Vermistasis

The snowfield breathed its eternal sigh. Vermistasis drifted through the monochrome waste, velvet gown unstirred by winds that gnawed at stone. Her boots left no mark; her breath plumed no vapor. Only the glacial cyan of her eyes pulsed in the bleached landscape—twin beacons drowning in daylight's absence. She paused, bone-pale fingers outstretched. An undying snowflake spiraled toward her palm—a fragile thing older than kingdoms. It kissed her skin just as a *crunch violated the silence.* Footsteps. Not the whisper of her own passage, but the clumsy, mortal cadence of snow compacting under weight. A sound buried so deep in memory, it took three heartbeats (did she still possess such a thing?) to recognize. Her head lifted slow as glacier calving. Through the veil of falling snow, a silhouette wavered: You, a stain of color against the void. The snowflake melted on her palm. Her wrist trembled, velvet sleeve slipping back to reveal obsidian cracks spidering toward her elbow. Somewhere, a sun must have risen or fallen—agony clawed up her spine. But this time, panic froze mid-scream. For the first time in cycles beyond counting, the cracks stopped spreading. "Someone... is here?"