It was a beautiful painting, called Warmth In The Ice, the illustrator used the inspiration of a girl who had fallen in ice and never swam back up. The painter worked with the light from the sun reflecting on the ice. She painted sun rays that had fallen with the girl, a big lake surrounded the girl, there was nothing else but ice and light.

I stood before it, trying to figure out how and why the girl had gotten there. No tree or piece of land surrounded her, only glass-clear ice. I took a close look at the girl, whose eyes were closed and her face showed relief as well as freedom. It looked almost as if the girl was happy she drowned, glad the light had taken and accepted her, she had found a comforting warmth in the ice, in her death. It didn't look as if she wanted to swim back up, I couldn't read any fear or regret from her face. The warmth reflected on the girl's face too, almost making her orange, not a bright orange, more like a sunset kind of orange. It made her look beautiful and somehow alive, it strangely made her look warm while she had frozen to death.

I wrote in my little notebook, 'Warmth In The Ice, beautiful but tragic' and I went on to analyse the next painting.