The snow thickened as Michael walked.

  He'd left the car where the road narrowed, the town lights visible below like a constellation scattered across the dark slope. The air cut sharp against his face, cold enough to sting, cold enough to feel real.

  He welcomed it.

  Each step sent a jolt through his body—boots crunching against frost, breath clouding the air. The town unfolded slowly around him, streets growing familiar in a way he couldn't explain. Corners tugged at him. Alleyways whispered you've been here before.

  He ignored them.

  Instead, he followed the pull.

  Snow gathered in his hair, dampened the shoulders of his coat. Somewhere nearby, the sea broke against stone, steady and indifferent. The sound settled into his bones like a heartbeat.

  He stopped once, hands braced on his knees, breath ragged—not from exertion, but from the swell of sensation crowding his chest. The ache was stronger now, closer to the surface. Less absence. More grief.

  "You don't know why," he muttered to himself. "You don't know what you're missing."

  But his body did.

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  He passed darkened shopfronts, windows frosted over, signs creaking softly in the wind. Then—warmth.

  Light spilled across the pavement ahead, gold and inviting, cutting through the blue-white hush of snow.

  Michael straightened.

  The smell hit him first.

  Wood smoke. Yeast. Something savoury and sweet beneath it—herbs, maybe. Or memory.

  His pulse spiked.

  The sign above the door swayed slightly in the wind.

  FIELD OF WAVES

  He stared at the name, heart hammering.

  Field. Waves.

  Green. Blue.

  His breath caught painfully.

  Without thinking, he reached for the door.

  Willow's Diary

  Snow changes everything.

  It hides footprints.

  Softens edges.

  Makes the world quiet enough to hear yourself think.

  Tonight, the fire is burning low and steady.

  I don't know why, but I feel like

  someone is walking toward it.

  Poem — Before the Door

  There is a moment

  before you cross a threshold

  when the past holds its breath.

  If he opens the door,

  I will not ask who he is.

  I will ask if he is cold.

  And then—

  I will feed him.