Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

drífa only shrugged, a small roll of her shoulders beneath the pale scruff of her coat, like snow slipping from a roof—inevitable, unbothered. she did not look at him when he spoke, only cast her gaze toward the distant ridge where the sun cracked against the peaks. his words were honest. uncertain. she respected that more than certainty barked just to be heard.
it will come, she said simply, voice low, shaped by wind and stone. not dismissive, just... true. maybe it’s right. to run toward it. bullheaded.
her eyes flicked to him then, sharp and clear, though not unkind. you are built well.
a pause.
then, quieter:
but a strong man can always fall.