Bare as the day I first entered this bitter world. Skin prickled, breath a small ghost. Air bites, chest burns with every gasp. The white takes everything—mountains, trees, even the sky. Yesterday’s ridges are gone. The Douglas-firs bow to their gods. Time stops here. The world holds its breath. In the distance, a stag stands motionless. Frost clings to his hide. Antlers heavy with history. He’s seen seasons crawl past, seen wolves circle and vanish into the blur. He breathes steadiness, exhales certainty. His spirit old as bark. But my mind is not a forest. It is the Amarok, prowling at the edges. A shadow. A hunger. A thought that won’t let go. The lone wolf that hunts the wanderer. It knows my name, the rhythm of fear. I tell myself not to run. I tell myself not to fear what already knows my scent. The snow keeps falling. The world keeps narrowing. Somewhere, a branch cracks under its own weight.