Footprints in Static

Snow collects where we stood, erasing the shape of our steps but not the cold that remains.

Each breath crystallizes differently— your syllables freeze mid-air, mine dissolve into the dark. The space between is a language we've stopped trying to speak.

Outside, the world accumulates in increments we cannot measure: a film of frost on the window, the slow ache of branches learning to hold nothing.

Still, I find your fingerprint on the doorframe— not a ghost, not a promise, just evidence that something once moved through here, changed the temperature of air, left a trace we keep mistaking for warmth.

The silence doesn't end. It just gets deeper, softer, like snow, like falling without landing.