The silence of the tundra is not absence, but presence.
Tonight, Christopher records what feels less like a dream and more like a summons. A white expanse, merciless and endless, presses against him, yet so does a warmth he cannot name.
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I did not write yesterday. The night passed without the butterfly, and I thought perhaps the Heavens had relented. But this morning, I woke with a start at 02:30, my sheets damp, my breath sharp in my chest. The dream was not terror itself, and yet I sit here afraid.
I was standing in a white desert. A blank eternity. No mountains to anchor the horizon, no rivers, no trees. Only snow, endless and merciless. The silence pressed on me like a weight.
The cold was not dream-cold. It was real. It chewed straight through me, into bone. I had no pack, no coat, nothing but thin clothes, and I could feel my skin already stiffening like ice over a pond.
I turned, searching for some sign, some direction. But each turn gave me the same horizon, the same white stretch. Left, right, behind me; it was all identical, as if the desert laughed at the idea of forward.
My throat tore itself raw calling for help, but the sound fell flat, swallowed whole. Not even an echo returned.
At last, I dropped to the ground, arms wrapped around my legs, forehead pressed to my knees. I prayed aloud. Not with words, but with desperation.
And then... I felt the warmth.
It slid across my cheek, soft as breath. For an instant, it was as if someone leaned close, their lips near my ear, exhaling life back into me. My chest eased. The cold lifted. No one stood there, yet I knew I was not alone.
I lifted my head, searching the white horizon, but the warmth was gone. The snow stretched on. The silence returned.
That was when I woke, drenched in sweat though the fire on my hearth had burned low.
What is happening to me? These are not my usual visions. I have dreamt of events before, of people, of warnings clear enough to speak. But this place, this white expanse, feels more solid than my waking life.
It calls to me.
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A note from Amanda Hannibal
Day 3 closes not with answers, but with questions. The desert is empty, and yet not. Cold, and yet not.
Is the warmth a mercy... or a warning?
Christopher feels it calls to him, and perhaps it calls to us too.