf Richards
The snow was a living, breathing thing, an insurmountable white wall that stretched from the frozen riverbank to the distant, blurred silhouette of the old cottage. Thomas pushed a gloved hand against the stinging cold, drawing a ragged breath that caught in his throat, each exhalation blooming white before him. His muscles screamed, a dull, insistent ache radiating from his hips and thighs, but he kept moving, one slow, deliberate step after another. The forest, a silent sentinel of spruce and fir, held its breath, the muffled silence amplifying the rhythmic crunch of his boots, the only sound for miles. The air carried the crisp scent of frozen pine needles and something mineral, like static before a storm. He wondered, briefly, if he was entirely mad.
