A whistle of the wind hums it’s mournful tune. The leaves on the trees are gifted their melancholy dance. And a girl stands, phone in hand, in a red box like a trapped mouse.

The girl has a sad look to her. It is not the drooping corners of her mouth. Nor the reddened cheeks and nose like a baby in the snow. But the eyes that show a battle where defeat and loss follow after each other.

As the night hugs the warmth of the earth, the girl steps outside the box and closes the door, gentle but firm. The weeping grass invites the girl onto the floor where she remains until the peeping of the sun.

The bitter cold laughs at the girl, as she sits through the night, and all her troubles too. But the box understands. It will always understand. It embraces her in its existence; something of solitude, disturbing the beauty of the view in its divine ugliness. It wants to blend in but the distinctive solidity of it refuses, yet it creates its own unknown sort of elegance like an enchantress in a forest.

Underappreciated yet angelic.

But now as the sun begins to smile down on her, thanking her for looking after the night, she smiles back. Her eyes now show that defeat can be victory if played correctly. The girl is now laughing back at the cold for all its ignorance as she knows that it is not the end.