Christine lay on the small, shabby mattress. The thin, worn blankets wrapped around her shivering body weren't nearly as thick as they should have been to keep a girl warm on a winter night.
Christine's small sister, Angelique, lay pressed up against her. The two sisters huddled together on the pad, attempting to trap any heat they had left in their bodies.
"Christine?" Angelique whispered, shivering. "When will the cold leave? Why does the winter make us cold? Is it mad?"
Christine hugged the girl. "Angelique, the winter is full of cold, unfeeling angels, riding on the icy wind."
"Why are they cold and unfeeling? Doesn't anyone love them?"
"No," Christine said, sadness washing over her. It almost made her feel good to dwell in her own misery.
Angelique didn't like sad stories. "What about summer?"
"Summer is laden with beautiful, blissful angels."
Angelique shivered as a particularly heavy gust of cold snow blew through a large hole in the crumbling plaster. "And…..and they're happy because they're loved?"
"Yes."
"What about spring? Are there happy angels in spring?"
"The angels in spring are weeping angels. They're sad, but spread warmth throughout the air."
"And fall?"
"Angels must go to heaven, or they will perish. God takes them in his arms and loves them."
"But if god loves them, then how come the winter angels are so sad? Does he care about them?"
"Of course he cares, Angelique. He made them. They're supposed to be sad. That's just the way things are."
"Are we winter angels, Christine? Are we?"
"No. Humans cannot be angels. Angels are gods' messengers, and since they're of god, we can't see them, they're there. They're always there."
"Like Papa? Is he here too?"
"Yes."
Snow billowed in through a crusty hole in the wall, spilling white paint and powder on the frozen dirt floor.
"Angelique, we can't stay here anymore. We'll die."
"But….but where will we go, Christine?"
"We can go to the cathedral. God will welcome us there."
Angelique shook her blonde head. "No. It's too big and full of ghosts."
Christine laughed, despite the snow pounding its way through the old walls of the tiny house. "There's no such thing as ghosts. Those are just stories."
Angelique just stared with wide eyes. "No. There are ghosts. I can see them. They're all around us."
Christine ignored her indignant little sister, and crawled off of the ancient mattress and onto the weathered floor, half covered with cold dirt and icy snow. She pulled the worn blanket around her like a cloak, and then beckoned to Angelique. "We'll walk to the cathedral. It isn't too far."
Christine knew that she and her sister would die on the way to the cathedral. She knew they'd never make it, that the wind would be too strong, and the numbing sensation would spread like an epidemic. She knew the snow would bury them, and in the bitter morn, old women might find their frozen bodies and haul them onto a wagon, to be dragged off to an unknown cemetery.
Yet, Angelique, tears iced on her lashes, and curly angel's hair in tangles, looked so full of hope. Her small hand gripped Christine's. "We'll make it there, won't we, Christine?"
Christine smiled wearily. "We might."
And through the quiet night they walked, dragging their numb feet like dull puppets. The snow piled up on their white skin, and Angelique never let go of Christine's hand.
After awhile, Christine found that her legs refused to move. Red veins pulsed, and blood slowed to a stop. Christine fell to her knees.
"Christine!" Angelique shouted. She tried pulling her sister up by the arm, but the wind swept through like a serial killer, tossing her to the cold earth like a rag doll.
The two sisters lay there, on their peaceful bed of snow, pale arms at their sides.
We…we're dying…
"Papa…"