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Speaker 1: Every first snowfall of the year we ran. It was

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in a festival. We were running to survive. The date

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was never a mystery, they told us weeks in advance.

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It was printed on billboards, blasted on the news, scrawled

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across the bottom of television screens in red lettering, the

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first snowfall will arrive on November twelfth. Prepare. People marked

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it on their calendars. We didn't question it anymore. The

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day before the snowfall, the entire town shut down. Schools

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closed early, businesses locked their doors, no deliveries, no flights,

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no traffic in or out. It was as if we

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were preparing for a storm. But the weather wasn't the problem.

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It was what came with it. Everyone had their own preparations.

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Some packed light bags just enough to keep moving. Others

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mapped out faster roots, cutting through fields and back roads

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to avoid getting stuck. People checked their shoes, making sure

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their laces were tight, their soles weren't worn down. There

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was no ceremony, no speeches, no sirens, just an unspoken understanding.

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We waited, and then when the first snowflake fell, we ran.

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I can still feel it even now, the burn in

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my legs, the cold, biting at my skin, the rhythmic

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pound of footsteps all around me, A thousand bodies moving

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in perfect unison, breathless, desperate. There was no pushing or

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care us. We didn't shove a trample. We moved like

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a flood, one after the other, single file. There was

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no greed or malice from society to be found. Everyone

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had one mission, the same goal, because stopping meant you

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would be gone. My first real memory of the run

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is blurred by time, but something's never fade. The cold,

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the fear, my mother's hand crushing mine in a grip.

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I was five years old the first time I remember running,

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too young to understand why, old enough to know not

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to ask. We waited inside until the first flake fell.

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The moment it did, my mother wrenched open the front

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door and pulled me into the street. The entire town

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was already moving, a single file line of people. Shoulders hunched,

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breath clouding in the cold, feet pounding against the pavement.

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It wasn't like running in gym class or playing tag

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with the neighborhood kids. There was no laughing, no stopping

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to catch your breath. You moved or you didn't make it.

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I remember crying, tripping over my feet. My mother yanked

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me forward so hard my arm nearly dislocated. She never

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yelled or scolded me, just squeezed my hand tighter and

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kept running behind us. Someone screamed, I didn't look back.

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No one ever did. By the time I was old

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enough to ask why, I already knew the answer. What

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weapens if you don't run? No one ever answered. They

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didn't need to. Every child knew the stories. The tales

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were as old as the town itself. We had no crampus,

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no bogeymen, no ghost stories passed down to keep children

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from wandering too far into the woods. We had the

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wolf walkers, and we didn't tell their stories to scare people.

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We told them so people would live, because people that

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were caught would die and disappear. And I know this

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for certain because my father was one of the ones

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who got caught. I don't remember much about him, just

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the smell of whiskey on his breath, the heavy thud

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of his boots as he staggered through the house. He

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was drunk the night the snow came. My mother had

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tried to sober him up, but he wouldn't listen. By

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the time the snow came, he was too slow. We

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had to run anyway. I still remember the sound of

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him calling after us, slurring my mother's name. His voice

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got smaller and smaller, swallowed by the sound of the wind,

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the endless stampede of footsteps. My mother never looked back,

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and we never saw him again. By the time I

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turned nine, running had become a part of life, just

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another routine in the changing of seasons. I no longer

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tripped over my own feet or begged my mother to

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slow down. I'd learned the rhythm, the pace that let

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you breathe just enough to keep going, but never enough

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to get comfortable. Comfort was dangerous. We knew that better

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than anything. That year, the first snow came late, the

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cold had already settled deep into the bones of the town,

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and when the flurries finally started to fall, it was

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like a held breath finally releasing. I remember feeling something

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new that night, a thing I'd never felt during these runs. Curiosity.

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I'd never seen what we were actually running from. Sure,

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I knew what they were called, and brief descriptions passed

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around the community, but I didn't know. We were told

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not to look back so that night I did. At first,

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I thought there were people, figures moving between the snowflakes,

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just out of focus, man in thick furred coats, their

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heads covered by wolf masks. But then I looked closer,

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and I saw their arms thin, rotting human arms stretched

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too long, the skin peeling in places, revealing raw, dark

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and muscle. The hands dragged at the sides, fingers twitching.

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Their legs were bony, discolored, bent strangely at the joints,

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as if their bodies had forgotten how to be human.

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The heads were fully wolf, but wrong, too broad. The

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snouts cracked and split in places where they shouldn't be.

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The mouths were packed with rows of teeth that didn't

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fit together properly, overlapping, twisted, and their eyes some entirely dark,

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hollow sockets leaking something black. Others were too white, too wide,

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reflecting light in an unnatural glow. They didn't run, not really.

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They seemed to be one with the snow, more so,

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phasing with the falling snow, rather than actually moving. Their

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forms blurred with the snow, like they were being dragged

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forward by something unseen. They moved as fast as the

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snow fall. I must have made a sound, a gasp,

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a sob, or something, because one of them turned its

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head toward me. Its snow split open even further, and

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I saw something pulsing inside its throat, shifting, writhing, as

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if it was struggling to hold its shape. I turned

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forward and looked back again. Years later, the snowfall was

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predicted weeks ago, November seventeenth. The warnings were everywhere, once more,

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news tickers, radio broadcasts printed on every store front window,

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a reminder, a deadline. People were already preparing, packing light,

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mapping their roots, making sure they had the right shoes.

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I had always done the same until this year, until

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I realized my mother wouldn't be running with me. She'd

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been bedridden for months. Her body had withered beneath the

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weight of sickness. The strong woman who once pulled me

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through the streets now barely able to lift her own hand.

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Her voice had turned small, brittle, like something that could

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be carried off with the wind. But even through the weakness,

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she still tried. She still begged me to go. You

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can't save me, she whispered, run please. I sat beside her,

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gripping her cold fingers. I packed my bag that morning

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out of habit, but I had never slung it over

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my shoulder because for the first time in my life,

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I couldn't leave. I couldn't run without her. I couldn't

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leave her behind like that, not when she dragged me

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with her so many times. She saw it in my face.

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She knew, and she cried. I won't leave you behind, Mom,

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I can't. Outside the sky was turning gray, the temperature

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had dropped. Tomorrow the first flake would fall, and for

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the first time in my life, I wouldn't be ready.

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The first flake fell at five forty six PM. I

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watched it drift down from the sky, weightless, delicate, beautiful

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if I didn't know what it meant. Then came the sound,

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a deep, rolling, home like wind moving through a hollow place,

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but heavier, thicker. It wasn't wind. And then the city ran.

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The streets irrupted into motion, doors slammed open, People poured

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onto the sidewalks, sprinting into the fading light. The stampede,

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a flood of bodies moving in perfect rhythm, breath steaming

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in the cold, no hesitation, no second thoughts. I turned

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to my mother. She was so small, now, so light.

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She looked up at me from the bed, her eyes

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filling with something I couldn't name. I lifted her into

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my arms. She barely made a sound. Her body felt fragile, weightless,

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like she had already started slipping away. I stepped outside.

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The cold hit me like a wall. The wind sliced

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through me, sharp and unrelenting. Snowflakes swirled in chaotic patterns,

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dancing through the air, hiding the shapes of those running ahead.

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I took my first step, then another. Then I ran.

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It was different, this time, harder. I wasn't running for myself,

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I was running for both of us, and it was

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my first taste of what my mother had gone through

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when I was a young child. My legs burned with

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every step, the weight of my arms slowing me down.

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Every breath was a gasp, sharp and ragged. Ahead, the

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crowd was already disappearing into the white. I tried to

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keep up, but behind me, I could hear them closing

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in the change in the air, the way the cold thickened,

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like the temperature had dropped tender grease in an instant,

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just moving, a sound so smooth it was almost soothing,

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like something gliding over the ice. Then came the other noises,

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a soft gnarling, and then the first screamed from behind us,

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an elderly couple. I didn't stop, but my mother, weaker

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than she'd ever been, lifted her head just slightly and whispered,

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they're here a head. The last of the runners vanished

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into the snow. The line was gone. It was just me, me,

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my mother, and whatever was closing in behind us. The

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city had vanished behind me, swallowed by the storm. I

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could barely feel my feet any more. My muscles were screaming,

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my arms ached from carrying my mother's weight, but I

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held on. I had to. The snow pounded against my skin,

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wind howling through the trees as I stumbled on to

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an old, bare visible path leading into the forest. I

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didn't know where it led. I didn't care. Slow labored, rattling,

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frostbitten lungs fighting for air. Too close, too close. I

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kept moving, but the snow was deepening. My boots sank

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into it with every step, making each movement harder, slower.

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I was losing. I rested a glance at my mother,

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her head rested limply against my chest, her breath coming

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in cold shivers. Her eyes opened halfway then she whispered,

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put me down. I shook my head, the words burning

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like a bullet from a gun. No, who can't run

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with me? I won't leave, leave you you have to.

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Her voice was weak, but I could hear the desperation

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in it. I held her closer, No, not her. The

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gnarling grew ever louder. I could hear them now, moving

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through the snow. I looked behind to see how much

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distance stood between us and them. One of them stood

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closer than the others, smaller, perhaps younger, but it sered

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in on us. That much was clear. The snow bent

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around the thing, like the world itself was trying to

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look away. I snapped my head back forward, then up ahead,

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the structure barely visible through the white out, an old shed,

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broken and sagging, its wooden door hanging open. I pushed forward,

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forcing myself to move faster. The moment we crossed the threshold,

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I kicked the doors shut with my boot and collapsed

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onto the wooden floor, clutching my mother to my chest.

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The cold was inside my bones now, I could barely

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feel my hands. My heart slammed against my ribs. The

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wind howled outside. The gnarling slowed, then silence I pressed

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my hand over my mother's mouth, covering both of our breathing.

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I didn't know if the walls were enough, if they

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could see us right now, if they could smell us,

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But we had to stay quiet. The shed was falling apart.

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The wooden walls groaned with every gust of wind, the

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roof sagging under the weight of ice and time. It

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smelled of and damp wood, of something old and long forgotten.

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The only thing between us and them was a thin

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sheet of splintered timber, and they were right outside. I

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pressed my back against the wall, cradling my mother in

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my lap, my entire body trembling with exhaustion. She was

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barely conscious now. Her breathing was weak, her lips pale,

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her arms draped over me like a dead weight. I

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could feel her heart beat against my chest, faint, sluggish.

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She wouldn't last much longer, then neither would I. The

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whispers started slow. I never heard them before, never been

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close enough. At first, they sounded like the wind, but

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then the words took shape. Oh weak, not fast enough.

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The voices shifted, changing in pitch, in rhythm, some too high,

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some too deep, And then one of them spoke with

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my father's voice, you should have run. The door creaked,

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my breath caught in my throat. I barely moved, just

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my fingers tightening over my mother's wrist, as if holding

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on to her would keep us both anchored in place.

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Something was coming. I couldn't breathe, and beyond the doorway,

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through the swirling snow and shifting shadows, I saw it.

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It stood just outside, its massive shape, barely visible through

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the storm. Not quite a man, not quite a wolf.

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The body was too long, too hunched. Its fur was wet, clumped,

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hanging off its frame like peeling skin. Its arms were

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wrong human hands, but stretched too thin, the skin splitting

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around the knuckles, revealing blackened veins pulsing beneath. It tilted

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its head toward the open door. It knew we were here.

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Then suddenly my mother grabbed my face, her fingers pressed

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into my skin, tilting my head down, forcing me to

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look at her. I expected her to whisper, to tell

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me to run, to beg me one last time to

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leave her behind, But she didn't. She just smiled, soft, warm,

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like she wasn't afraid in anymore. Then she moved with

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the last of her strength. She pushed herself up onto

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trembling arms. Her entire body shook, her legs barely able

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to hold her weight. She stood not for long, but

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long enough, and then she screamed. The sound tore through

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the shed, loud and raar, echoing through the trees, cutting

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through the wind and the whispers. Her cry of defiance.

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The creature turned toward her. I thought she was the

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only one there. I stayed frozen, cowering behind overturned furniture,

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my hands clenched over my own shaking body, unable to move.

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I wanted to reach for her, to grab her, to

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stop her, but I couldn't. I was too afraid. The

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last thing I saw of my mother was a silhouette

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in the doorway, small, weak but standing. She was gone.

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I woke up, clutching nothing. My hands were frozen into stiff,

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aching claws, still gripping the air where my mother had

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been for a moment. My mind was stuck in the

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in between, the space where I could still feel away

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to my arms, still hear the echo of a scream

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in my ears, still believe that when I opened my eyes,

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she would be there. But she wasn't. The storm had passed.

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I felt it before I saw it, the stillness, the

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silence that came after the first snowfall. No wind, no whispers,

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just the slow, peking crawl of sunlight through the cracks

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in the broken shed. I pushed myself up onto nominal legs,

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my body sluggish, like it didn't belong to me anymore.

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The door stood wide open. The world outside was white

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and empty. I stepped out into the snow. The air

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was crisp, cold in a way that no longer burned,

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just settled into my skin like a layer of ice

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beneath the surface. The sky stretched above me, bright, endless blue.

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Nothing moved. I turned back toward the shed, half expecting

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to see something, footprints, a trail, some sign of what

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had happened. But the snow was undisturbed, no footprints, no bodies,

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like no one had ever been here at all. I

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started walking. There was nothing else to do. The pressure

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in my chest weighed a million tons. By the time

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I reached the edge of the city, I already knew

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what I would find. The people would be back in

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their homes, the streets would be clear. There will be

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no talk of those who didn't return, like they had

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never existed at all. I have run every year since

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that night, even when my legs burned, even when my

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lungs screened for air, even when I wanted nothing more

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than to let the snow swallow me whole. I ran.

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I ran for my mother, and for years I ran

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for others too. I reached out, pulled strat glass forward grips,

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shaking hands, forced people to keep moving when their bodies

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were ready to give up. Some I saved, some I didn't.

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But I am old now. My body is not what

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it used to be. The years have stolen my strength,

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my speed. My breath is weak. My leg's barely able

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to carry my own weight, much less someone else's. And

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the first snowfall is coming. The announcement came last week.

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It scrolled across the bottom of the television screen as

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I sat in my chair, hands resting in my lap,

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bones aching in the cold that never really leaves you.

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After that long November twenty third, first snowfall expected is

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not a warning, not for me. I lay in bed now,

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beneath blankets that do nothing to warm me. The night

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is quiet still I know what comes next. The air

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will shift, the first flake will fall, and the world

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will start to run. Without me, I turned my head

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toward the window, waiting. The glass is dark, a reflection

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of the room behind me. My own eyes stare back,

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hollow and sunken. Then a shadow passes across the glass,

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not fast, just moving. It stops lingers, as if waiting,

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and then a warmth settles over me, a presence I

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haven't felt in decades. I close my eyes, I smile,

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and I say nothing.