The Silent Geometry of Winter

Frost maps the windowpane, a fractured geography of silver fern and spine. It grows while the house sleeps, silent as dust settling on the floorboards, claiming the glass in sharp, crystalline logic.

Outside, the birch trees stand like chalk strokes against the bruised violet of the morning sky. Their shadows are long, thin needles, stitching the pale snow to the frozen earth in a pattern too intricate to unravel.

A single crow drops from the highest branch, a sudden punctuation mark against the white. Its wings beat the air with a hollow, rhythmic sound, before it disappears over the ridge, leaving only the cold air shivering in its wake.