Winter Unclothed
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 15: January 28th Return
The days after the mall pass in a blur of grey light and cold air and the feeling of skin against the world. I wake up every morning, and I don’t put on any clothes. I walk to the kitchen. I drink my coffee. I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
And I don’t carry anything.
I am naked. I am exposed. I am nothing. I am everything.
I am free.
I walk to campus every morning. I walk across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I stop in the middle to look at the river. The river is still frozen. But the cracks are getting wider. The ice is breaking up. The water is starting to flow.
I stand there, naked, looking at the river. I think about the ice cracking. I think about the water starting to flow again.
I think about what that means for me.
I think about the bag. The bag I dropped in the snow. The bag I let go of.
I think about how I’m free.
I think about the month. One month. It’s almost over. I’m almost at the end.
I think about what happens at the end.
I think about Duluth. I think about my mother. I think about the house where I grew up. I think about the snow falling on Lake Superior.
I think about going home.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
And I don’t carry anything.
On Monday morning, something different happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I see a group of students standing in a circle. They’re looking at me. They’re whispering. One of them has a phone out.
I keep walking. I don’t slow down. I don’t speed up. I just keep walking.
One of them steps forward. She’s a young woman, maybe a senior, with a curious expression on her face.
“Excuse me,” she says. “I just wanted to tell you something.”
I stop. I look at her.
“I think you’re amazing,” she says. “I think what you’re doing is amazing.”
I think about the words. Amazing. That’s new.
“Thank you,” I say.
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.
“I’ve been watching you,” she says. “I’ve been watching you walk across campus every day. And I wanted to tell you that you inspire me.”
I think about the words. Inspire. That’s new too.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods. She steps back.
“Take care of yourself,” she says.
“I will,” I say.
I keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
And I don’t carry anything.
On Tuesday morning, something else happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I see a man standing on the sidewalk. He’s older, maybe in his seventies, with white hair and a kind face. He’s holding a hat.
He steps forward as I approach.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I don’t want to bother you. But I have this hat. I thought you might want it.”
I look at the hat. It’s thick and warm. It’s the kind of hat you’d use to keep your head warm in the winter.
I look at him. I look at his kind face. I look at his concerned eyes.
“Thank you,” I say. “But I don’t need it.”
“You don’t need it? But it’s freezing out here. You must be cold.”
I think about the question. I think about the answer. I am cold. I’m shivering. I feel the cold on my skin.
But I don’t want the hat.
“I don’t want it,” I say. “Thank you.”
He looks at me. He doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t push.
“Okay,” he says. “I just wanted to help.”
“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”
He steps back. He holds the hat against his chest. He watches me walk away.
I keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
And I don’t carry anything.
On Wednesday morning, something different happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I feel someone touch me.
It’s a light touch. A gentle touch. Someone’s hand on my arm.
I stop. I turn around.
It’s a young woman. Maybe a sophomore. She has a kind face and concerned eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t mean to bother you. But I wanted to ask if you’re okay.”
I think about the question. I think about the rules. Let them touch you. And then continue.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“Are you sure? It’s freezing out here. You must be cold.”
“I’m cold,” I say. “But I’m okay.”
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.
“I’ve been seeing you,” she says. “I’ve been seeing you walk across campus every day. And I wanted to tell you something.”
I wait.
“I think you’re doing something important,” she says. “I don’t understand it. But I think it’s important.”
I think about the words. Important. I’ve heard that before.
“Thank you,” I say.
She takes her hand off my arm. She steps back.
“Take care of yourself,” she says.
“I will,” I say.
I keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
And I don’t carry anything.
On Wednesday night, I walk to the library. I walk through the stacks. I pass the history section, the sociology section, and the philosophy section. I turn the corner toward my usual table.
He’s there.
He’s sitting in the same seat, wearing the same coat, looking at the same river.
I walk up to the table. I sat down. I don’t have a bag to take off.
He looks at me. He looks at my naked body. He looks at my bare skin. He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
We sit in silence. The library hums. The river flows. The hours pass.
Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the notebook. He writes something. He slides it across the table.
How are you feeling?
I read the words. I think about them. How am I feeling? I don’t know. I don’t know how to answer that question.
I don’t know, I write.
Yes, you do.
I read the words. I think about them. Yes, I do. I know how I’m feeling. I just don’t know how to put it into words.
I feel like I’m ready.
Ready for what?
Ready for the end. Ready for what comes next. Ready for everything.
Good.
He writes something else.
The month is almost over.
I read the words. I think about them. The month. One month. It’s almost over.
I know.
What are you going to do?
I think about the question. What am I going to do? I’m going to go home. I’m going to Duluth. I’m going to see my mother.
I’m going to Duluth.
To see your mother?
Yes.
Good.
He writes something else.
Why?
I think about the question. Why am I going to Duluth? Because I need to see my mother. Because I need to tell her what I’ve done. Because I need to tell her who I’ve become.
Because I need to see her. Because I need to tell her what I’ve done. Because I need to tell her who I’ve become.
And?
And because I need her to see me.
Good.
He puts the notebook in his pocket. He looks at me.
“When the month is over,” he says. “You’ll go. And you’ll tell her.”
I look at him. I look at his steady eyes. I look at his unreadable face.
“Yes,” I say.
The night passes. The library empties. The lights flicker. It’s time to go.
He stands up. He puts the notebook in his pocket. He looks at me.
“See you at the end,” he says.
And then he walks away.
I watch him go. I watch him disappear into the stacks.
I stand up. I walk out of the library. I don’t have a bag to carry.
I walk home through the cold. I feel the cold on my skin. I feel the wind on my face. I feel the snow on my shoulders.
I feel everything.
I walk home. I walk across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I stop in the middle to look at the river.
The river is still frozen. But the cracks are getting wider. The ice is breaking up. The water is starting to flow.
I stand there, naked, looking at the river. I think about the ice cracking. I think about the water starting to flow again.
I think about what that means for me.
I think about the bag. The bag I dropped in the snow. The bag I let go of.
I think about how I’m free.
I think about Duluth. I think about my mother. I think about the house where I grew up. I think about the snow falling on Lake Superior.
I think about going home.
I walk home. I walk through the snow. I walk through the cold. I walk through the darkness.
I walk into my house. The house is dark and cold. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t turn on the heat.
I walk through the dark to my bedroom. I lie down on my bed. I stare at the ceiling.
I think about the end. The end of the month. The end of the journey. The end of everything.
I think about Duluth. I think about my mother. I think about the house where I grew up.
I think about going home.
I close my eyes. I try to sleep. I lie there in the dark, in the cold, in the silence.
And I think about the days ahead.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know who I’m going to become.
But I’m going to find out.
I woke up on Thursday morning. The sun is rising. The light is grey and thin. The snow is still falling.
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