Another fitful sleep. It was like I was watching myself have a nightmare. I could see my hair, wet with sweat, clinging to my neck as I turned in my bed, trying to get comfortable. When I woke up, I choked back a scream that was clawing up my throat. The night air was cool; my alarm clock said it was only 2:20. The sheets tangled around my legs and it took me a second to swing my feet over the edge of the bed. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember the nightmare. The effort was hopeless, but the fear stood in the corner of my mind, breathing needles of fright down my spine.

When I opened my eyes again, a shadow jumped across the pale light my window let in. I crawled away from it fast, squeaking with surprise and backing against my footboard to look out at the dull city sky. The Man in the Moon seemed to grin at me knowingly.

"I don't see what's so funny," I muttered into the dim light of my room. Trying to get comfortable on my bed again, I only continued to mutter to myself. "It was just a bird, or a squirrel." Then I started thinking about how big the shadow was. "Optical illusion. Yea." I glanced back out the window, and froze.

A line of frost dragged straight across my windowpane. White, beautiful crystalized flakes spread out from the line. Frost didn't do that. Frost covered everything. It didn't gather into a line, not touching the rest of the window. I crawled across my bed, sitting on my knees, and touched the glass. The frost pulled back, closing in on itself until it disappeared at the point where I had touched it.

When I woke up, I was on the floor, my comforter bundled around me. I think I passed out, and I secretly hope that it wasn't because of the window. Not that I'll tell anyone that I passed out because of a frost covered window, but I would still be embarrassed about it.

Whatever. I yawned, big and like a horse because those are the best yawns, and reached for the Star Wars hoodie in the corner. The room was chilly, and I pulled it over my head before daring to venture out from beneath my covers.

Mom had the radio turned low on a jazz station and was already painting away. An unfinished breakfast of bacon and toast sat discarded on the coffee table. She brushed a streak of green onto her upside-down canvas, stepped back to observe it, and added another stroke.

"Mom," I snagged a piece of bacon from her plate. "You're the only person crazy enough to not finish their bacon." She shrugged.

"What can I say?"

"Nothing, because you have no sane reason." Mom chuckled and shook her head, finishing her glass of OJ. Soon, though, she fell into that inspirational daze you were in when you drew or painted or read a book. You were open to the imprints of the space around you, letting them affect how your work turned out. That's why mom always had something happy and cheerful next to her as she worked. Today, it was her wedding photograph book.

I've thumbed through that linen-lined book numerous times, glancing at family members long gone or out-of-country. But there was one old Polaroid that I absolutely loved. Dad held Mom close to him, and arm around her waist, and had a hand above their wedding cake, ready to cut. Mom was smiling at the camera, but Dad looked down at her lovingly. She was his world. He was hers. When he died, when I was really little, I could feel something change in Mom. For a while, her paintings were scary and dark. But then something changed her, though I still see the dark every now and then. I'm just glad she lost a piece of herself and not the whole thing.

The curtains by the French doors were pulled back, offering a sunny cool light on Mom's canvas as she worked. It gave me just enough light in my own little corner, and I pulled my stool close to my canvas. This was the part I hated. The waiting. Usually something struck me right off the bat and I would paint until sunset and still not be finished. But today was one of those days that I sat there, staring profusely at the blank canvas, willing for something to pop into my head.

After ten minutes of watching my mother whisk away at her painting, I groaned and slid off the stool.

"Where are you going?" Mom asked as I grabbed my scarf and old (but fashionable) snow boots.

"Out."

Mom stopped painting and rested her free hand on her hip. "'Out' where?"

Shrugging, I tucked my thick pajama pants into the boots. Okay, so I don't mind much about my appearance, but give me a break; I'm just interested in being comfortable. I found a jacket that sort of matched my boots, and zipped it up as Mom made her way over to me.

"I don't want you going anywhere alone." She said, a motherly fear filling her eyes.

"C'mon, mom, I've been walking alone since I was ten. I'm just going to the park."

She was calculating the distance in her eyes. It was less than three blocks away, practically an open field with an over-glorified fountain and a year-round ice rink in the middle. A few trees lined the iron spiked fence around it, benches stood here and there, and that was pretty much it. Nothing I could get into trouble with.

"Okay. Okay, you're right. It's not like the street thing was on purpose."

An icy feeling swelled in my stomach. I still had my suspicions about Tobias; guys like that don't just threaten girls like me. Well, at least I didn't do it, so I don't think that pertains to me… I kissed Mom on the cheek to try and say that all was well. "Thanks mom; be back by…" – I snuck a glance at the clock: 10:15. "…by three, okay? I'll pick up some milk on the way home."

Mom said that was fine and I closed the door behind me. The elevator was freezing and I threw my hands into my pockets. It buzzed and stopped for another person, and we rode down in awkward silence. With the next low bee-like hum, the elevator opened and I ran out into the cold mid-winter air.

Despite its annoying pedestrians, congested traffic, and the bitter winters, New York City had its perks. Sure, you couldn't see the stars, but the twinkling lights against the foggy blue sky made up for it. Music blared from the underground jazz cafés, livening the step of anyone who walked by. And underneath the smog and greasy food joint aroma, I could smell on the wind the coming of snow.