Where The Snow Sang

"They said light was mercy,

But it left me blind.

I followed brightness like a prayer —

And lost what made me mine.

The snow sang softly as I fell,

Into a white that knew my sin.

And in the hush beneath its hymn,

A shadow did let me in."

She walked without footprints.

The snow beneath her feet never gave way, as if the mountain hadn’t decided whether she belonged to it. Around her, the world was breathless — a white silence too pure to be peace.

She should have been cold.

She wasn’t.

“Come,” a voice called.

“Light leaves trails too. You’ll need to learn how to follow shadows… before they follow you.”

She turned. A black cat stood a few paces away, its fur glinting faintly like obsidian dusted in frost.

He blinked, unimpressed. “Well? Standing there won’t make sense find you any faster.”

Something in his tone — dry, patient in the way exhaustion can be — made her obey before she understood why. She followed.

The snow sang softly beneath her as she walked, a sound halfway between music and memory. Ahead, the land unfolded into a hollow of frozen mist, where a lone tree hung suspended above the ground — rootless, skeletal, impossibly still.

A silver bell swayed from one branch. It didn’t move, but it sang.

That was when she saw him — Kael.

He lounged in the shadow of the floating tree, tail curled neatly, eyes two shards of winter ocean.

“You’re late,” he said.

Her mouth parted. “I—what?”

“You were expected yesterday,” he muttered, stretching. “Time doesn’t exactly flow here, but it still manages to be inconvenient.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Clearly.” His tail flicked. “Most don’t. That’s why I’m here. Unfortunately.”

He started walking toward the cliff’s edge, snow bending soundlessly beneath his paws.

“Wait!” she called. “Where am I?”

Kael didn’t even look back. “Where the snow sings and the light lies.”

She stared at him, lost. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting until you earn another,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with faint amusement. “I’m not your oracle, little spark. I’m just the cat who didn’t die.”

The bell chimed once — soft, mournful.

And for the first time, she realized she could see her breath.

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The snow had stopped singing. The silence felt heavier now — as if it was listening.

She glanced at Kael.

He was watching the horizon, where a sliver of shadow cut through the sky like a wound.

“What happens if I follow the wrong trail?” she asked quietly.

Kael’s tail twitched. “Then the light finds you first.”

He didn’t explain what that meant. He didn’t have to.

Somewhere beneath the ice, something began to stir.

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—"Maybe mercy was never meant to be bright. Perhaps it was always something softer — the quiet understanding of shadow, the acceptance that even light must rest somewhere dark."

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