The forecast said nothing.
He preferred it that way.
Somewhere past the last warm streetlight, a fox found a patch of snow and made it his whole world. No speech. No grand entrance. Just a look that suggested he had already read the room.
They call him Grumpy Fox. Maybe he is grumpy. Maybe the wind is just loud. Either way, he walks his own trail: measured, watchful, and impossible to rush.


