healers gem.

         He always found it to be an interesting sight—the          snow. How it seemed to make everything look more          beautiful. Even as the sun shined against the little          flakes, the ground glittered like starlight. Seneca          straightened himself up,

                                      “You look as if you haven’t seen                                        snow in years. Is it not a common                                        occurrence? It snows too much                                        where I’m from. Stays on the ground                                        for months at a time. If it stayed                                        this white and clean, it wouldn’t                                        so much of a problem—but it                                        becomes grey and slush. Quite                                        disgusting, really.”

              He had seen many winters, but               none like this. He was not from               the area that the other was from,               but rather one in the opposite               direction. It still had a fierce winter,               but nothing along the lines of white              matter on the ground for half of the                                                            year.