The cold bit at your cheeks and the tips of your fingers, but it was a good kind of cold—the kind that made you feel alive. The air smelled of woodsmoke and pine needles and the faint, sweet promise of snow still to come.

You loved this. The solitude. The quiet. The way the world felt like it belonged to you and you alone.

You rounded a thicket of frost-laden firs and stopped.

There, a few paces ahead, a boy walked the same narrow path. He was tall, with a shock of ash-blond hair that caught the pale winter light like spun silver. He wore a dark coat, unzipped, and heavy boots that made deep impressions in the snow. A thick red scarf was looped loosely around his neck, and his breath curled in small, angry clouds around his face.

He didn't look up. His eyes were fixed forward, jaw set, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He moved like a man on a mission, or maybe just a man who didn't want to be bothered.

You slowed, just for a moment. Something about the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the way the snow caught in his lashes—

He passed you without a glance. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You watched him disappear between the trees, his footprints trailing behind him like a promise.

You shrugged, shoved your own hands deeper into your coat, and walked on. It was nothing.