The Hollow feels different on the longest night—quieter, deeper, like it’s holding its breath. I bundled up and started my rounds, checking on everyone who might need an extra spark of warmth.

Under one log, a family of mice huddled close. I left them a tiny bundle of moss that smelled like summer. Near the stream, I built a wall of snow to block the wind for a shivering rabbit. Each small act made the cold seem softer.

When I reached the old stump at the clearing’s edge, the moon slipped through the trees and painted everything silver. I sat down, wrapping my scarf tighter, and watched the little lights from burrows flicker across the snow like a constellation come to life.

The Hollow wasn’t empty tonight—it was full of quiet hearts beating together. I closed my eyes and whispered, “Goodnight, everyone.” The wind answered back with a gentle hush, and for once, even the cold seemed kind.

The first true snow fell last night. It muffled the Hollow until only heartbeats dared to make noise. I walked through the hush, careful not to break it. Gratitude feels fragile in cold air, but it’s tougher than it looks.

I touched a branch glazed in ice. It didn’t snap—it sang, a tiny crystal note. The sound surprised me into smiling. Even cold can be kind if you stop bracing against it.

I’m thankful for that lesson. For the wind that nudges but doesn’t bite. For the path that remembers my steps even when I try to tread lightly. For hunger that reminds me I’m still alive enough to feel.

When I reached the ridge, dawn spilled pale gold across the frost. I breathed it in. The Hollow stayed silent, but I swear it nodded. Gratitude doesn’t need words—it just needs warmth that knows how to wait.

The Hollow isn’t empty; it just talks in whispers. Frost glitters on the stones like breadcrumbs for anyone brave enough to follow. I pull my scarf tight and start walking. Each step puffs out a tiny cloud that vanishes before I can name it.

Under one stone, a match waits. I strike it and cup my hands around the spark. The flame shivers, then stands tall—small, yes, but stubborn. I nod. “Me too.”

The path curves between icy trees that hum when the wind sneaks through their ribs. I light another match, then another, leaving little pools of gold behind me. They’re not much, but together they draw a line of warmth through the cold.

When I reach the clearing, dawn is already brushing color on the snow. I look back. The matches glow like tiny suns, marking where I’ve been and where I’ll go next.

The Hollow has a sound all its own. It isn’t loud—it’s the hush between breaths, the crunch that happens when snow remembers to fall. I walk slow so I can hear it better. Each step makes a tiny song beneath me.

Some nights the trees groan from old ice. They sound grumpy, but I know it’s just the cold stretching its back. I pat a trunk and whisper, “Time to sleep, you’ll wake in spring.” My words fog the air and drift away like ghosts who forgot to be scary.

I find a few matches tucked under a stone. Leftovers from yesterday’s wander. I strike one, and the flame pops to life, small but sure. It doesn’t chase the dark—it just keeps it company. I like that about fire.

When I head home, flakes land in my hair, soft as feathers. The Hollow hums goodnight, and I hum back. The snow keeps falling, quiet but brave.