You notice it only because the bells ring wrong.

Too sharp.
Too late.
As if they’re chasing something they fear might already be inside the city.

The sky presses down.
The snow clumps too tightly.
And the wind keeps whispering the same syllable —
not a word,
just… a sound.
Your name, maybe.
Or something waiting to become it.

You walk the Ruprechtsweg,
where salt doesn’t melt the frost
and the footprints don’t always belong to people.

A sack drags behind you.
You didn’t bring one.
But something does.
Rough burlap over stone,
swaying just out of sight,
breathing harder each time you look back.

Then it stops.
You stop.
And the air folds inward —
like a punishment about to remember why it was born.

You turn.

And there he stands.

Robe stitched from soot.
Beard full of ash.
Eyes hollow —
but full of tally marks.

He lifts the switch.
Not to strike.
To weigh.
To measure what part of you still belongs to winter.

The sack opens.

It’s empty.

But not for long.

He takes one step.
And you remember every lie
you whispered
just loud enough for the dark to hear.

This time it is real.

❓ If Ruprecht opened his sack beneath your window—
would you run, or pray your name isn’t written on the ash?

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