On that cold December’s day, Destan had not wanted to believe that his parents were dead and would be gone forevermore. Thus, he chose not to believe it. That was how he had kept his sadness at bay.
Later, he would come to hate the snow for taking his parents from him, but just then, he did not mind it so much. Then it had reminded him of happier times—times when he and his parents would joyfully laugh and play in the snow until their fingers became so numb from the cold that they were forced to go inside.
On that rather bleak day, the skies had been gray and flurries of snow swirled about him as he stared up at the sky, trying as best he could to convince himself that his mother and father would soon return to him. His mind was so far away from the place where he stood, that he almost did not notice her.
He remembered that she was a tall, slender, and graceful woman, though she looked to be chiseled from ice. She was dressed in a long cloak and hat made of soft, white fur and delicate snowflakes. Her long, snow-white hair danced effortlessly in the cold wind that surrounded them. He could remember her face so clearly. He could never forget such a beautiful and wise face in all of his life. And her eyes! Her cold blue eyes burned so brightly. Destan swore that they must have been stars plucked from the heavens. Though, there was no peace in those lovely eyes of hers. All he saw was loneliness. Perhaps she saw the same in his eyes.
He recalled the woman kneeling down and placing her hand softly upon his cheek, staring deeply into his eyes. She did not speak a word and neither did he. He knew what she wanted. She wanted to banish her loneliness and he wanted the same. She told him without saying a single word that she wanted him to come with her. They would have each other and they would be lonely no more.
But they will be back, he had thought to himself. Mummy and Daddy will be back and they will worry about me if I’m gone.
Slowly shaking his head, Destan had backed away and the lovely woman stood up once more. He knew she would not force him. Not today. Thus, she had given him one nod of understanding before turning her back to him and disappearing into a flurry of snow.
That woman, Destan had convinced himself, had purely been a product of his over active imagination. A figment, or a cold induced phantom at best. Yet still, he had kept the memory fresh in his mind and he revisited it often, though he did not know why.
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