Stepping outside was a death route.
The harsh wind bitting at your skin, it clung to you with a wolves grip.
The trees lose their life, a white blanket covering their bright, vibrant green leaves.
The air is crisp, unmoving, silent.
The white is unending.
An abyss of eternal white.
The color really isn’t comforting, only raging.
Inside a bright light is made.
The fire cracking in the distance.
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