*THE GIRL OF WINTER*
Snow had always been her companion.
It clung to the rooftops like lace, softened the roads until they vanished, and pressed itself against the tall iron gates of the Holm mansion. The world beyond those gates bustled with laughter, traffic, and voices, but inside there was only silence—cold, heavy, unbroken silence.
The Holm mansion had once been alive. When Eira was a child, the ballroom echoed with music on winter nights, her parents' friends swirling across polished floors in glittering gowns. The conservatory had bloomed even in December, filled with roses her mother adored. But as the years stretched on, laughter grew rare, doors closed, and the once-bustling house became a mausoleum of memories.
By twenty-one, Eira had grown accustomed to stillness. She moved through the mansion like a ghost in human form: pale skin, black hair, eyes the color of ice. People in town whispered about her as though she were a legend, not a girl. The Snow Queen of Holm House, they called her, locked away in her frozen palace. Children dared each other to touch the gates, certain they'd be cursed with frostbite.
Eira didn't mind. Let them whisper. Let them invent stories. It was easier than the truth—that she was simply alone.
Her days followed quiet rituals. Morning tea she rarely finished. Hours in the conservatory tending to fragile plants that clung to life despite the frost. She pruned, watered, and watched them grow in defiance of the season. They were her only company, and she treated them as one might treat friends: with patience, care, and silent devotion. In their persistence, she saw a reflection of herself.
Sometimes, when she walked the long hallways at night, she caught glimpses of her younger self in the mirrors: a girl in white dresses, waiting for someone to take her hand and lead her into a warmer world. That girl had long since faded, leaving behind only the shell she wore now—beautiful, but brittle, sharp-edged, untouchable.
Love, she had learned, was not worth the risk. Once, she had given her heart—too young, too foolish, too hopeful. Once was enough. Since then, she had buried her warmth deep beneath layers of frost, convinced no one would ever look for it again.
The world outside moved on without her. Seasons changed, but for Eira, every month was winter. Even in July, when the town sweltered in heat, the mansion seemed cold, its shadows deep and unwelcoming. She told herself she preferred it that way. Solitude was safer than disappointment.
And so the years passed.
But silence, she would learn, is fragile. It can shatter with something as simple as a knock at the gate.
On the morning that changed everything, the snow fell thicker than usual, coating the path in untouched white. Eira stood in the conservatory, pruning a withered stem, when she heard it: a voice outside, muffled but warm, followed by the sharp rap of knuckles against iron.
Her first instinct was to ignore it. No one came here. Delivery men left packages by the gate, and neighbors knew better than to intrude. Yet the knocking continued, steady, unafraid.
For the first time in years, curiosity stirred.
She brushed snow from her sleeves, crossed the marble hall, and stood at the door leading out to the front steps. Through the frosted glass, she could make out a figure—a boy, tall, shoulders dusted with snow, a crooked smile visible even from where she stood.
Something in her chest tightened.
Eira Holm did not know his name, nor that he would return again and again, bringing with him the warmth of a world she had long since abandoned. She did not know that the silence she had clung to for so many years would begin to crack beneath his laughter. She did not know that her carefully frozen heart would stir to life, fragile and reckless as spring.
All she knew was that the world had knocked on her door, and for the first time, she wasn't certain she wanted to turn it away.
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