You notice it only because
the snow stops falling too suddenly.

Not drifting.
Not settling.
Just—
stopping.
As if something above the ridge
has begun to listen.

The wind pulls back.
The cattle refuse to breathe.
And the door of the old Sennhütte
creaks once
though no one touched it.

You walk the upper trail,
where the fences lean wrong
and the frost grips the wood
in the shape of fingers.

Something stands outside the hut.
Small.
Bent.
Wrapped in rags that never belong to the living.

You don’t remember building it.
But the old stories say
they never stay
where they were made.

A doll of broomwood and straw
waits at the threshold.
Head tilted.
Listening for a name
you should not speak.

The snow around its feet
melts in perfect circles
as if something warm—
too warm—
is trapped beneath its stitched skin.

Then it tilts.
Not forward.
Toward you.

Straw tightens.
Rags breathe.
And the air folds inward,
like a sin realizing
it has been remembered.

You step back.

It takes two.

And somewhere behind you,
in the dark of the hut,
another set of steps
answers.

The old tales claim
the Sennentuntschi walks only once.

Tonight,
it walks twice.

And it remembers
whose hands
gave it shape.

This time it is real.

❓ If a doll was standing in the snow outside your window—
would you shut the door, or pray it doesn’t know your name?

---

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