They named him fox, as if that meant warmth in the fur, clever teeth, a flame against the snow. But he was shaped by colder hands. He walks where the forest forgets the sun, where frost tightens around thought and the wind rehearses old disappointments through the ribs of pine. His steps leave no history. The snow closes behind him like a book that never learned his name. He does not howl. The sky would not answer. Some nights he mistakes endurance for purpose. Some nights he knows the difference and keeps moving anyway. In his eyes a quiet northern fire that does not burn for others, nor for glory, but simply to remain. And in that remaining there is a loneliness so complete even winter keeps its distance.
