Snow falls like a quiet confession, soft and unhurried, turning the night into something tender. Wrapped in black against a world of white, he stands still. Snow catching in his hair like fleeting stars. The trees glow behind him, heavy with frost.
He stands beneath the hush of winter, where frost clings to every branch and the world feels softer, quieter. As if the snow itself paused just to watch him breathe.
He stands with arms wide beneath the falling snow, a quiet silhouette in the dark. In that stillness, he feels both small against the night and endless within it.
Midnight holds its breath and the world forgets my name. Just me, the quiet snowfall, and a screen full of borrowed light. Black on black, soft static in the dark a moment that almost disappears, before it ever existed.