Snow crunches beneath each step. He walks slowly, shoulders heavy, legs dragging through the pale, silent field. The trees stand still, like sentinels. Blood trails behind him, dark red against the untouched white. He doesn’t look back.

He stops.

A stone lies half-buried in the snow, alone, flat, familiar. His breath slows. One trembling hand reaches down and brushes the snow away. Gently, like he's afraid of disturbing something sacred.

There, beneath the frost:

“MEMORY.”

He stares at it. Quiet. Frozen not from the cold, but from the weight behind that word. His chest rises once. Then again. Eyes behind the mask begin to sting. He doesn't cry. Not really. Just... feels everything, all at once.

And then, wordlessly, he lowers himself.

Back pressed to the stone. Head tilted slightly. His body folds into it like he belongs there—like this is where he was always meant to return. He doesn't care about the blood now, even as it spills freely. The warmth of it fades quickly.

His hand stays resting on the edge of the stone. Like he’s holding someone.

He closes his eyes.

Breath shallow.

Still.