Summerhollow

Every year Summer would swear that the winters were growing colder. Whether it was true or not, she didn't know. But that's just how it felt even if it was likely that there hadn't been any change at all. The residues of last winter would disperse across the spring, summer, and autumn until Summer forgot how cold last winter actually was. She was reminded of it though, when winter would abruptly hit again, seemingly harder than the last. The nail-biting air would seep through the layers upon layers of clothes she wore and prickle the expanse of her skin.

But this year, she doesn't feel it. Summer doesn't feel the icy prickles of winter that usually clutches her body heat for purchase. She doesn't acknowledge the cold that has everyone huddling inside the warmth of their homes, bundling beside a crackling fire or an electric heater turned up on the highest notch. She's standing in the middle of a park, braving the elements that people cower away from. A thin blanket of white obscures the ground all around her. The trees are barren of life, dead bones that collect the falling snow. Any trace of the sun is lost in the heavy sky above. The angry clouds glare down in place.

Summer is alone. Her blanched skin almost blends in with the colour of the freshly fallen snow and her lips are chapped in a murky blue. She remembers how her parents used to joke about renaming her Winter, for that is what her pale skin, flaxen hair, and light eyes exude. Summer doesn't know why she's here, in a park she's never been to before, or even how she got here. But it feels like she has been here all her life. It feels like she should recognize the once colourful playground, now desolate and clouded with snow. Or the big oak tree that shades the middle of the field. She doesn't. But Summer feels at home.