The Whisper of Winter
The garden had grown quiet after Sasha left.
Victor stood there for a long while, watching the path she'd taken, the faint echo of her steps still lingering in his mind like an afterimage that refused to fade. The silence pressed in, soft but heavy, carrying with it the first chill of evening.
He finally exhaled, tilting his head up toward the sky. The moon had risen—pale and solemn, casting its silver light over the courtyard. The breeze that swept through carried the crisp scent of changing seasons, brushing against his face like a quiet reminder.
"It's colder tonight," he murmured to himself. His breath came out in a faint cloud.
The leaves rustled faintly overhead, and he could feel it in the air—that subtle shift that only someone who paid attention would notice. The world was turning toward winter.
He smirked faintly. "So this world has seasons too… summer, rain, winter. Even that's the same."
