Ayla’s POVSnow falls in a slow, quiet drift all around me—not in the magical way you read about. Just... endless, white, and cold.It settles over everything—the trees, the ground, the rooftops—like it's trying to cover things up. Like if it piles high enough, no one will remember what's buried underneath. Like blood has never soaked into this ground.The cold bites through my thin, worn hoodie. I tug it tighter anyway, more out of habit than hope. It never helps. Whatever's settled in me goes deeper than weather.I try to shake it off, focusing on the pine-thick air instead — fresh, clean, real. But smoke drifts from the packhouse, and underneath it, as always, something else. A metallic tang that curls at the back of my throat. It always reminds me of blood, even when there isn't any.I stop at the edge of the road, gaze drifting toward the packhouse. Its windows glow, warm and inviting, filled with laughter and light. Everything I avoid.My eyes snap to a group standing at the ent
آخر تحديث : 2026-05-07
