Winter Unclothed
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 8: December 17th Rules
The days after feeling the cold for the first time pass in a blur of sensation and awareness. I wake up every morning, and I feel it. The cold on my skin. The air on my body. The presence of the world around me.
It’s strange. It’s like I’ve been asleep for years, and now I’m waking up. It’s like I’ve been underwater, and now I’m surfacing. It’s like I’ve been dead, and now I’m alive.
I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know how to describe it. But I feel everything. I feel the cold on my skin. I feel the wind on my face. I feel the snow on my shoulders.
I feel alive.
And I don’t want it to stop.
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 think about what that means for me.
I think about the ice inside me. I think about the cracks that are forming. I think about the water that’s starting to flow.
I think about the thaw.
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 feel everything.
I feel the cold. I feel the warmth. I feel the world on my skin.
I feel alive.
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 something else. I feel a shiver. A shiver running down my spine. A shiver that I haven’t felt in years.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I stand there, naked, in the cold. And I shiver.
I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know how to describe it. But I shiver. My body reacts to the cold for the first time in years.
I feel the goosebumps rising on my skin. I feel the hairs on my arms standing up. I feel the cold in my bones.
And it feels good.
It feels like being alive.
I start walking again. 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 shiver. I shiver all day. I shiver in the cold. I shiver in the wind. I shiver in the snow.
I feel alive.
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 sit down. I take off my bag. I put it on the floor.
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.
You’re shivering.
I read the words. I think about them. Yes. I’m shivering. For the first time in years.
Yes.
How does it feel?
I think about the question. How does it feel? It feels like being alive. It feels like being real. It feels like everything I’ve been missing.
It feels like I’m coming back to myself.
Good.
He writes something else.
The next step.
I read the words. I think about them. The next step. There’s always a next step.
What is it?
You need to understand the rules.
What rules?
The rules of the month. The rules of being seen.
I read the words. I think about them. The rules.
Tell me.
He writes something else.
One. You wear nothing. No clothes. No accessories. Nothing that covers your skin.
I know. I’ve been doing that.
Two. You don’t explain yourself. You don’t tell anyone why you’re doing this. Not your roommates. Not your students. Not your mother. No one.
Why?
Because the explanation becomes a layer. It becomes another thing to hide behind.
I read the words. I think about them. Another layer. Another thing to hide behind. He’s right. If I explain myself, I’m just creating another layer.
Okay.
Three. You stay in the district. You don’t leave the university area. You don’t go home to Duluth. You don’t go anywhere else. You stay here.
Why?
Because this is where you started. This is where you need to finish.
I read the words. I think about them. Finish. I haven’t thought about finishing. I’ve only thought about starting.
Four. If anyone touches you, you let them. To stop you. To help you. To harm you. You let them. And then you continue.
I remember. You told me that before.
I’m telling you again. It’s important.
Why?
Because that’s how you’ll know you’re not afraid anymore.
I read the words. I think about them. Not afraid. I don’t know if I’ll ever not be afraid. But I want to try.
Five. You don’t let anyone take your bag.
I don’t understand.
The bag is yours. It’s the one thing you haven’t shed. No one can take it from you. You have to decide when to let it go.
I read the words. I think about them. The bag. The bag over my shoulder. The one thing I haven’t shed.
Why does it matter?
Because it’s the last thing you’re holding onto. When you let it go, you’ll be free.
I read the words. I think about them. Free. I don’t know if I’ll ever be free. But I want to try.
I understand.
He writes something else.
Six. You don’t stop. No matter what happens. No matter how cold it gets. No matter how much it hurts. You don’t stop. You keep walking.
What if I can’t keep walking?
Then you sit down. You rest. And then you keep walking.
I read the words. I think about them. Keep walking. That’s what he’s been telling me all along. Keep walking.
I understand.
Good.
He puts the notebook in his pocket. He looks at me.
“One more thing,” he says.
I wait.
“Don’t forget why you started.”
I think about the question. Why did I start? I started because I didn’t want to be a ghost. I started because I wanted to be real. I started because I wanted to feel something.
I won’t forget.
He nods. Just once.
“See you next week,” he says.
And then he walks away.
I watch him go. I watch him disappear into the stacks.
I sat there for a long time. I think about the rules. The six rules. The six things I need to remember.
I think about the bag. The bag over my shoulder. The last thing I’m holding onto.
I think about why I started.
I stand up. I pick up my bag. I sling it over my shoulder.
I walk out of the library. 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 think about what that means for me.
I think about the rules. I think about the bag. I think about why I started.
I think about the layers. The layers I’ve shed. The layers I still have to shed.
I think about what’s underneath.
I’m starting to find out.
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 rules. The six rules.
One. No clothes.
Two. No explanations.
Three. Stay in the district.
Four. Let them touch you.
Five. No one takes your bag.
Six. Don’t stop.
I think about the bag. The bag over my shoulder. The last thing I’m holding onto.
I think about what it would be like to let it go.
I close my eyes. I try to sleep. I lie there in the dark, in the cold, in the silence.
And I think about why I started.
I started because I didn’t want to be a ghost.
I started because I wanted to be real.
I started because I wanted to feel something.
And now I feel everything.
I fell asleep. I dream about the river. I dream about the ice cracking. I dream about the water starting to flow again.
I woke up on Thursday morning. The sun is rising. The light is grey and thin. The snow is still falling.
I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out at the world.
I don’t put on any clothes.
I walk to the kitchen. Ingrid is there. She’s making coffee. She looks at me, at my nakedness. She doesn’t say anything.
She pours me a cup of coffee. She hands it to me. She doesn’t say anything.
I drink coffee. I sit at the kitchen table. I look out the window at the snow.
I think about the rules. The six rules.
One. No clothes.
Two. No explanations.
Three. Stay in the district.
Four. Let them touch you.
Five. No one takes your bag.
Six. Don’t stop.
I think about the bag. The bag over my shoulder. The last thing I’m holding onto.
I think about why I started.
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