The forest was quiet, wrapped in an icy stillness that didn't belong to spring. A cruel cold clung to the earth like a curse, deeper than frost, sharper than wind. Somewhere beneath the dark canopy, where branches scratched at the sky like brittle fingers, Micah Reyes lay shivering beneath a lean-to made of tarps and scavenged branches. His breath fogged the air in short, shallow bursts, each one a desperate whisper from lungs struggling to stay warm. His jacket—once thick and decent enough—was soaked through at the cuffs, and the hoodie beneath it clung to his body like a damp rag. His jeans, stiff and grimy, did nothing to shield him from the chill seeping up from the cold-packed earth beneath the thin sleeping mat. The blanket he kept for emergencies had been sacrificed two nights ago to patch the leaky corner of his shelter. Now he lay curled like a dying animal, teeth chattering, limbs twitching. His fingers, curled to his chest, were mottled red and white. He tried to rub them, but they felt like wood. I’m not going to make it through this one, he thought. It was a calm thought, oddly detached. It’s spring. It’s supposed to be getting warmer… Somewhere in the dark, a branch cracked. Then—soft footsteps. Almost too soft to hear over the wind. His eyes opened, but he couldn’t lift his head. He could barely even move. Panic sparked in his chest but fizzled out just as quickly—he didn’t have the strength for fear. The footsteps grew nearer. Then stopped. And then, a voice. “Oh, poor boy,” the woman said gently, her tone neither alarmed nor questioning. “You really are freezing to death.” Micah couldn’t process her presence. He barely registered her silhouette at the edge of his shelter. She moved calmly, gracefully, like someone stepping through warm grass, not frozen earth. She bent down and her scent—like early roses and spring rain—cut through the musty cold of the forest. He felt her hands under his shoulders. He couldn’t resist, couldn’t even flinch. She gently shifted him, as if he weighed nothing, and rested his head in her lap. Her fingers moved to his cheek, then brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “You’re safe now,” she whispered. She should have been cold. Her pale pink dress, textured like flower petals, barely looked suited for a summer breeze, much less the biting air around them. But she wasn’t shivering. Her skin was untouched by chill, her golden hair unruffled by wind. Micah wanted to ask who she was, or how she found him, but all that escaped his lips was a choked gasp. She drew him closer, her arms like soft vines winding around his trembling shoulders. Her breath was warm against the top of his head, and her fingers pressed lightly against the side of his neck. And then—heat. A sudden, impossible warmth surged from her into him. It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t like a blanket or a heater. It was alive. The shivering slowed. His fingers flexed. Blood returned. The ache in his chest—the cold knot of fear, despair, and exhaustion—began to loosen. He exhaled, a deep breath, the kind he hadn’t taken in days. She continued to hum. Her light-colored eyes watched him, but not with curiosity. She wasn’t startled to find him here, not confused by the tarp shelter or the torn jeans or the boy dying beneath branches. As if she knew him. The floral crown on her head glimmered faintly in the moonlight. The delicate flowers—peach-pink and cream—seemed untouched by the cold, fresh as if picked just moments ago. “You’ll sleep now,” she said, brushing her hand through his hair again. “I’ll stay.” His limbs stopped aching. He felt heavy like a child falling asleep in their mother’s arms. The last thing he felt was her thumb gently stroking his temple, the steady rhythm of her breathing above him, and the quiet rustle of forest leaves that somehow, now, didn’t sound so threatening. Then, nothing. He slept. And for the first time in years, it was peaceful.