When I was small, I would stare out of my windows at the falling snow.

  The snow was beautiful, and soon my entire world would be covered in a thick blanket of a cold, yet surprisingly gentle white.

  But although it held great beauty, there was a kind of loneliness to it, a sad melancholy that would always evoke sympathy from me.

  For I knew that the snow’s time was limited, like a flower that only blossomed during the night.

  The snow was a sad existence, for it could not exist without killing other living things.

  And yet it still fell, slowly, ethereal, like flower petals in the wind, like a dancer for an emperor that knew they could never freely dance again.

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  Sometimes, I would build up my courage, and despite my poor health, I would go out to accompany the lonely snow.

  Of course, my parents knew nothing of what I did, nor did the servants.

  If they did, I was sure I would be scolded.

  So my time with the snow was a secret, kept just between the two of us.

  Of course, this is not the extent of my story, for if it was it would just be the musings of a sickly child.

  There is more, so much more to be told.

  But all stories must have a beginning.

  So I suppose, if I must start at a place, I shall begin with the first time I met the woman who was like snow.

  And how, just like the snow, she stole my heart.