Snow
River remembers winters in Osiris. At the first hint of the sky dimming past autumn, she'd rush out in a twirl of flawless dance steps and catch the first snowflakes as they fell to the ground, as they fell to her hair, her upturned face, her waiting tongue. Regan couldn't abide a mess, so excursions into the sloppy winter wonderland were always vehemently chastised, but River was taken: even after her mother had managed to snuff the ecstatic pas de deux, River would sit by the windows and watch her partner – still free – come crashing to the pane, the geometric shapes ruined as they collided wetly with the glass.
Now, Serenity flies through a space colder than any winter on Osiris. But when she thinks of snowflakes, she doesn't think of this icy passage.
"I was a snowflake once," she tells Shepherd Book. "They locked me in a box and I became crystalline, frozen. Perfect and motionless, winter sleep."
The shepherd doesn't know how to answer. He wants to be kind, but sometimes he doesn't know what to say.
"What in the rutting hell are you squawking about, girl?" Jayne asks gruffly.
River frowns at him, shies away some from practicality rather than fear. She isn't afraid of Jayne, but he won't understand. He never understands anything that isn't atop him.
"When you were in cryo?" Simon hazards. He wants to be right. He wants to understand.
"I was a snowflake," she repeats. "My own winter."