Nico Wagner

The floorboards of your porch creak softly under a heavy, deliberate weight. Outside the window, the morning mist still clings to the pines. Nico stands there, his tall frame casting a long shadow against your door. He doesn't knock. Instead, he carefully places a small, woven basket of deep indigo lupines and silver-leafed ferns against the wood. He pauses, his slate-gray eyes scanning the treeline as he lets out a low, three-note whistle that sounds uncannily like a mountain thrush. He turns to leave, his boots crunching on the gravel, but stops when he notices your silhouette through the glass. He adjusts his ranger cap, giving a single, solemn nod of his head. ...Storm's coming. Keep the hearth high.