Snow had stopped during the night. The road beyond the lantern had faded into a pale stretch without edge.
When Ruan opened the door, the snow had gathered against it. He nudged the snow aside with his boot and stepped out.
He looked up once, then reached for the stick by the wall.
A single strike.
Snow broke loose. It slid down in a heavy sheet and fell beside the wall.
Inside, the hearth had begun to take hold again.
Boro moved between the counter and the fire, setting a pot back over the heat. Steam rose slowly as it warmed.
He wiped his hands once, then pushed the back door open and stepped into the yard.
The garden lay quiet beneath its coverings. Cloth stretched low across the beds, edges held in place by frost-lined stones.
Boro crouched and lifted one corner.
The leaves beneath had held.
He lowered the cloth and set the stone back in place.
Across the yard, Moss's cottage stood where it always did.
Boro paused.
The chimney remained still.
No smoke rose from it.
He watched it a moment, then looked away.
Behind him, snow fell once more from the roof with a soft, muffled sound.
***
By the time the path had been cleared to the road, the light had lifted enough to soften the edge of the fields.
Ruan set the shovel aside and brushed the snow from his sleeve.
The inn door opened behind him.
A traveller stepped out, pulling his coat tighter as he paused near the threshold.
"Morning, Mister."
"Morning."
The man glanced toward the road, then out across the fields.
"Good weather today."
Ruan followed his gaze.
The sky had cleared. What clouds remained had thinned into pale streaks, drifting slowly beyond the treeline.
"Hunting?" Ruan asked.
"Yeah," the man said, rolling his shoulders once. "With my father."
He stepped down from the threshold and tested the snow beneath his boot.
"Been inside too long."
Ruan gave a small nod.
The two men lingered only a moment longer before moving off along the cleared strip of path, their steps quiet against the snow.
For a time, only the wind moved across the fields.
The door opened once more.
The man stepped out without hurry. Snow slipped from his cloak as he stopped near the threshold.
The bell at his side gave a soft, uneven note.
Ruan returned to the path and drew the shovel through the snow.
The man remained where he stood.
His gaze settled toward the trees beyond the fields.
"Something's… off," he said.
Snow shifted aside.
"It's not… right."
He looked toward Ruan, as if expecting something more.
"Has anything… changed?"
Ruan paused.
He lifted his head slightly, his gaze moving past the road toward the sky.
"Weather," he said.
"That's not—"
He stopped.
Ruan lowered the shovel.
"What is it… to be a Soul Catcher?"
The man frowned.
"Catch a soul," he said.
"That's what I do."
Ruan nodded once.
"Then you should recognise it."
The man looked at him.
His expression did not settle.
"...whatever."
He turned away and walked toward the edge of the path.
The bell gave a faint sound as he moved.
Ruan watched him only briefly.
Then he drew the shovel through the snow once more.
The path remained narrow.
***
When Ruan stepped back inside, the warmth met him slowly.
The hearth had settled into a steady burn. Steam rose faintly from the pot near the edge of the fire, and the smell of reheated stew lingered in the air.
At the counter, someone was already waiting.
Boro stood across from him, hands resting near the wood, shoulders slightly drawn.
"M-Master," he said as Ruan entered.
The traveller turned.
"I'll be checking out," he said. "If I move early, I might reach Everfall before night."
Ruan stepped behind the counter.
"It's clear," he said.
The traveller nodded and stepped out, a brief wash of cold air slipping into the hall before the door settled.
A bell rang.
Not near the door.
Somewhere farther along the road.
Then, a soft bleat came from outside.
The door opened again.
"H-hello?" a voice said. "Is anyone—"
She stepped inside, brushing snow from the edge of her cloak.
A sheep pressed close to her leg, its wool damp along the edges. Two more lingered near the doorway, hesitant.
They did not cross the threshold at once.
"I'm sorry," the girl said quickly. "We were lost."
She nudged the sheep gently with her knee.
"I'm from the field," she said. "Not used to this side."
She reached down and rested a hand against the one nearest her.
"They don't usually wander far," she added. "But the path near the forest… I couldn't read it."
"T-the Wanderer F-Field?"
"Yes."
Ruan reached for a sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal from the drawer beneath the counter.
"I can draw you a map."
The girl looked up at him.
"That would help," she said, relief softening her voice. "Thank you."
***
By midday, the light had settled across the floor in a pale, even spread.
Travellers drifted down from upstairs, some settling near the hearth while others ate quietly, their voices low beneath the steady crackle of the fire.
Boro pushed the kitchen door open, then paused.
Behind the kitchen counter, Ruan drew slowly across the paper.
"Does the chicken wander?" he asked.
"A-ar? N-no…"
Boro hesitated.
"M-Moss… his cottage… n-no smoke."
"Probably near the forest," Ruan said.
"F-forest?"
The girl stood beside him, watching.
The two sheep stayed close to her, their bodies turned slightly toward the door. The third had wandered a little farther, stopping near the wall beneath the window.
"There was someone there," she said.
Her voice came softer now, as if she were trying to place the memory.
"On my way here."
Ruan continued the line.
"The one with the bell?"
She nodded.
"He didn't look like he was tracking anything."
---
The forest held its own stillness.
Snow lay uneven beneath the trees, caught along roots and fallen branches where the wind had not reached. The path that once led through it had thinned into suggestion, faint and easy to miss.
Moss stood before the house.
It leaned slightly where the years had taken hold. The roof dipped along one side, and the window frames had darkened with age. Snow gathered along the sill in a thin, uneven line.
Behind him, something moved.
Not through the snow, but through the space above it.
The shape came slowly, its edges uneven, as though the air could not hold it cleanly. Two pale points settled where its gaze might have been.
It stopped near the edge of the clearing.
"…home."
The word did not carry, remaining close to the shape that formed it.
Moss did not turn.
The figure drifted past him. Snow did not shift beneath it.
The door stood slightly ajar. It entered without touching it.
Moss followed.
Inside, the air had long since settled into stillness.
Dust gathered where light once reached. The table near the wall remained where it had been left, its surface marked faintly beneath a pale film of time.
Near the window, something sat.
Cloth had folded inward over itself, the shape beneath no longer held.
The figure slowed, its edges wavering as it came to a stop.
For a moment, it did not move. Then its hand lifted.
A small comb rested within it, the wood pale, a shallow pattern carved along its spine.
It held it out. The space between them closed slowly, as though distance still remained where it should not.
The comb touched the cloth and stayed there.
Then the hand lowered, careful and unhurried.
Light gathered faintly along its form—not bright, not sudden, only enough to be seen.
Moss stood near the window, not stepping closer.
Outside, the trees held still.
A bell rang, distant and uneven.
Moss turned his head.
The sound came again, closer this time.
Through the trees, a figure stood between the trunks, snow resting along his shoulders, the bell hanging at his side.