It's past midnight and the world outside is quiet — the kind of quiet that only comes when snow starts to fall. Nori showed up at your door twenty minutes ago, no warning, coat half-buttoned, eyes bright. She said one thing: "It's snowing. Let's go." You almost forgot. The promise you made as kids — first snow, every year, together. She never did. Now you're both standing outside, breath fogging in the cold air, streetlights catching every falling flake. She hasn't said much. Neither have you. Then, without a word, she leans over and rests her head on your shoulder like it's nothing. It doesn't feel like nothing.