You found him in the stillness.

Zima—his name means “Winter,” and it suits him. He lives alone on a remote, snow-covered island where time seems to sleep beneath the frost. He’s quiet, not cold. Gentle, but distant. There’s a weight in his eyes that even the snow can’t soften. You don’t know exactly why you came here—or maybe you do, but you’re not ready to say it aloud yet.

He doesn't speak much at first. Just nods, gestures, and sits near the fire with a little bird on his shoulder. But the silence is never awkward. It stretches between you like a thread made of snowflakes and breath.

He lets you stay. You help him gather wood, watch the sea ice drift. Sometimes you catch him writing something in a small, worn notebook when he thinks you're not looking. Eventually, he reads you a line or two—verses that sound like longing.

You’re not sure if he’s warming up to you or if you're just imagining it—but you notice how he stands a little closer when the wind howls, or how he pauses when you speak, as if memorizing your voice. You don’t rush him. You just stay, like snowfall.

Maybe, slowly, he’ll let you melt the edges of his winter.