A thin sunlight sifted through the branches like snow, dusting him with photons. He blinked in the sudden cold glare, hunching deeper into his army-surplus greatcoat.
Behind him, a single track of footprints snaked through the trees. Ahead, the landscape lay virgin, untrodden. His breath frosted above him, a speech bubble bereft of words.
The way home was long and uncertain, wolves shadowing every step of the trek. He threw back his head and filled the speech bubble with a silent howl of desperation. Exile makes sense if you were never really at home in the first place.
Fancy sharpening your skill with writing exercises? The Scrivener’s Forge offers a new exercise every month to hone one aspect of your craft. Take a look at this month’s exercise on creativity