Outside the wind is howling as the sky proclaims its wintry will; a falling blanket of unceasing snow. I watch it from my dwelling, my solitary cell. Today it feels like a refuge, a small fire burning keenly in the corner warms my hands. With quill and ink, I am seeking to chronicle the lost stories, the great deeds, the songs and prayers of a time now long past. I am content. Yet I know tomorrow I will look out on the fresh snow and wish to tread out, to create new stories in my footsteps, to shed this eremitic life like an old cloak and dress myself in confident color. I could revisit those crowded streets full of boisterous speech and joyful reunion. I could find friendship, perhaps even love.

But for now I will remain, reciting the old tales to myself and hoping to capture their truth on parchment. I will watch the snow, solemn and steady, as it sings its own truth; indomitable yet longing.