When Hirundo woke, the world was cold and dark and quiet. No birdsong greeted him. Not even the ominous hoo-hooing of owls. Only the endless, blanketing drift of snow and wind. He hardly felt the cold against his paws and nose; if it were not for the beating for his heart, he might have imagined himself dead, wrapped in the earth's final embrace.

His eyes snapped open. Hirundo scrambled to his feet with a panicked cry. Sides heaving as he struggled to get his bearings, he spun around. Hello? he croaked out.

The shroud of snow offered no familiar faces. Neither did the shadowed landscape, the endless tree trunks whirling around him. He stared down at his paws, and breathed deeply as he gathered himself. Alone. He was alone. With no idea what else to do, he stuffed his face back into the snow and tried to pretend it was all a dream.