The snow melted faster than anyone had expected.
Two days ago, the cabin had been a fortress against the cold, frost curling up the edges of the window glass, and the path to the woodshed a misery of crunching boots and stinging air. Now, water trickled down the slope in thin streams, cutting across the half-frozen ground and carrying away the white that had seemed permanent.
The air was soft, almost gentle, and carried a warmth that felt like betrayal.
Seraphina stood by the doorframe, her arms crossed loosely in front of her as she watched the wet ground steam in patches where the sun touched.
Her creature stirred faintly inside, unsettled not by danger, but by the strangeness of the air. Winter was supposed to mean predictability. Cold, scarcity, silence. This felt like an interruption—like the season had stepped aside without warning.
