The snow fell softly in the glade, blanketing the world in a hush that felt too heavy for something so delicate. The once-blooming trees, which had danced with fireflies and whispered of love, now stood bare and solemn, as if mourning. Beneath them, I stood alone—wrapped in layers of wool and silence, staring at the frozen stream that had once carried our laughter.
Winter was not supposed to come like this. Not with so many words unsaid, not with her name still trembling on my lips.
I clutched the locket she left behind—silver, heart-shaped, and cold as the sky. My fingers had memorized every curve, every scratch on its surface. I still hadn't opened it. I was afraid. Afraid that opening it might unravel me.
The last time I saw her, her eyes were filled with things she never said. Regret, maybe. Or love. Or both. The weight of that silence had planted itself deep in my chest and now grew like frost on a window—quiet, creeping, beautiful in the saddest way.
Behind me, I heard footsteps crunch through the snow. Slow. Hesitant.
I didn't turn.
"I didn't think you'd come back here," said Lira's voice—soft as wind through pine.
"I couldn't stay away," I said. "Not from this place. Not from her."
Lira moved beside me, her cloak brushing mine. Her breath formed small clouds in the cold. "She used to sing here. Remember?"
I nodded. "Every time the wind blew, she said it carried her song."
We both looked toward the pine where Hope used to sit. The bark was marked with her initials, carved next to mine. H + A, etched like a promise we had no idea how to keep.
"She was the kind of magic that didn't need spells," Lira whispered.
"She was the spell," I murmured back.
We stood there in silence, listening not to the wind, but to the ache between our ribs. The kind that doesn't go away with time, only deepens.
"She left something for you," Lira said after a while, reaching into her satchel. Her gloved fingers pulled out a folded piece of paper—pale blue, sealed with dried rose petals.
My breath caught. "Why didn't you give this to me earlier?"
"She asked me to wait. She said you'd know when the winter inside your chest was ready to melt."
I took the letter with trembling hands. The petals crumbled under my touch, fragile as my heart. I didn't open it. Not yet.
"I'm scared," I admitted, voice barely audible. "What if it makes it worse?"
"What if it makes it better?"
I didn't answer.
Lira touched my arm, a quiet gesture of comfort. Then she walked away, leaving me with the falling snow and the letter I couldn't yet bear to read.
I sat down under the pine—our pine. The cold bit through my cloak, but I welcomed it. The numbness was familiar. Safer.
I looked at the locket again.
Then, slowly, I opened it.
Inside was a tiny photo—the three of us, younger, laughing. Hope in the middle, arms around me and Lira. And opposite the photo, a note etched in her handwriting:
"You'll find me in the snow, when you remember to feel."
My fingers tightened around it. My chest ached.
I opened the letter.
---
Dearest Amara,
If you're reading this, I'm probably not standing next to you. I wish I were.
I never meant to leave the way I did, but I had to. Not because I didn't love you—but because I loved you too much. I saw the pain growing behind your smile, and I knew I was the reason. The truth is, I was always fading. I felt it in my bones, in the way magic pulled at me.
But you… you were life. You were warmth. You were everything I could never hold onto long enough.
Do you remember the first time you called my name and I turned around smiling? That's the moment I kept with me. I hope you kept it too.
There is a song in you, Amara. One I heard the first time you touched the tree roots with care. One that reminded me what it felt like to belong. Don't let the winter steal that song from you.
Don't let my leaving freeze your heart.
Sing again. Love again.
And maybe, when the snow melts, you'll hear me in the river.
Always yours,
Hope
---
Tears fell before I realized they'd started. They hit the parchment, smearing her name like a final goodbye.
I pressed the letter to my chest.
The snow kept falling. But something inside me shifted. A single crack in the frost.
Hope had always spoken of seasons. That winter would pass. That pain, even the sweetest kind, would not last forever.
I looked up at the pine branches, dusted with white, and whispered her name.
Then, for the first time in weeks, I sang.
It wasn't perfect. My voice trembled. My heart did too.
But it rose, soft and clear, into the glade where she once sang.
And I swear—I swear—I heard her humming back.