Where the Snow Remembers

His sobs echoed through the night air, raw and unrestrained. Butterscotch padded over to him, curling against his side and gently nudging his hand with her nose. He lifted her into his arms, fingers trembling as he stroked her fur—grounding himself in her warmth.

His tears still fell, but the gut-wrenching sobs slowly began to fade, leaving only quiet weeping in their place.

He reached for the necklace, fingertips brushing the cool metal. It shimmered faintly—just for a heartbeat—before settling once more into its muted silver.

With slow, unsteady steps, he made his way inside.

After settling Butterscotch on her pillow, he walked to the bathroom. The water ran cold as he splashed it over his face again and again, trying to calm the storm within. He grabbed a towel and pressed it to his skin.

And then he looked up.

In the mirror, his own reflection stared back at him—grief-stricken, hollow, and haunted.

The next few days passed in a blur.

Soren moved through them like a ghost—either lost in the quiet ache of her portraits or pouring words into his book with fervent focus. He still went out for his daily walks, not wanting to worry Cyan again. The familiar streets felt different now, quieter, as if the world, too, sensed her absence.

His poetry book was finally complete.

Unlike his previous works, this one pulsed with raw truth—woven from threads of joy and grief, of fleeting moments and eternal echoes. It danced between the mundane and the magical, each page a testament to the love that had changed him, the loss that had carved itself into his soul.

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It was unlike anything he’d ever written.

It was hers.

He visited the woods, seeing Sylara's friends before he left for the city. He knew Glacina and Lumina wouldn't want to meet him after what unfolded due to his presence.

He exchanged contacts with Cyan, their goodbye lingering in the hush between words. One last look at the house that had held so much love. A final gaze into the woods, where their laughter once echoed. Then, with a hollowed soul and a heart still aching yet full, Soren began his journey back.

He returned not as the man he once was, but as someone forever altered—sculpted by magic, by love, by loss.

In the years that followed, he became one of the most celebrated poets of his time. And though his name graced countless pages, it was one work that etched itself into the hearts of all who read it.

His most renowned book:

Where the Snow Remembers.

Critics praised its haunting beauty, readers enveloped by its stanzas, and poets often spoke of the aching soul behind the words.

But no one ever truly knew the muse who lived between those lines except a chosen few.

The world only remembered glimpses—a silver-haired figure, a blue-jeweled gaze, the soft echo of a name never spoken aloud.

And though admirers came and went, Soren never settled down.

He had already loved in a way most people only dream of. Once. Fully. Eternally.

And when the snow fell, gently and silently...

It always remembered.

She’s ice—

melting with every love she shares,

a hush of warmth in the cold night’s air.

She’s light—

a glow that reaches my darkest part,

weaving soft threads through the seams of my heart.

She’s a snowflake—

a kiss from the sky,

too beautiful to hold,

but destined to say goodbye.