𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓮

I stand by the frost-covered window, my breath fogging the glass, and look out over the frozen lake. The trees are heavy with snow, their branches bowing under the weight, and the world beyond seems suspended in silence, wrapped in white. The cold seeps into my bones, yet my mind drifts elsewhere—back to another winter, another time, to him. I see his smile, the dark hair that falls across his forehead, the way he laughs as he takes my hand and leads me across the ice. His hands in mine were a tether, a promise of safety, while the snow swirls around us in lazy, glittering spirals. We did not notice the ice beginning to crack beneath our feet, a subtle groan masked by our laughter. Then, instinctively, he pushes me aside, pulling me to safety just as the ice gives way and the cold water claims him. I close my eyes and feel that winter all over again, a winter after his death, and yet I feel closer to him than ever. His laughter rides the wind, his voice whispers my name, and I feel his presence, guarding me as he always did. But it is only memory, a ghost of the man I loved, who once saved me out of love itself. The season returns, and with it the stories the villagers tell—tales of the winter creatures, spirits born of frost and snow, of cold that bites deeper than the sharpest wind. The winters grow harsher, the snow falls thicker, and one name is spoken in hushed, reverent tones: Jack. The Winter Keeper. White hair, eyes like frozen lakes, winter incarnate. I have always struggled to believe such tales, dismissing them as old superstition. Yet tonight, I see not just my memories but a figure who matches the stories. He stands in the moonlight, at the edge of the frozen pond, a phantom conjured from the legends. My heart hammers with uncertainty—does my mind play tricks, or do spirits truly walk among us?