The night howled beyond the cave, wind brushing over stone like a warning. Inside, the fire cracked softly — not for warmth, not for cooking — but for company.
He had followed her footsteps in the snow — not out of hunger, but curiosity. She didn’t run. She didn’t raise her spear. Just met his gaze with the solemn gravity of someone who had long made peace with death.
They never spoke. Language, as we know it, did not exist. But presence did. She had a scar like a serpent’s curve on her cheek. He noticed it flicker orange in the firelight, like a forgotten symbol. She watched him from the other side of the flame, her hands steady even as wolves howled outside.
They shared a dried root. They passed a fur blanket. They dreamt, not together, but toward the same stars.
In the morning, they would part. No word, no gesture. But something burned behind their ribs — a recognition as ancient as the stone they slept on.
Neither would remember each other’s faces. But both would carry a warmth that no wind could take.