Jan. 11, 2026

January Man - (Episode 2) - "The Thaw" - A Romance Weekly Paranormal Series

January Man - (Episode 2) - "The Thaw" - A Romance Weekly Paranormal Series

The temperature rises, and Callum fades—leaving Vera alone with questions and the slow ache of anticipatory grief. She spends days researching winter walkers, learning about the spirits who've disappeared as the world has warmed.When the cold returns, so does Callum—with another lost soul who needs their help. Delia is a college student frozen in place, unable to remember how to live. Callum can warm the room, but only Vera can reach her with words.As they guide Delia back from the edge, Callum reveals what it cost him to watch his daughter live an entire life he couldn't share. And with a polar vortex approaching, he asks Vera for the only thing he's ever wanted: someone to walk beside him while he still can.

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Calarogu Shark Media. Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This

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is the January Man, Episode two, The Thaw. I spent

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three days researching winter walkers. The Internet was mostly useless,

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paranormal forums full of people who'd felt presences in blizzards,

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ghost hunters in Wisconsin claiming to have captured orbs in snowstorms.

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A Reddit thread about seasonal effective disorder that someone had

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tagged with winter spirits for reasons I couldn't fathom. But

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the University library had older source is folklore collections from

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Scandinavian immigrants Ojibwe oral traditions transcribed by ethnographers in the

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eighteen nineties, a slim volume of Scottish Highlands mythology that

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mentioned those who walk between the frosts. The stories varied,

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but the core was consistent. Spirits bound to the harshest seasons,

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tasked with guiding the lost. They existed in the spaces

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where survival became uncertain, the killing cold, the drowning floods,

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the burning droughts. Once, according to one account, there had

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been dozens of them, hundreds, maybe a whole ecology of

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threshold guardians, each tied to their particular danger now there

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were almost none. The book didn't say why climate change

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wasn't a concept in nineteen o three when it was published,

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but reading between the lines, the pattern was clear. As

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the season softened, as central heating and modern medicine and

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infrastructure made survival less precarious, the spirits faded. They existed

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because they were needed. When the need diminished, so did they.

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Callum was one of the last, and he was running

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out of time. The temperature rose to thirty four degrees

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on January fifth, I walked to the corner where I'd

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first seen him and found nothing but slush and traffic.

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On the sixth, it hit thirty eight, and I felt

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something I hadn't expected. Grief, anticipatory grief, the kind I

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helped my clients navigate when a loved one was dying slowly,

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the loss for the loss. I barely knew him, I'd

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spoken to him for maybe an hour, but the thought

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of him fading, dissolving into a warming world that didn't

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need him anymore, it sat in my chest like a stone.

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On the morning of January seventh, I woke to a

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text from Marcus Chen, thank you for finding me. I'm

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checking into a treatment program today. I don't know how

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you knew where I was, but I'm grateful you did.

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I stared at the message for a long time. Then

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I got dressed and went to work. The temperature dropped

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that night, minus two by sunset, minus eleven by midnight.

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I felt the change before I saw it, a sharpening

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in the air, a brittleness that made my lungs ache

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when I breathed. I was making tea in my kitchen

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when I heard his voice. You've been researching me. I

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didn't see startle. Somehow I'd known he was coming. Callum

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was standing by my window, more solid than I'd ever

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seen him. The cold had brought him back, fully filled

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in the edges that had wavered and flickered three days ago.

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He looked almost alive. I found some folklore, I said,

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stories about winter walkers, threshold guardians. Most of it's wrong.

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He almost smiled, But the bones are usually true. It said,

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there used to be more of you. There were. He

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moved away from the window, and I noticed he left

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no footprints on my floor, disturbed, no dust present, but

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not quite physical. When I first started walking, I could

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feel others distant, but there a woman in northern Ontario,

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a man in the Alps, A whole family in Siberia,

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if you can believe it, four generations of walkers passing

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the duty down. What happened to them? The winters got shorter,

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the cold got less deadly. People stopped dying in blizzards,

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so there were fewer lost souls to guide. He sat

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on my couch, or rather he positioned himself as if

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sitting hovering a millimeter above the cushions. One by one,

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they faded. The woman in Ontario was last. I think

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I felt her go about thirty years ago, like a

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candle going out on the other side of the world.

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I brought my tea to the chair across from him.

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The steam rose between us, and I watched him watch it,

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the movement of heat, of life, of things he couldn't touch.

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Tell me about Margaret, I said. He was quiet for

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so long I thought he wouldn't answer. She was seven

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when I died. He finally said, seven years old, burning

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with fever, and I walked into a blizzard to save her.

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He looked at his hands, pale, translucent in the lamp light.

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The deal I made saved her life. The fever broke

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that night, but I never got to tell her good bye,

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never got to explain why I wasn't coming home. Did

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she know what happened to you? She knew I died.

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They found my body in the spring when the snow melted.

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But she didn't know he stopped started again. She didn't know.

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I was still there, watching every birthday, every milestone. I

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was at her wedding. I was there when her first

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child was born. I stood outside the window and watched

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her rock that baby to sleep, and I couldn't. His

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voice broke, just for a moment. Then he collected himself

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and his face smoothed back into that ancient calm. She

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lived to eighty three. Good life, happy life, surrounded by

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people who loved her. He looked at me. I was

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there at the end too, standing at the window of

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the hospice in a January cold snap, And just before

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she went, she looked right at me, right through the glass,

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and she smiled. She saw you, I think so, just

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for a moment, right at the threshold. He smiled too,

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but it was fragile. That's the only time in one

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hundred eighty years that anyone saw me without me reaching

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for them first. Until you, I didn't know what to say.

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I wrapped my hands around my tee and let the

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warmth seep into my fingers. Why me, I finally asked,

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Why can I see you? I don't know. He leaned forward,

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studying my face like it held answers. There's something in Uvera,

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something frozen. I felt it the first time I saw

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you standing at that window in your office. You carry

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winter inside you the same way I do my brother.

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I know I don't know the details, but I can

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feel it, the loss, the cold it left behind. His

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eyes were gentle Witnesses usually have wounds like that threshold

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experiences that opened something in them, made them able to

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perceive what others can't. I thought about THEO, about the bridge,

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the frozen river, the way I'd spent five years trying

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to outrun a grief I couldn't name. There's someone else,

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Callum said, pulling me back, someone who needs help tonight.

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That's why I came another lost soul, a girl nineteen.

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She's been frozen in place for almost a week. He stood,

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and the air around him seemed to crystallize, tiny ice

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particles catching the light. Will you come with me? I

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put down my tea. Let's go Her name was Delia Torres.

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She lived in a dormitory at the university, a squat

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brick building that looked like every other dormitory in every

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cold weather campus in America. Her room was on the

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fourth floor, windows dark, curtains drawn. She hasn't left that

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room in six days, Callum said. We were standing on

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the sidewalk below our breath fogging in the minus fifteen air.

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Hasn't answered her phone, hasn't responded to Knox. Her roommate

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is staying with a boyfriend. Thinks Delia just wants privacy.

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How do you know all this? I walk the cold,

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I feel the lost ones. He looked up at her window.

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She's not suicidal, not yet. But she stopped, just stopped.

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The cold got inside her and everything froze. The freeze,

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I said, remembering his phrase from the garage. Yes, it's

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different from active crisis. Harder to see, harder to reach.

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He turned to me. I can go in, walk through

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the walls, be present in the room with her. But

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she can't hear me, can't see me. All I can

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do is try to warm the space around her, make

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her feel less alone. And me you can talk to her,

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actually reach her he paused, if you can get in.

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I looked at the building, locked doors, security systems, an

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ra who would want to know why a stranger was

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trying to access a student's room at midnight. I'll figure

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it out, I said. It took twenty minutes and a

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lot of creative truth telling. I found the night r

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a a tired looking junior named Marcus, which felt like

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a sign, and explained that I was a grief counselor

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who'd received a concerning message from Delia's mother. That wasn't true,

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but it was plausible that Delia had a history of

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depression and hadn't responded to family contact in almost a week.

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That might have been true. I was guessing based on

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what Callum had told me. I can't just let you

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into a student's room, Marcus said, I'm not asking you

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to let me in. I'm asking you to check on her.

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Knock on the door. If she answers and says she's fine,

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I'll leave. He wavered. I could see him calculating liability,

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imagining the worst case scenario, weighing his exhaustion against his conscience. Fine,

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he said, but I'm coming with you. We climbed to

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the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet, that eerie one

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am silence of a building full of sleeping students. Delia's

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door was at the end, marked with a whiteboard that

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hadn't been written on in weeks. Marcus, not Delia, it's

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the ra just checking in silence. He knocked again, Delia,

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can you let me know you're okay? Silence. I could

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feel something on the other side of the door, not Callum,

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something else, await, a stillness, the frozen stasis of a

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person who had stopped believing that motion was possible. Delia,

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I said, stepping closer to the door. My name is Vera.

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I'm a counselor. I'm not here to force you to

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do anything. I just want to make sure you're safe.

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Nothing then, so faint. I almost missed it, the creak

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of bedsprings movement. I know what it feels like, I said,

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pressing my palm flat against the door, when everything freezes,

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when you can't remember why you used to get out

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of bed, or eat breakfast or answer your phone, when

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the world keeps going and you're just stuck. Marcus was

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watching me with an expression I couldn't read. I didn't care.

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I was talking to the door, to the girl behind it,

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to the frozen place inside both of us. My brother

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died five years ago New Year's Day, and after that

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everything stopped. I went through the motions, work, food, sleep,

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but I wasn't really there. I was frozen inside. A

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moment I couldn't escape. I leaned my forehead against the wood.

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It took me a long time to understand that the

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way out isn't around the ice, it's through it, and

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you can't do that alone. Silence, then footsteps, then the

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click of a lock. The door opened. Delia Torres was

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nineteen years old and looked about twelve. She was wearing

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sweatpants and a T shirt that had probably been slept

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in for days. Her hair was tangled, her eyes hollow,

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her skin the color of old paper. But she was standing.

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She was at the door. She was looking at me.

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I can't feel anything, she whispered. I haven't felt anything

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in weeks. I know. I stepped into the doorway, slow

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and careful, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. Can

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I come in? She nodded. Marcus started to follow, but

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I shook my head. Give us a few minutes. I'll

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text you. He hesitated, then nodded, I'll be right down

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the hall. I stepped into Delia's room and closed the

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door behind me. Callum was there. I could feel him,

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even if I couldn't see him at first, a presence

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in the corner, a faint warmth cutting through the stale

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cold of the room. Then my eyes adjusted and I

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saw him standing by the window, watching. Delia couldn't see him,

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but she looked toward his corner anyway, frowning slightly. It's

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warmer over there, she said. It's been like that for days.

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This warm spot that doesn't make sense. Maybe that's a

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good sign, I said, warm spots in cold rooms. We

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talked for an hour. She told me about the darkness

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that had descended after winter break, the way the short

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days and long nights had triggered something she didn't have

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words for. She'd stopped going to class, then stopped answering texts,

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then stopped getting out of bed. She wasn't trying to die,

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she just couldn't remember how to live. I told her

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about THEO. Not everything, not the bridge, not the blame,

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not the way I'd frozen myself as penance, but enough

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enough to let her know she wasn't alone. Enough to

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let her see that someone else had walked through the

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ice and survived. At two a m. She ate a

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granola bar, her first food in three days. At two

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thirty she took a shower while I waited in the hall.

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At three am, she gave me her mother's phone number

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and asked me to call her in the morning. Small victories,

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but real I found Callum waiting for me outside the dormitory.

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The temperature had dropped further minus eighteen now, and he

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was almost glowing with presents, more solid than I'd ever

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seen him. Thank you, he said. I've been trying to

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reach her for days, filling that room with warmth, hoping

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she'd feel less alone. But I couldn't. You couldn't talk

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to her. I know. We walked together through the frozen campus,

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past buildings dark with sleep, past trees glazed with ice,

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past a world that had no idea how close one

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of its daughters had come to slipping away. Why do

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you do this, I asked, after one hundred eighty years,

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after watching everyone you loved die, why do you keep

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walking because Margaret survived? He said, it simply like it

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was the most obvious thing in the world. She had

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a life because I made a deal. And every person

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I guide home, every Marcus, every Delia. They might have

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children too, grandchildren, generations that exist because someone was there

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on the coldest night to show them the way back.

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That's a lonely kind of meaning. Yes, he stopped walking,

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turned to face me. But it's the only kind I have.

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We stood there in the dark, in the deep cold,

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two frozen people looking at each other. The temperature's going

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to drop tomorrow, Callum said, polar vortex. They're saying it

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could hit minus thirty. How long will that give you?

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Three days? Maybe four? He reached out slowly and took

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my hand. His skin was cold, always cold, but solid real.

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Will you spend them with me, Vera, whatever happens after,

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Will you walk with me while I can still walk?

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I looked at our joined hands, his fingers pale as frost,

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mine red with cold, still alive. Yes, I said, I'll

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walk with you. He smiled, that surprised, grateful smile I

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was starting to live for, and the ice on the

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trees around us seemed to glitter brighter. Then let's make

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them count, he said. Next week, on the January Man,

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the polar vortex descends and Callum takes Vera into the

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deep cold, where she sees the fading ghosts of every

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winter Walker who came before