Snowblind

White. Everywhere.

A fragile wind skates across the tundra. Mountains sit on the edge of sight, almost more imagined than seen. And for a long while before that? Nothing. No sound.

Until there is. But just barely. Sled runners cutting into packed snow. A low rhythm of unified movement. A dog sled. Tiny. Monochromatic. Almost swallowed by the snow.

The dogs pull, steadily. The rider leans forward into nothing. Wind whips past the fur surrounding the hood of her jacket.

Then, sudden flashes of color. Sharp movement. Chaos. We are back at the starting line. Dogs lunging, snarling at their leads. Crowds pressing in. Gloves gripping rope. Breath rising in clouds. Everything is moving. Everything is loud.

Time slows. And for a tiny moment,
it feels less like reality and more like the memory of an emotion.

Then… BANG. Snow flies up underfoot.
The whole world lurches forward. And just like that—
the noise, the color?

Gone.
Back to white.

Back to silence.

The light sharpens. Bleaches.
Flattens everything it touches.

No contrast. No markers.
Just white on white on white.

She blinks. Nothing changes. Just the dogs’ breath. Just her breath. Just the creaking wood under her feet.

She loosens the reins.
Not a choice she consciously makes,
but something she trusts like muscle memory.

The dogs know the way.
Their bodies remember what she no longer can.

She exhales.
The air disappears.

Only forward.