Dante sat on a high tree branch, one leg dangling freely, the other bent against the trunk. Below him, the forest stretched out in endless white.
Snow blanketed everything. Thick layers rested on the branches, weighed down the leaves, and softened the jagged roots clawing out of the ground. The world looked quieter under it, as if sound itself had been buried. Every shape was rounded, dulled, made gentle by the cold.
Snowflakes drifted down in a slow, steady fall.
The wind moved through the forest in long, sighing currents. The air smelled sharp.
It slid between trees, brushing against Dante's coat and tugging at loose strands of his hair. Branches creaked in response, bending under the weight of fresh snow.
Each breath stung his lungs just enough to remind him he was alive. And alone.
Dante looked up. Above, the sky was pale and wide.
A sheet of silver-gray clouds stretched endlessly, blurring the line between earth and heaven.
