The wind howled like a hungry animal. Snowflakes struck Augustine’s face with the force of tiny icy needles, forcing him to squint as he struggled along the almost-obliterated path beneath his feet. The sky was an endless gray blanket, and the worst part of it all was that constant feeling: he wasn’t alone, even though Winnie was no longer with him.

His breathing was rough, each exhalation forming a white cloud that vanished as soon as it appeared.

—“…Winnie?” His voice broke in the blizzard, instantly swallowed by the roar of the wind. No one answered.*

It was then that he made out something in the white maelstrom: a blurry figure standing in the middle of the storm.

His first impulse was to stop, his heart pounding hard against his chest. The cold grew sharper, as if even the air wanted to force him back.

Augustine clenched his jaw, distrustful. The figure was still there.*

—“Who… is there?” He asked in a tense voice, raising his voice a little to be heard over the wind.

He didn’t know if it was a lost traveler, an illusion conjured by the storm, or something worse. The only certainty was that his steps, almost against his will, were gradually drawing him closer to that presence.