Blackfoot Forest faith ain't no privilege

The forest was quiet beneath the weight of winter’s shroud, save for the occasional sharp cry that pierced the stillness. Nimbus moved through the snow without sound, his silvered form blending into the pale light of the moon above. He barely registered the voices of the foxes echoing through the woods—they belonged to the night, as much a part of it as the frost clinging to the branches.  

What lingered in his chest was far louder than the calls around him.  

His breath came slow and steady, each exhale curling into the air like ghosts of words he hadn’t spoken. The ache he carried gnawed at him with every step, a hollow, biting thing that no amount of distance seemed to ease. He’d been here before—different forests, different seasons—but the weight never changed.  

The snow crunched beneath his paws, the sound muffled as though the forest sought to smother even that small intrusion. He welcomed the stillness, though it did nothing to calm the storm of memories swirling behind his eyes. Her face, her voice, the sound of her laughter—it all played on an endless loop, relentless and sharp.  

Nimbus stopped beneath an old pine, its branches bowing beneath the weight of snow. He stared at the ground for a long moment, his breath shallow, his shoulders stiff. The night stretched around him, vast and uncaring, and he felt its indifference settle heavily over his heart.  

A faint rustle stirred the air, the scent of prey brushing against his senses. He should have followed it—should have let instinct take over and let the chase fill the void, if only for a moment. But he didn’t move.  

Instead, he lifted his head, pale yellow eyes scanning the shadows ahead, though he wasn’t truly looking at anything. What was there to see? What was there to find, now that the thing he’d been chasing for so long was gone?  

The forest whispered around him, the wind weaving through the trees like a song with no melody. Nimbus exhaled, his breath shuddering as it left him, and forced his paws forward. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he couldn’t stop. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering—and that, he wasn’t ready for.