The winters seem to pass slower than any other season. Maybe it's the boundless blankets of white or the sparse vegetation; the constant reminder of death.
Or maybe it's just the memories, the always fading recollections of winters past that leave so much to muse over.
Whatever it is, she hates these three months of ice and all of the chills that seem to creep into her adamantine skin.
Now he's just a daydream that begs to be noticed; contrived out of hopelessness and quarantine. Vivid in its saturated hues of black and blood.
But the colors never seem to crystallize.