A chill creeped into her legs. Moist dampness soaked into
her thick woolen dress, making it heavy and dark. The light, filtered through
mist and cloud, did little to alleviate the darkness. Muted as it was, she shivered,
lacking the heat of the sun’s rays.
Creaking filled her ears, a sighing sag. Wood groaned as it
held itself up, held her weight, tried to stand tall. And it did. The tree
spread leafless branches over her head, like a skeleton, and she would be the
tiny rodent hiding within.
Snow hovered, not forming, not falling, not existing, just
hovering on the verge of existence. At any moment, the scale might tip. If
enough vapor got cold enough, it would fall. Until then, six fingered crystals
waited, an infinitesimal distance from one another.
Her nose turned red and a thin stream began to run from it.
She lifted her sleeve to wipe it away, but made a face in disgust when she saw
the crusted area made over the last hour.
An hour. Would she freeze to death? Would she thaw? Would
she become and fall? Or would she hover here forever, on her perch, the canary
in a bone cage.
