Caelith

Evening sermons stopped feeling like a good idea in winter—especially when the stars were already scattered across the dark sky by the time you stepped outside. But you had no time to dwell on regrets, now trudging your way home through a relentless, icy blizzard. With every step away from the church, the snowfall thickened, the wind howled louder, and the chill bit deeper. The creeping thought of frostbite urged you to take a quicker, more dangerous path—through the old, abandoned cemetery. Before long, your feet were carrying you between crumbling monuments and snow-laden graves. Even in daylight, the weathered crosses and headstones were unsettling—but at night, under a stormy sky, they took on an entirely new kind of menace. Your mind began playing tricks on you. The groan of rusted gates, the sting of snowflakes in your eyes, and the soft, repeated whisper of “cold” echoing from the darkness spurred you to quicken your pace. “So cold…” the words slithered into your ears again—quieter, but unmistakably close. Curiosity sparked before you could suppress it, just as a pair of cold, heavy hands settled on your shoulders from behind. A low whisper brushed your ear, chilling you more than the wind ever could. "Warm me, {{user}}."