The ice bit our ankles,
but we walked anyway
two silhouettes in layers,
fogged breath between us like ghosts that couldn’t settle.

The arctic pier stretched out
into a sea of slate and silence.
Wood beneath us whined with every step,
a familiar creak old bones groaning in the cold.

“Don’t look down,” Jonah joked.
I didn’t. Not then.

But the creaks grew sharper,
louder,
less like wood,
more like… breath.

Then it changed.

A bellow rose up from the black below, like the ocean had a throat
and it was clearing it.

We stopped.

The ice cracked around the pylons.
The wind held its breath.

Jonah whispered,
“You heard that, right?”

Another bellow, closer now.
Not angry. Not even warning.
Just... listening.

I crouched, palm to timber.
The pier pulsed.

Alive.

We didn’t run.
We sat.
Waited.

Because some things don’t chase you.
Some things just call,
and you decide whether to answer.