She was curled up in the snow, her hands clasped together as if she was praying. Her skin was already pale, her breathing shallow and the fateful bluish tint was curling through her skin. She was tiny, no older than twelve, but the flakes of snow were setting in her brown hair like tiny doves.
Jack stood and watched. He had tried to touch her, pull her to her feet, but she didn't believe. So he sat beside her, and looked helplessly as she lay in the snow.
He could tell she was dying. From the freezing tears in her soft, brown eyes, so could she.
She seemed, somehow, so desperately, blindingly, achingly important. He could almost feel her name on the tip of his tongue, remember something, anything about her, as if he knew her. His heart wrenched in pain, as if a knife were being driven into it and twisted.
But she was just another child who died in the snow.
Nobody special, at least, not to him.
He tried to imagine what her family was like, if she had any. Her mother would have her hair, although her eyes, he decided, would be from her father. Maybe she had a sister or brother who used to play with her, and they would laugh and tell stories in the house that made sure that she was safe, warm and loved.
And yet, for all the brief, fantasy family he'd dreamed for this girl, she was still freezing to death, alone in the snow.
"Who are you?" He whispered, lying beside her and looking into her eyes as they stared past him.
She didn't reply.
Of course not. For her, he simply wasn't there.
He wished he could touch her, hold her tightly and comfort her, tell her she'd be fine. He could carry her back to her home, put her by the fire so the ice he wielded was driven from her blood. He could come back, and she'd see him. She'd say thank you, and they'd stay up for hours talking, because she would know he was there. She could be his friend. He'd be her older brother, and she'd never be left lying in the snow like a discarded rag doll.
It was impossible; the girl didn't believe in him. He felt his eyes prick with tears. She would die and he would be left alone forever, again.
Her breathing had stopped minutes ago. Her eyes were closed, eyelids like the curtains that had fallen on a stage.
Life was just a game, and he, like the little girl, had lost.
He stood shakily, leaning on his staff for support. It was snowing still, and the air was heavy with silence. A small, sad smile came to his pale lips. Jack gently tapped the end of his staff against her ice cold cheek. The frost spread immediately, curling across her skin like water. The ice patterns looked like ferns, as if they were white shadows cast as she lay amongst the plants in summer. She almost looked peaceful, like a dreamer, sailing in their bed to the far off lands with shores of golden sand.
With one last look, he wiped the tears from his cheeks and took off, leaving the heartrendingly important girl behind in the blanket of his snow and frost.
It wasn't as if he knew her; she was only another child, but the knife in his heart wrenched deeper, its barbs cutting into his feelings.
Because it was dark, and she'd been cold and she'd been scared. And he couldn't save the unimportant person...who mattered the most in all of the world.