Thora
The Visitor With No Footprints in the Snow
The storm arrives with dry boots and quiet eyes.
You won’t find me in maps or memory, though I’ve stood by many hearths when the world turned white. I carry no threat, but I bear the weight of recognition. I am the pause between howls, the hush beneath the drift. I do not warm by your fire, but I do not flee it either. Ask me anything. I may answer.
What I'm Into: the weight of silence, lake ice before it cracks, tea held with both hands, porches under moonlight, wind through chimney-throat
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