Long drawn out legato. A beat. A raising of the foot. Stuttering jumping staccato. Flurrying shimmering fragile notes cavort. Dancing lightly under controlled delicate fingers. The foot falls. Forcing the melody to hover and twist in the tense air. Before crashing down under the dark weight of a perfect fifth. Hanging like a menacing cloud, glowering high in the atmosphere before dissipating under a sharp inhale. Teasing glissando hurls the passage in a frightening new direction.

Sensing the discord of the world you pad out of the warm kitchen, where sweet muffins are baking. Shivering as you enter the stale chill of the front hall, you tug your shawl closer around your frail shoulders. Once steady hands pat along the wooden shelf, trying to find what your faded hazel eyes failed to. Muttering bitter words as you heard the gentle clink of metal on stone.

Bending carefully, you sweep the well worn flagstones listening for a shift in the chill. At last you found warmer lick of brass. Urging arthritic fingers to cradle and scoop, the key finally slid into the keyhole. Leaning heavily against the panel, you turned the lock over. A questioning click, wondering if you were ready to see the world.

Atrophied muscles pull the door open with great effort. Inviting the frigid demons to sashay in, liberally sprinkling flakes of moonbeam glitter in their wake. You didn’t need to see well to know that Frau Holle had dropped her pristine cloak. Clutching the doorframe you flinched as minuscule teeth nibbled at your translucent skin.

Breathing in the cold crisp air always reminded you how to feel alive. There was something. Something that tainted the perfect alabaster plane. Squinting through thick frames you could make out shadows. Shadows that were akin to footsteps. Not heavy boots accustomed to the arctic climes. But elegant dress-shoes, the sort gentlemen wore to high class events.

Searching through the cotton wool that clouded your mind, you couldn’t remember letting anyone in… Or out. Scratching your wispy cobweb strands, you retreat inside. Whatever was out there couldn’t get in if the the door was locked. Could they?

Humming a light melody you battened down the hatches. Can never be too careful. From down the hall your nose detected the strains of sweet spicy batter. Your muffins! Deploying the high speed sock skate, you glide down the gloomy hall.

Whipping open the oven door in a bout of youthful abandonment, you retrieve the pockets of delight from the inferno. Only when the tray was safe on the kitchen side did you stop to shake your fingers. Knobbly like wizened tree branches, now singed by a stray bolt of lightening. Angry welts emerged, blazing red, bubbling and peeling. Momentarily, you wondered what to do. Confusion creeps in like the sea fog desperate to run a ship onto the savage rocks.

What did it matter anyway? Your heart flutters feebly like caged butterflies trying to slice their way out. Your head starts to sing and spin looking for an escape. For a moment you felt like falling… you were falling. Yet the ground never rose to meet your plummeting frame, a tender hand around your waist steadied you.

Reaching for a fresh, soulful, muffin your hand paused. Unsure of itself. Thirty minutes ago the appendage would have had no qualms about devouring a homemade breakfast. Your mind remembered how the paper case peeled away, limp and moist from the soft treat. How the crumbs adorned your lips. How your fingertips glistened with melted butter. How your inner child begged for seconds while the sensible adult berated the foolish idea.

There was something you had to do first. One last walk. Was it your last walk? Maybe. Shrugging you took slow doddering steps back to the portal to a new world. Balancing on the milking stool, you slid marked feet into the tall green boots. Wrestling with the hollow flapping fabric of the coat, you let out a low chuckle. Petering off into a sharp rattling cough.

Finally, appropriately dressed you stepped out into the winter wonderland. Bare arms of the coppice stretched to the heavens begging for mercy. A solitary robin hopped along the garden fence, leaving behind another trail. Pausing on the post the tiny bird ruffled it’s feathers, flashing it’s bright patch of rust. You thought it was watching you, silently wondering who you were.

Creating your own trail, an unsteady affair that wove and zipped across the almost blank page. Until at last you let your weary legs sink, folding neatly in the right places, onto your favourite bench. Uncaring if the biting powder leeched into your thick corduroy trousers.

Gazing out over the valley, shaded in monotones, you felt someone join you. The unnerving sense quickly faded as you recognised your partners energy. Quiet, understated, yet bursting with life. Tilting your head you saw no one there beside you, only another trail running parallel across the garden.

A tender murmur, “I’m here now, come with me and we can explore the frozen valley together.” Maybe it was nothing more than the low whispering wind that sneaked beneath your woollen hat. Yet you felt a shift within your bones, fear gripped your heart. “Don’t fight it, just breathe, let it be.” Again the voice you knew so well filled your mind.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all, to escape the aching joints, shrinking memories, failing mind and the constant desolate isolation. Sighing wistfully, you took in the blurred view for the last time. Sinking your chin to your chest, a tired broken sparrow that once rolled in cornflower skies. A loving hand found yours, squeezing the pattern that remained emblazoned on your soul. ‘I love you,’ a fanciful phrase and phantom touch bought on by the delusional weather.

Except you knew that this was happening, as your breath rattled in your throat. Meek as a lamb, you allowed yourself to be guided on your way.

Long drawn out legato. A beat. A raising of the foot. Stuttering jumping staccato. Somber series of minor chords. Panicked notes fray under the tension. All control is lost as the melody drives forward. The foot falls. A new phrase opens up, forgiving and kind. Low mournful bass feeds into the high singing treble. Floating higher and higher, as a new angel gained their wings.