Gusts of icy wind carry the sound of distant, distorted bells. In the snowy void, where the blizzard hides everything alive, the silhouettes of snowmen slowly emerge. Their smiles are carved too wide, their eyes molded from something dark and glistening, like coal from the underworld. The music sounds as if winter itself is singing its own lullaby—cold, merciless, calling. And when it reaches its climax, you’re no longer sure where the storm ends and the screaming begins.🎃