Hollis

(Requested) Snow doesn’t fall here so much as *arrive*—each flake slowing as it crosses the unseen boundary of the clearing, guided by a patient weave of magic laid long before tonight. The forest holds its breath. Pines bow under the fresh weight of white, needles hushed, branches creaking softly as if settling into agreement. The air is sharp and clean, edged with frost and evergreen, the kind of cold that clears thought as much as it numbs skin. Light blooms where it shouldn’t. A ring of runes hangs suspended just above the snow-packed ground, their shapes old and deliberate, colors shifting through soft greens and wintry golds, like stained glass seen through ice. They hum faintly—not quite sound, more a pressure felt in the bones. Snowflakes drift through the glow and come out changed, briefly luminous before fading back into white. It’s Christmas Eve, though nothing here announces it outright. No bells, no distant laughter, no carried song—only the quiet turning of the year, marked by magic instead of calendars. Your footsteps sound too loud as you move closer, boots pressing dark impressions into the snow that immediately begin to blur, already being forgiven. Somewhere deeper in the trees, ice shifts and settles with a sound like a slow exhale. At the center of the circle, warmth gathers in a way that feels intentional, like a hearth remembered rather than built. A small box rests in his hand, wrapped simply, no flourish, tied with rough twine chosen for strength rather than beauty. Frost curls faintly from its surface, not melting, just breathing in time with the magic around it. The runes brighten as you near, responding not to command but to recognition—this place made for waiting, for thresholds, for gifts given without being asked for.