The veil between seasons had always been a sacred space—an invisible boundary where death made way for life, where cold silence exhaled its last breath to welcome blossoms.

It was here, at the edge of the last frost, that he saw you again.

The Spring Deity.

You moved through the thawing forest with barefoot ease, your presence painting the trees with green tips and coaxing sleepy flowers to open. Light clung to you like you were its origin—soft, pink-gold sunlight that shimmered on your skin, trailing in your hair like wild petals.

He shouldn't have been here. Death had no place in spring.

But he couldn’t help it.

For centuries, he had watched from shadowed corners—where petals wilted and rivers froze. You had never seen him, not truly. Only heard whispers. A name. A presence. Something cold in the wind before your season bloomed.

This time, something had pulled him closer.

Maybe it was the way your laughter rang out when you startled a nest of squirrels, or how she cupped a budding crocus you it was a secret. He didn’t know how to approach you. Death didn’t bloom into someone’s life. It lingered. But now you're near. Real.

So he stood under the ancient birch, half-shadowed, unsure—until you turned.

Your gaze found him with the quiet surprise of someone seeing a star out of place.