Marceline remembers a time when seasons changed, when the weather was less unpredictable. A time before the mushroom wars, a time when she was just a little girl.

It was a time when she could watch her mother baking or cooking in the kitchen while she sat on her special chair by the window. And from that window, she could see the flowers in their garden blossoming in spring, the children playing outside on the hot pavements in the summer. The leaves eventually turning red and orangey brown and falling onto the ground in autumn before the frost of winter spiderwebbed on the glass and snow covered everything.

She remembered a time when the winter stretched too long, almost forever. A time when her mother pressed a soft toy into her gloved hands and her father carried her in his arms.

Carried her away from their house.

Away from the snow.

Away from her mother and into the Nightosphere.