The sluice gate opens right on schedule, same as always. Nobody ever asks what rides in with the water.
The ash doesn't shift on its own. By the time you notice the print filling in behind you, she's already gone.
When the hardpack sings and the snow throws sparks, it’s not thunder—it’s her.
When the sun drops and the snow turns blue, he is already behind you.
When the lead goes still and the birds stop calling, she is already under the ice.
The wind goes quiet when she decides to move. Then the earth remembers it has bones.