For a spirit, Jack was young. For a human, he was much too old. He knew that. Jack also knew loss, like an old friend. And he knew love. You don't have to be known by someone to love them deeply.
The ones he loved may not have believed in him, but he believed in them. He believed in their victories, however small, and their losses.
Jack raised many children. Maybe not with words, or with touch, but he cared for them as thoroughly as he could, in favors. For the children he loved like his own, he blew fresh breezes on hot summer days. He gently frosted over their windows and left small candies on their windowsills. He'd bring soft blankets of snow for those who passed, for the small ones he wasn't able to favor enough in life.
Jack fell in love many, many times. And though he couldn't be seen, he could be loved. He fell in love with poets, who wrote about gentle snowflakes and friendly storms. With historians, who told stories of people long past, from whom he longed for a tale of his own. With artists, who painted his landscapes, and frosted trees with reverence. And with librarians, who cared for his fables with the soft touches of a lover.
When their muses changed, he hurt. When they found comfort in the love of another, he hurt. And when they passed, little pieces of him passed with them.