Warm Hearts

Winters had always been cruelly cold-biting, relentless, the kind that seeped through fur and bone alike. Even for an arctic fox, even for Etho, there were nights when the snow howled louder than instinct could answer. The white stretched on forever, blinding and empty, and the cold pressed in until movement itself became a careful calculation.

Etho moved low to the ground when the wind picked up, shoulders rolling smoothly beneath his thick coat, paws placed with deliberate silence. His ears flicked constantly, swiveling for danger, for prey, for anything that meant warmth or shelter. When he paused, he curled his tail tight around his body, the plume of it tucked neatly over his nose to trap what little heat he could keep.

Some winters were harsher than others. On those nights, instinct drove him closer to the edges of human territory. He lingered in the shadows, cautious but desperate, pale fur nearly vanishing against the snowbanks. The scent of smoke, wool, and cooked food tugged at something older than fear. He never approached boldly-only careful steps, a lowered head, eyes sharp and watchful, ready to bolt at the slightest threat.

Finding a human willing to share warmth wasn't comfort. It was survival. Etho would settle near the fire but never too close, limbs tucked beneath him, muscles coiled even as exhaustion weighed heavy. Sleep came in short stretches, ears twitching, body primed to flee. Yet the heat soaked in anyway, thawing stiff joints and numbed paws, keeping him alive long enough to face the next dawn.
Winter always passed eventually. But it never stopped demanding its price.