I always loved the snow. Growing up in a summery coastal town, it was only when I traveled that I ever got to see it. I fell in love with the way that it gathered so delicately on each tree bough, balanced so precisely on fenceposts and roof shingles. It robbed the world of color, but it paid back the theft in starkness, a blinding world of black and white.

I still love it, even now. The cold had long since stilled my limbs, and though it had hurt earlier, after hours being stuck in this tree well, I was blessedly numb. I watch with difficulty, as my eyelids are heavy now with snowflakes and fatigue, as the brilliant white sky lays more and more snow around my frostbitten body.

The silence is so heavy. I had never known that before today. It is a peaceful and welcome quiet. All I hear now is my slowing heartbeat and the gentle snowfall, a nearly imperceptible crackle of the tiniest pieces of ice.

My only regret is my closing eyes. I wish I could witness this snowstorm til the very end. But darkness bears down on me, and I fall asleep.