Part One: Snowfields in Dreams
The night was eerily still.
He leaned over the bedside table, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Mountains of documents piled high and the cold, white office lights still flickered in his mind.
In that instant, the world turned upside down.
He saw himself—not a man in a shirt, but a silver-white fox. Snow blanketed the earth, and the wind hummed low.
With every breath, he could sense the chill and a hint of blood in the air.
In the distance, a little girl lay fallen in the snow, her body caked in mud and blood.
She wept almost silently, curled up and clutching a faintly glowing lamp to her chest.
He shouldn't have approached.
The Fox Clan's instincts demanded solitude, vigilance, and keeping humans at a distance.
But the aura of that lamp was soft and sweet yet carried a familiar warmth.
He drew nearer. The girl lifted her head. Her eyes were clear and timid yet identical to someone deep within his memory.
He bent down and licked the blood from her palm. In that instant, she smiled softly.
"Mr. Fox, will you protect me?"
He nodded instinctively.
The snowy night stretched on. The fox guarded her side until the wind ceased and the lamp flickered out.
She slept in his embrace, and he watched her breathe over and over.
Until the first light of dawn fell and her form began to fade.
He rushed after her, only to plunge into endless mist.
In that moment, he heard his heart whisper, "If there is a next life, I will find you."
Part Two: The Cycle of Memory
He awoke in a cold sweat.
Rain fell outside, blurring the city's neon lights into a silvery haze—strikingly similar to the snow in his dream.
A report lay on the desk that she had handed to him the night before. Her handwriting was as always: clean and resolute.
He pressed his fingers to his temples and caught that familiar scent—a faint tea fragrance mingled with subtle sweetness, hers.
Suddenly, he understood: the dream was no illusion.
That fox, that girl—long ago, in a past life, fate had bound them together.
He rose and walked to the window. Streetlight spilled across his face, illuminating his crimson-gold eyes.
"So you came long ago," he murmured.
Something stirred slowly within him. It wasn't vengeance or desire, but an ancient vow: If there is a next life, I will find you again.
And now, he had.
From that day on, his coldness ceased to be mere pretense and became a punishment—a punishment for forgetting her for so long.
Late into the night, he dreamt of the snowy plains once more.
The fox turned back, and in the mist, a figure smiled.
It was her.
Just as he remembered her—a gentle, fleeting light.