Snow doesn’t fall where I grew up. It descends.
It chooses.
It crowns the guilty and the innocent the same way, white as absolution, heavy as consequence.
By the time we pull back onto the road, my hands are shaking—not from the cold, not from adrenaline, but from the thing Luna saw in me when the shot cracked the air and something inside my chest broke its leash.
I can still feel the rifle’s weight in my palms. Still hear the echo of my own breath turning feral. Still taste iron where I bit down on a scream.
I almost killed a man tonight.
No—worse.
I almost enjoyed how easy it would’ve been.
Luna sits beside me in the passenger seat, seatbelt clicked, hands folded like she’s trying to keep herself from reaching for me. The dashboard clock blinks 23:41. December twenty-third. Two d
