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“Hush now”, Winter says, “And I’ll tell you the stories that can only be told when there is snow on the ground.”

On the way to my gingerbread house

In the northern reaches of the world, cradled between jagged mountains and an endless expanse of snow, lay the village of Vinterhollow. Every winter, a miracle unfolded there: the Glittering Frost. As the first true cold of the season settled in, the trees surrounding the village would transform overnight. Their bare branches would shimmer with a frost so brilliant it caught the morning sun like a thousand diamonds, casting rainbows that danced across the white landscape.

The villagers celebrated the phenomenon with a festival. They draped the frost-covered trees with ribbons and lanterns, feasting beneath the glistening canopy. Travelers came from far and wide to marvel at the sight, bringing gifts of gold and spices, their laughter filling the frigid air. It was said that the Frost was a blessing, a gift from Ylva, the Winter Spirit who protected the valley.

But there was one rule—never touch the Frost.

It was whispered to be sacred, a direct manifestation of Ylva's power. Those who dared to brush a finger against the glittering ice were said to vanish, spirited away by the Winter Spirit. It was a tale told to children and skeptics alike, the kind of story meant to keep curiosity in check.

Despite the warnings, one young woman named Elen was drawn to the Frost like a moth to flame. Unlike her neighbors, who reveled in the festival's warmth and cheer, she felt a gnawing unease about the Frost. It wasn’t just its beauty that unsettled her—it was the silence beneath it. No birds perched on the sparkling branches. No animals wandered near the frost-laden trees. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as it passed through the shimmering woods.

On the third night of the festival, when lanterns glowed faintly under a crescent moon and the villagers danced in the square, Elen crept away. Wrapping her fur cloak tightly around her, she ventured into the frost-coated forest, her breath puffing like ghostly wisps in the cold air.

The trees were even more enchanting up close. The frost on their branches pulsed faintly, as though alive. Elen hesitated, her hand hovering near a branch. What harm could a single touch do? she thought.

Her fingers brushed the frost. It was colder than anything she had ever known, a chill so intense it burned. She gasped and pulled back her hand, but the damage was done.

The world around her changed in an instant. The frost began to crackle, the sound sharp and echoing. The glittering beauty drained away, leaving the branches blackened and skeletal. The air grew heavy with the scent of iron, and the silence was broken by a low, keening wail that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Elen turned to flee but found herself frozen in place. A figure stepped out from the shadows of the trees. It was Ylva—or what the villagers believed to be Ylva. She was not the benevolent spirit of their songs and stories. Her form was tall and gaunt, her face obscured by a veil of frost that shimmered with malevolence. Her voice, when it came, was the sound of ice fracturing on a frozen lake.

"You dare to take what is not yours," Ylva hissed.

Elen tried to explain, to apologize, but her words turned to vapor in the icy air. Ylva raised a hand, and the frost began to creep up Elen's legs, binding her to the forest floor.

"You are the price for their beauty," Ylva said. "For each branch that glitters, a life must pay."

As the frost consumed her, Elen's last thought was of the villagers, blissfully unaware of the truth behind their beloved Frost.

The next morning, the festival continued, the villagers marveling at the trees' renewed brilliance. The Frost was even more radiant than before, they said, a sign that Ylva was pleased.

But no one noticed Elen's absence.

Yet, tonight, he sat with his hands resting motionless on the keys. No symphony stirred in his mind, only the hollow echoes of his dwindling genius. The years had taken their toll, each note a little harder to find, each melody less inspired. The winter storm outside was just another reminder of his isolation, the world beyond lost to him.

But as the wind howled, something changed.

At first, he dismissed it as a trick of his fatigued mind: a faint melody threading through the roaring gusts. The longer he listened, the more he realized it wasn’t random. There was a structure, a pattern, haunting and beautiful. Rising and falling, it carried the weight of longing and loss, mingled with an eerie, unearthly cadence. It pierced the silence of his soul.

Nathaniel leapt to his feet, throwing open the window. Icy air rushed in, biting at his skin, but he didn’t care. The melody grew clearer, intertwining with the sound of the snow-laden trees swaying in the storm. The night seemed alive with music, as though the forest itself were an orchestra, the wind its conductor.

He scrambled to his desk, pulling out sheets of blank staff paper. His pen moved feverishly, transcribing the notes that poured from the storm. Hours passed unnoticed. Each measure was a revelation, as though the music was being whispered directly into his mind.

The storm abated just before dawn, and with its passing, the melody faded. Exhausted but elated, Nathaniel slumped over the piano. His hands trembled as he played the piece from the beginning, his heart surging with a renewed purpose he hadn’t felt in years. It was perfect, unlike anything he had ever composed before—achingly beautiful, transcendent.

But as the final note lingered in the air, he heard a voice behind him.

“That is my song.”

Nathaniel turned sharply. A figure stood in the doorway, draped in a cloak of frost and shadow. Its face was indistinct, shifting like smoke, but its eyes were sharp and piercing, reflecting the pale blue of the winter sky.

“Who—what are you?” Nathaniel stammered.

“I am the wind that carried the song. The voice of winter’s final breath,” the figure said, its voice melodic yet mournful. “You have taken what was not yours.”

“It was... a gift,” Nathaniel insisted, though he felt the chill of doubt creeping into his bones.

The figure tilted its head. “A gift, yes—but gifts from the beyond are not freely given. You have bound yourself to this song, and now, so too are you bound to me.”

Nathaniel’s breath caught. “What does that mean?”

“You will know when the final note plays,” the figure whispered, and then it was gone, dissipating into a swirl of frost that swept out the open window.

The composition, Winter’s Last Song, was an immediate sensation. Critics called it the work of a genius, audiences wept in the concert halls, and Nathaniel’s name was resurrected from obscurity. But the joy of his success was tempered by the figure’s warning.

As the years passed, he grew wary of playing the piece, fearful of what might happen when the final note sounded. Yet the world clamored for it, and his reluctance only made the demand greater.

It was on a winter night, much like the one when the song first came to him, that he agreed to perform it one last time. His fingers danced over the keys with a grace that belied his age, the haunting melody filling the grand concert hall. The audience was spellbound, their breaths held as the final, delicate note approached.

As it rang out, clear and crystalline, the world seemed to hold its breath. Nathaniel’s hands fell to his lap, his eyes closing as a serene smile spread across his face. When the audience rose to its feet, the applause thunderous, he did not stir.

🌹Saint Barbara.