The air bites—no, it devours—sharp-toothed and merciless,slipping beneath scarves and skin,gnawing at warmthuntil it becomes memory. Time itself feels brittle,its hours frozen mid-breath,its minutes shiveringagainst the relentless howl of wind.The ground is hard, unforgiving,a cruel canvas of frostthat cracks beneath careless steps,each sound swallowed wholeby the vast, snow-heavy skies. Trees stretchtheir bare, trembling fingers upward,their

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