The Weight of Want
Without the weight of obligation or the rhythm of routine, Nic had long since lost track of the days.
The month was a guess—late winter, though the signs of spring whispered at the edges.
The days stretched subtly longer, minute by minute, and the rain, while still frequent, had softened in its fury.
How did ancient people record the passage of time? How did they mark the events of their lives? His nineteenth birthday was near. Or perhaps it had already come and gone. It didn’t matter out here. Still, the thought lingered.
He planned to return to civilization within a few weeks. But was he ready? Had he truly found healing amongst these silent stones—or merely buried his anguish beneath solitude? Sooner or later, he would have to face what he had run from. The world would not wait forever.
As more days blurred past, Nic continued to stall.
He told himself the trails were too wet, the snow too deep, that no one expected him home until spring.
He hadn’t packed snowshoes. The storm clouds looked ominous.
A dozen small reasons. But eventually, the sound of the waterfall changed—thicker, fuller. The snow was melting in earnest.
It was time.
Time to leave the solitude, and return to the noise he once called life.
Nic sat at the water’s edge and brought the blade to his throat.
Slowly, he scraped the soapsuds from his skin, clearing a path through the coarse bristle.
Each pass of the steel revealed a smoother surface, pale and clean in the pool’s reflected light.
Between strokes, he rinsed the blade in a shallow bowl, the lather swirling away.
Since his first days in the wilderness, he’d only bothered to shave once a week—less out of vanity and more to keep the wind from tugging at his whiskers.
Out here, the crabs and seabirds had no opinions about his scruff.
But now that his return was drawing near, he preferred not to look quite so feral.
He sheathed the blade and studied his reflection in the wavering surface. His hair, wild and sun-streaked, could use a trim. But that could wait.
Spring had come—or perhaps he had simply grown used to the constant chill.
Either way, the cold didn’t sting the same as it once had.
He stripped down and stepped into the pool.
The water was icy, but he didn’t flinch.
With deliberate movements, he bathed—scrubbing his hair until it squeaked, his skin until it flushed pink.
He scoured every inch, as though shedding a second skin, washing away the last traces of salt and solitude and wilderness.
When he was clean, he let himself drift.
He lay on his back, arms outstretched, the water cupping his body like a gentle hand. The sky above stretched wide and blue, and the voice of the waterfall murmured in his ears, a lullaby of stone and stream. The current turned him slowly, lazily, like a leaf adrift.
Saying goodbye would not be easy.
This place—the hidden pool, the shadowed cliffs—had become more than a refuge. It had become a witness. The granite had borne silent testimony to his grief. The waterfall had absorbed his nightmares, mirrored his dreams. The stones remembered the rhythm of his breath, the flicker of his pulse.
Here, he had felt things he could not name and glimpsed truths he could not speak.
This sanctuary in the mountains had offered him more than shelter from the storm. It had offered silence. Stillness. A place to carry his sorrow without apology.
And though he had not yet found peace, he could feel its shape now—distant, glimmering. A thing not lost but simply waiting.
Nic’s return to the summit was slow going—mud clung to his boots, and the soft, thawing earth made each step a tiring slog.
Snowmelt had slicked the trails into treacherous rivulets, and progress came only with patience.
But eventually, the climb leveled out. The ground grew firmer beneath his feet, and patches of snow emerged beneath the trees, bright and familiar.
He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d missed the winter woods until they opened around him again. He stopped for a breath, letting the view settle over him.
Damn. It was beautiful.
Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden shafts, dancing across ice-laced snowdrifts.
Crystals glinted like scattered stars, catching light in every angle—melt and frost interwoven into brilliance.
The forest was quiet, but not empty. It was alive in the way old things were—still, eternal, and waiting.
The crisp crunch of snow beneath his boots was like music. The scent of pine resin and damp bark wove into his lungs, filling him with a scent that was steady and clean.
Whatever lingering doubts he’d felt about returning home melted like frost in morning sun.
He picked up his pace, lengthening his stride, heart buoyed by the promise of reunion. His family. His friends. Warm hands, familiar voices. The thought pressed gently at his heart, urging him forward—not with dread, but with lightness.
A long-forgotten song returned to him. He sang the verses, half to himself, half to the trees.
Footsteps echo, soft and slow,
Crunching down through melting snow.
Bare trees whisper in the light,
Shadows long but the air shines bright.
Winter lingers, holding tight,
But the sun is shining bright.
Ice is breaking, rivers sigh,
Something new is drawing nigh.
I walk through the winter woods,
My heart lighter, the air fresher.
Like the snow fading, my youth is ebbing,
But there is promise in the sky.
Frozen memories in the air,
Drifting past me, light as prayer.
Every footprint that I leave,
Sinks then vanishes with the breeze.
Springtime calls but I still stay,
Watching winter slip away.
Letting go is never kind,
But I shall not be left behind.
I walk through the winter woods,
My heart lighter, the air fresher.
Like the snow fading, my youth is ebbing,
But there is promise in the sky.
Footsteps fading, soft and slow,
Gone soon like all the melting snow.
He was nearly halfway home when the snow deepened around him, each step punching through the icy crust into the slush beneath. With no snowshoes, he trudged on, breath heavy, sweat prickling beneath his layers. When he reached a narrow creek, he paused to rest.
The stream gurgled softly over mud-slick banks, fed by the thaw. Nic knelt to drink, the cold water stinging his throat and shocking him back into focus.
Above, branches groaned. He looked up just in time to see a cascade of snow release from the canopy. Heavy clumps thudded to the ground like celestial debris. Flurries drifted more gently in their wake, luminous and slow, as though heaven were descending through the trees.
Nic slung his pack over one shoulder and turned from the stream—just as a frozen mass slammed into the crown of his head.
Snow burst against his scalp and scattered down his neck in icy streaks.
He shouted in alarm, flailing to brush it away.
It had fallen with the precision of a prank—he half expected to see a smug squirrel grinning overhead.
But all he found was another veil of descending snow.
A second thud.
He ducked too late.
The ground shifted beneath his boots. He stumbled, slipped, and went down hard. Pain lanced through his back—and then something struck him like a blow from a hammer. A force flattened him to the snow. White shards stabbed his face and hands.
“Damn! Damn—”
A tree limb. He couldn't move.
His body screamed with protest as the weight pinned him down, driving icy slush through his clothes. His left shoulder radiated fire. Cold sweat sprang across his skin, and a rough, helpless sound burst from his throat.
Breathe. Breathe.
He grit his teeth, trying to center himself, to slow the galloping terror thudding through his chest. Every attempt to shift sent agony crackling down his side. He drew in a ragged breath and shouted.
His voice echoed through the trees, startling a flock of unseen birds. Then—silence. Just the steady whisper of the stream, the groan of branches, and the soft hiss of melting snow.
His teeth chattered. He was losing heat. Fast.
Think.
His pack—where was it? He craned his neck, vision swimming, and spotted it near his foot. If only he could hook the strap—
He reached. Pain exploded through his chest and down his arm. He cried out, tears biting the corners of his eyes.
He lay still, chest rising in shallow bursts. The nausea crept in slow and vile. He swallowed hard, breathing through his nose, jaw locked.
He should’ve known better. A lifetime in these woods, and still he ignored the signs. The weight of wet snow, the warning groans of tired boughs—it was no mystery. Just carelessness. He saw the danger and didn’t respect it.
“Exactly how I planned to spend my afternoon. Pinned under a tree. Flawless execution,” he bit out through gritted teeth.
Eventually, the edge of the pain dulled enough for him to unclench his jaw. His whole body felt tight, like a bowstring drawn too far.
He closed his eyes. Filled his lungs.
And screamed again. “Help—"
“Whose there?”
Nic almost choked on the sound. His eyes widened. Had he imagined it? But no—there it was again. Even beneath the frantic hammering of his heart, he caught it, the crunch of boots in snow.
“Help,” he shouted, voice cracking. “Please! Over here!”
A distant voice answered, echoing through the trees. “Where are you?”
“By the stream!” Nic bellowed, every word flaring through his ribcage. “I’m trapped!”
Branches snapped. Footsteps broke through snowdrifts, drawing closer. He twisted his neck toward the sound. “Here! I’m here!”
The rustling stopped just behind him.
A woman’s startled gasp cut through the quiet. She rounded the fallen tree, approaching with careful steps. “Oh, stars. Are you alright?”
Nic managed a weak smile. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve been better.”