The voice wasn’t a voice. It was the sound of a reed flute played underwater. Elias stopped. In the hollow of an uprooted cedar, a faint, pulsing light flickered. It wasn’t the orange of a campfire or the yellow of a lantern; it was the blue of a deep glacier, cold and ancient.

Elias felt a strange, aching heaviness in his chest. He understood now. The Wisp was the guardian of everything the winter tried to erase. It was the keeper of the "almosts" and the "used-to-bes."

For a heartbeat, the light flared bright enough to illuminate the frost-covered needles of the pines, turning the entire grove into a cathedral of glass. The melody reached a crescendo—a high, haunting note that seemed to pull the very stars closer to the earth.

The forest did not just grow; it breathed, and lately, its breath had turned to ice.

He reached out a gloved hand. The light didn't flee. It drifted toward his palm, hovering just an inch above the leather. In that proximity, the song grew louder, a shimmering cadence of loss and quiet beauty. It sang of summer fields that had been swallowed by the white, of lovers separated by the thaw, and of the long, patient wait for the world to turn green again.

Elias stood in the dark for a long time. The cold was still there, biting and indifferent, but the silence no longer felt empty. He turned back toward the village, the rhythm of the song still marking time in his footsteps, a small piece of the winter’s soul tucked away where the frost couldn't reach it.

Then, as quickly as it had peaked, the light dimmed. The Wisp spiraled upward, a glowing ember caught in an invisible draft, until it was nothing more than another star in the crowded sky.

"I hear you," Elias whispered, his voice cracking in the dry cold.