It's hard to live here. Nothing else does. Everything is white, or grey. Except the lake. The lake is obsidian glass, as dark and murky as it is unforgiving. But the worst part is the stillness. Nothing moves. The trees don't settle. The snow seems to hang in the air, suspended on a breath from long ago. There are no bird to sing, no animals to jump, no life. Just a vast expanse of endless stillness and emptiness. Not waiting for anything, simply austere and unwelcoming. It doesn't want anything or anybody to disturb it. It's a picture from a book. Just a painting. A hundred thousand paintings of the same scene revolving slowly, letting the stillness hang, and cling to our bones.
Until the footprints. The first footprints break the crispy surface, and suddenly it is a wonderland. The snow frosts the trees, a thousand bright diamonds glittering when the sun breaks through to cast our shadows on the icy terrain. Suddenly, it is our friend. It lives and breathes for us and because of us. It lends us weapons when we need them, holds us close to it, like a friend, a warm blanket, welcome after a long day. An old friend. Perhaps forgotten, but never fully left behind.
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