Hey, you ever seen the sky explode when a blizzard hits the ridge? I gotta spin you a tale about that night.

The night the ridge was wrapped in white, the sky didn’t just fall— it erupted. First, the clouds gathered like a drumroll, thick and black, then a sudden flash split the horizon, a lightning bolt so bright it felt like a sliver of fire tearing through the night. The air shivered, and the ridge’s wind screamed, throwing snow up in spirals. It was a thunderstorm on steroids, the clouds crashing against each other, spilling a storm’s fury like a volcanic eruption, leaving everything blinding white for a heartbeat before the silence fell again. It’s the kind of chaos that makes a storyteller’s pulse race, and I’ve never forgotten the way the world held its breath for a moment before the snow settled back into calm.

When the snow fell again, it was like a hush that pressed against my ribs. The world felt heavy, wrapped in a blanket that muffled every sound. I stood there, breathing in the cold, feeling the wind still humming in the cracks of the trees, and the only thing louder than the silence was the beat of my own heart. It was a reminder that even after a roar, the quiet can be just as fierce.