Fox's Glade ocean eyes

Cole walked alongside Winslet, his steps heavy in contrast to her light-footed grace. He listened intently as she spoke, the wistful notes in her voice bringing a rare softness to his usually stoic demeanor. The way she described the ocean—its vastness, its beauty—made him pause, imagining a world so different from the one he’d known.

When she giggled, sheepish and apologetic, he shook his head slightly, his lips twitching upward in the faintest of smiles. It’s alrigh’, he assured her, his tone quiet but steady. Ain’t much of a talker, so it’s good to hear someone else fill the air.

He glanced down at her, then ahead again, the snowy expanse seeming to stretch endlessly before them. Grew up in the mountains, he began, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a valley down below, but it wasn’t much. Just rocky slopes, cold winds, and nothin’ worth missin’.

He paused, rolling his shoulder as if shrugging off a memory. Ain’t got no soft sand or salt air like your sea, he added, glancing at her briefly. But I reckon it made me who I am. Hard place, hard folks.

His gaze settled ahead once more, his pace steady. Don’t be sorry for missin’ your home. We all do, in our way.