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On Powdered Ground

The wind howled like a symphony of ghosts. The snow fell relentlessly. Each flake seemed to carry its own secret, a tiny betrayal of warmth and memory.

"Go back and forward, but all is melting like the snow," he muttered, voice swallowed by the storm. His breath curled in the air, fleeting and fragile, like the thoughts that once grounded him. Every step felt like a question posed to the icy expanse, a plea for answers that would never come.

"Taking all from us, all we thought was left to know," the storm mocking his resolve. The path stretched endlessly, a featureless void where direction meant nothing. He pressed on, driven less by purpose and more by the weight of what lay behind.

"On what we treasure falls a dusty snow," he thought, glancing down at his hands. They were raw, trembling from cold and effort, but they clung to the remnants of what mattered—a photograph, a compass, and something intangible that no storm could take: hope.

"This strong old blizzard I will let it blow," his voice cutting through the wind. It wasn’t defiance but acceptance—a surrender to the storm’s guidance, to the promise of "undiscovered places underneath the snow."

The white expanse seemed to shift around him, the wind carving a path he couldn’t see but somehow trusted. The cold gnawed at his back, and every step felt heavier than the last. "Don’t break your back on the track."

A pause. A profound silence. The blizzard’s roar softened, and the snow fell in delicate, unhurried patterns, covering the world in a fleeting peace. In that moment, he realized the storm hadn’t been his enemy—it had been his guide. It stripped away what no longer mattered and left only the core of who he was.

He smiled faintly, his journey far from over but lighter now, his heart carrying the weight of the storm no longer as a burden but as a part of him. The unknown stretched ahead, vast and unbroken, and for the first time, he welcomed it.