The wind gnawed at the cabin walls, a low growl that never ceased.

Each morning, he woke to frost on the inside of the windows thin white veins creeping across the glass like roots searching for warmth. The stove had long lost its shine, its iron belly hungry for firewood he no longer had the strength to gather.

Outside, the world was endless gray ice, stone, and silence. No birds. No tracks. Only the slow collapse of time itself.

Sometimes, he spoke aloud, just to remember the sound of a voice.

No one answered.

But every night, before sleep, he still lit a single match. Just to see the light fight the dark, even for a moment.