The silence that always came with snow was uncertain. It hung in leafless tress and in cloudless air. The soft, delightful crunch of boots against whitewash ice, if anyone was to come upon the pristine mountainside, was like the satisfaction of breaking tiny bones. Hot breath wisped in the air, even the breath of things that did not breathe. Rocks and trees stood like blind sentinels, and everything was pregnant with thoughts that dared never be spoken.
A patch of pale yellow flowers broke the surface of the snow that wasn’t even broken by human feet. It was a strange little trail, winding unreasonably around trees. It stopped two feet short of a body. It was a fawn, just beginning to lose the white spots like melting snow on its hide. Eyes wide open, it stared across the surgical landscape. Up until the moment of its death, it had been completely unaware of what was happening.
And now its red stained white, stretching toward the misplaced flowers.
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