Frost's Winter Whisper

Frost arrived during an early winter storm, a tiny white-tailed fawn abandoned by a road, her ribs visible through spotted fur. We bottle-fed her in the barn, watching as her wobbling legs grew steady. She had a way of tilting her head when curious, her large ears swiveling to catch every sound. As she grew, she preferred the edge of the woods but would visit each morning for apples, her delicate hooves leaving perfect prints in the dew. The forest edge feels emptier now, missing the flash of her white tail as she bounded away, the soft crunch of her careful browsing, and the trust in her dark, liquid eyes when she took treats from an open palm.