The Snow-Dusted Pilgrimage
I didn’t stop to find my boots or a coat. Barefoot and shivering, driven by a force I couldn’t explain, I followed that black shadow through the hushed, snow-dusted streets of our town. The pavement was biting, and the air was a sharp blade against my skin, but I was anchored to the rhythm of his movement. We walked past houses glowing with cheerful festive lights and the distant sound of late-night carols, traversing the quiet suburbs until we reached a neighborhood that felt strangely familiar—like a half-remembered dream rising from the depths of my subconscious.
Cole finally came to a halt at the foot of a small, white-shingled house. My breath hitched in my throat as the realization settled into my bones. This was the house where I had spent my earliest childhood years, a place we had moved away from more than two decades ago. It was the setting of my very first memories, a location I hadn’t visited or even thought about in years.
