The Last Snowfall Shaina Tranquilino December 30, 2024
The sky was a dull expanse of gray, the kind of color that hinted at forgotten winters. In Elia’s lifetime, snow had become a myth—a tale of cold magic whispered by elders who spoke of blanketed landscapes and the crunch of ice beneath boots. But for the past week, a rumor had spread through her village like wildfire: snow was coming.
Elia tightened her scarf as she gazed at the distant mountains. Her mother had called it a fool’s errand, her friends said it was a waste of time. But Elia knew better. She had felt it. A strange, electric chill in the air that didn’t belong to their sun-baked, barren world.
“It’ll be gone before you even get there,” her mother had warned.
“Then I have to be quick,” Elia had replied.
And so, with nothing but a small pack and her father’s old snow journal—filled with sketches and notes from a time when snow was abundant—Elia set off.
The journey was arduous. The heat clung to her like a second skin, and the cracked earth beneath her feet radiated warmth even in the dimming light. The mountains loomed larger with each passing day, their peaks obscured by a veil of clouds. She wasn’t alone on the road—others, too, sought the fabled snow. But most gave up after days of walking, muttering about hoaxes and wild goose chases.
Elia pressed on.
On the sixth day, she reached the forest at the base of the mountains. Here, the air was cooler, tinged with a faint, metallic sharpness that reminded her of the old freezer in her village. Her breath quickened—not from exertion, but from hope.
She awoke the next morning to silence. Not the ordinary quiet of the forest, but an eerie stillness that wrapped around her like a blanket. Crawling out of her makeshift tent, Elia froze.
The world was white.
Snow blanketed the ground in a pristine sheet, each flake glistening like a tiny crystal. The trees were draped in frost, their branches bending under the weight of the unexpected cold. Her breath puffed out in visible clouds, and for a moment, she simply stood there, awestruck.
It was everything her father’s journal had promised and more. The softness underfoot, the icy sting on her fingertips, the way the air smelled fresh and sharp. She laughed—a pure, unbridled sound that echoed through the quiet.
Elia spent the entire day reveling in the snow. She built a lopsided snowman, made snow angels, and caught flakes on her tongue. She even tried to sketch the landscape in the back of her father’s journal, though her fingers were clumsy with cold.
But as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the snow in hues of pink and gold, Elia noticed the edges of the blanket starting to thin. The snow melted faster than it should have, retreating into the earth as if it had never been.
Panic bubbled in her chest. She tried to scoop some into her water bottle, but it turned to liquid before her eyes. She cupped a handful and held it to her lips, the icy water seeping into her skin.
She realized then that the snow wasn’t meant to last.
By dawn, it was gone.
Elia stood in the clearing where she had played just the day before, the ground now a muddy brown. The air was warm again, the stillness replaced by the chatter of birds. She felt a pang of loss but also a strange sense of peace. She had seen it—touched it, tasted it. She would carry the memory of snow with her, just as her father had, and perhaps she could keep its story alive for others.
As she descended the mountain, Elia noticed new growth sprouting in the soil where the snow had melted. Tiny shoots of green, fragile but determined, pushing through the earth.
And in that moment, she realized: the last snowfall wasn’t an ending. It was a beginning.
