No one could see him, he who was playing on thin ice. All that could be seen was the lake and the trees around it. Darkness. But the boy let his magic flow on the surface of the ice cold lake. His magic, his art was shining to him, and only him, the moon and the stars. It was their light which was reflecting itself on the iced water. He circled his stick on the surface, let the frost flow out of its edge and spread itself, twirl and blossom on the ice. His bare feet were following the movements he made with his stick.

He placed his stick on the ice, let it rest. A sigh crystallized the air and he smiled. Maybe the next day the children would see this, what he had created. He hoped they would say "Jack Frost". He hoped that this single piece of art would be a name for them to say. His name.

An echoing vocal was thundering around him. But it was not a vocal, it was the ice – it sang. The sound lingered for a moment, filled his chest with shivers and his heart with warmth. He knew what it meant. The ice was getting ticker, safer – for all the children to play