Long blood splatters tracked the post-winter ground. The pools, though shallow, popped bright and fresh in the snow, but had absorbed into the wood and grew dark brown, as if the half-finished chair could neutralize the trauma.
The ground even had the audacity to protrude beneath the snow. Frozen grass bared its face for the first time in months, to be dyed and perverted.
They would never sell that chair. They would never bleach the stains.
When Yeva looked down, she found Rozie crying in her arms, two months old and wailing as her face turned shades of pink and red. Her upset echoed like the calls of the birds—how the crows cawed and the sparrows sang, but to all the noise, Yeva stalled and glanced deeper into the shed.
She awoke with a start.
With her hand clasped over her heart, Yeva caught her breath. She sat at the edge of the mattress while her breathing made the only sound in the room. No wind blowing outside or any toothless ballerinas pattering across the floor.
Adjusting her eyes to find the doorway, Yeva walked toward it, but stopped before her vanity mirror. Its face neglected to shine at her. She progressed.
Hands forward, Yeva eventually came to the throne room, whose light had guided her. Despite its icy dimensions, the roof was the clearest part of the room, bathed in a fully waxed moon.
The Snow Queen wasn't at her throne, and the mirror shined as Yeva approached.
Upon its surface, she found her own face highlighted by its silver. The glow it emanated drew shadows onto her face that were less severe in person. She looked sleepless.
Yeva held out her hands and caused her image to disappear. A swirling mass of stars replaced it, large and small, rotating around a center point. She made them turn faster or slower by clutching her hands, and closing her eyes, dismissed them for the image of a straw-blonde girl tucked into bed, crying.
Perhaps the mirror couldn't produce sound, but Rozie appeared silent anyway as she stifled her sobs. Despite cuddling with Dr. Spots, she was in another room, in another bed, in another house resembling the neighbor's.
Where before she looked in on Rozie from the window, Yeva found the other side of the glass as if she were inside the room. Turning toward the town, she witnessed the set of houses nearest their own, beneath a peaceful sky.
Snow covered the buildings, the clocktower painted white by it, but not one flake fell, nor as much as a harsh gust to rattle the roofs as the townspeople slept.
Yeva stepped back, and turned to the two enormous doors. Despite how heavy they appeared—at least a foot thick and embellished by a deeply cut pattern—Yeva ran at them. Skidding, nearly falling and breaking her legs, she slammed against their flanks. Her impact reverberated around the chamber, but the doors towered unfazed.
Yeva howled and tried again, throwing her full weight against them and bouncing off, her six feet no match for their twenty.
She kept charging, however, bruising her arms, damaging her shoulders, and rattling her teeth. She managed to shake the throne room, but the doors refused to part as if frozen together. They may not have come apart. The dividing line could have been a line drawn in a sculpture of two doors, not functioning as doors at all.
Breathing hard and drenched in sweat, Yeva shouted as she slid to the floor. She wiped the tears from her eyes and returned to her room, vision perpetually blurry.
Upon arriving, she walked to the mirror. Before it could glimmer awake, she shattered it with her fist, bursting into numerous shards upon the floor. Picking up the largest and longest piece, Yeva sat upon her bed.