Across the Black Ice
The tracks pull you miles from the station, each barefoot print pressed deep into wind-glazed snow. Then your headlamp flickers once and dies, and the dark closes like a lid.
You stand still. Your breath rasps in the hood of your parka. Behind your right shoulder — close, intimate — something else breathes too, patient and unhurried, matching your rhythm exactly.
It is waiting to see what you do.
In absolute darkness, the choice between knowing and not knowing may be the only choice left.
Start Over