Permafrost Hollows puuksraak

Nimbus didn’t flinch at her sudden attention, though the sharpness of her gaze cut through him like a shard of ice. He stood his ground but made no move to close the space between them, his posture loose and unthreatening, as though he were as much a part of the drifting snow as the flakes falling around them.  

He exhaled slowly, his breath ghosting into the cold air before disappearing altogether. Easy, he said softly, his voice low and steady, careful not to disturb whatever fragile peace hung between them. I’m not here to crowd you.

His pale eyes flicked to her coiled frame, taking in the tension that rippled just beneath the surface. A part of him recognized it—not just the readiness to defend, but the deeper thing it masked. A life spent unseen didn’t leave a soul untouched, and hers, he suspected, bore the same jagged edges as his own.  

Nimbus shifted slightly, as if to remind her he wasn’t some phantom come to haunt her. His movements were slow, deliberate, the kind of ease that came from navigating wary strangers and hostile silences. I won’t stay long, he said, his tone light, almost indifferent, though there was a weight behind his words. Just passing through, like the wind. No one notices when it leaves, either.

He turned his head slightly, casting his gaze out toward the horizon, where the snow blurred into the sky in an endless expanse of white. Funny thing about the wind, he murmured, more to himself than to her. It goes where it pleases, but even it gets tired of running sometimes.