The soft footprints ran neatly alongside each other.

Evenly spaced.

Close, like those of hand-holding lovers.

It wasn’t clear where they began, but they went some way, over many a farmer’s gate, through dense forest and then out, joining the cliff-path about a mile from the road.

How romantic.

For a while, the footprint-makers stood, facing one another. You can tell because the prints are deeper, where standing still sinks a more permanent mark into the winter blanket.

Maybe they were talking.

Or kissing.

Or… Or anything. What’s the use dwelling on possibilities?

A glint in the snow.

What’s this? A wedding ring?

Let’s not distract ourselves.

A little further along the path, and the footprints seem to be melting together – crossing and weaving until only one set of tracks remain – deeper and more laboured than before.

A dashing Heathcliff carrying his Catherine across the snow?

The view from the cliff is quite a vista.

What a shame about that little red stain at the very bottom…