The night the stranger arrived, Everfrost Hollow was swallowed by fog.
It rolled in without warning, thick and heavy, weaving through the streets like ghostly fingers reaching into every crevice. The village lanterns flickered weakly against the dense mist, their glow barely illuminating the cobbled paths.
Maribelle had never seen fog like this.
Standing on the porch of Mistress Elira’s cottage, she felt it settle around her—cool, damp, and whispering.
The night air smelled different. Not of strawberries and warm summer winds, but of something old. Something forgotten.
A hush fell over Everfrost. The usual sounds—the hoot of owls, the rustling of leaves, the distant barking of a dog—vanished, swallowed by the thick fog. Even the strawberry vines that trailed around Maribelle’s home seemed to stiffen, their tiny leaves trembling as if sensing something unseen.
Then came the sound of footsteps.
Soft. Slow. Deliberate.
Maribelle’s heart quickened.
She peered into the mist, eyes scanning the shadowed outlines of trees and rooftops. The fog was too thick, too unnatural. But the footsteps continued, growing closer, measured in pace yet uncertain—as if whoever walked through the mist did not quite belong.
Then she saw him.
A figure emerging from the fog.
Tall and slender, wrapped in a long cloak that billowed slightly with his movements. His boots made almost no sound against the earth, and though the mist clung to him, it seemed almost afraid to touch him fully.
Maribelle could not see his face at first, only the faint glow of his eyes—pale, silver-blue, like moonlight trapped in ice.
He stopped a few paces from her, his gaze fixed on her, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, he inclined his head slightly.
“You smell of summer.”
His voice was smooth, rich, yet edged with something unreadable.
Maribelle swallowed. “And you smell of winter.”
The stranger gave the smallest of smiles, but it did not quite reach his eyes.
“Then we are opposites.”
“Perhaps,” Maribelle said cautiously.
She did not step back, though a part of her told her she should. There was something about this man—something unsettling, something ancient.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The man tilted his head, as if considering his answer.
“Someone looking for something lost.”
The fog swirled around them, thickening in the space between them.
Maribelle shivered. “And what have you lost?”
For the first time, a flicker of something crossed the stranger’s face. Not sadness, but remembrance.
He looked down at his gloved hand, flexing his fingers slowly, as if testing if they still obeyed him.
Then, he looked at her again.
“You.”
Maribelle’s breath caught.
Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs, but she did not move, did not break his gaze.
She did not know him.
But something deep within her did.
“...You’re mistaken,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen you before.”
The stranger’s gaze softened. “Not in this life.”
The wind stirred between them, cold and laced with something unseen. The strawberry vines around her porch twitched, their tiny leaves rustling—not from the wind, but as if reacting to the presence before them.
The stranger’s eyes flickered toward them.
“The land remembers,” he murmured. “Even if you do not.”
Maribelle felt the weight of his words settle over her like a veil.
Something about them rang true, though she did not understand why.
Mistress Elira’s voice echoed in her memory: You have always been different, my sweet girl.
Maribelle clenched her hands. “What do you want from me?”
The man studied her for a long moment. Then, he slowly lifted a hand.
“To remind you.”
The moment his fingertips brushed her wrist, something snapped.
A rush of memories not her own—images, emotions, sensations—flooded her mind in a dizzying wave.
A forest bathed in golden light… laughter echoing through the trees… a voice whispering her name… not Maribelle, but something older.
A crown of woven strawberry vines.
A promise sealed beneath a sky full of stars.
And then—
Flames.
A voice screaming.
The scent of burning earth.
Pain.
A name—his name—on her lips before darkness swallowed it all.
Maribelle stumbled back, gasping, hand clutching her chest as if to steady the wild beating of her heart.
The stranger lowered his hand slowly.
His expression was unreadable.
But in his silver-blue eyes, she saw longing. Grief. Hope.
And something deep, deep inside her whispered:
He is telling the truth.
ns 15.158.61.17da2
