The White Silence of Disan

In the northern valley, when the first frost brushed the pines, villagers whispered the name Disan.* They said she walked before dawn, her white hair flowing like mist, her breath weaving snowflakes in the air. Once, a child saw her by the frozen river. “Spirit, why do you come?” he asked. Disan smiled gently, her voice soft as falling ash. “I come where warmth lingers too long,” she said, “to remind the world how to rest.