Little Christine was four weeks shy of her second birthday when her mother fell ill quite suddenly and became bedridden. Though her parents tried very hard not to worry their daughter, knowing that she couldn't begin to understand, the little girl was extremely observant.

From her crib, which sat in the corner of her parents' bedroom, she watched her mother sleep fitfully and wake up weaker with each passing morning.

Usually, her father would wake before too long and Christine would only see her mother struggling to sit up or even breathe for a short time before being whisked off to the kitchen, where she would wait in a highchair for her breakfast. As her mother grew ever weaker, Christine had to wait longer each day for her meal.

Still, she wouldn't cry. She never cried. Her parents marveled in their quiet daughter. Sure, she'd always made her needs quite clear, but she had never been a particularly loud child. No matter how long her father made her wait while he tended to her mother, she wouldn't complain. She wanted to be able to sit with her mother again and listen to the stories she'd tell.

Three days shy of the girl's birthday, Christine's mother went to sleep and never woke up.

Christine knew that something was different, but regarded what she saw through the bars of her crib with nothing more than idle curiosity. Her father was kneeling on the bed, his wife's upper body cradled in his arms. A sound unlike anything the little girl had ever heard tore itself from his lungs.

It was the first time she'd ever seen her father cry. It would be the last time she ever saw her mother.

Wordlessly, her father wrapped the woman's body in a blanket and carried her out of the room.

Christine watched the door for a long time. She heard the front door open and close. For the first time in her life, she was all alone.

It was not something she found she enjoyed. In fact, for the first time in her life, she began to cry quite loudly. Still she found herself alone.

Outside, light snow was falling. From her crib, she could see fat, fluffy flakes of snow falling lazily to the ground. What she couldn't see was her father carefully laying his wife's body in a small pine box.

He'd been expecting this day for weeks now, knowing that there wasn't much chance of his wife recovering from this strange disease that had weakened her so. It was at her behest that he'd built the small pine box.

He would store the box packed in snow and ice until spring, when the ground would soften enough for him to give her a proper burial.

Before he pulled the lid down and nailed the makeshift coffin shut, he knelt at her side for a long time. He thought she looked so peaceful, almost as though she'd simply drifted off for a late morning nap.

"I miss you already, my dear love," he said, gently stroking her forehead. "How will I raise our Christine without you?"

Though he knew she would never answer him, he still waited. Ever hopeful, Papa Daaé was.

With a long sigh, he stood up and fitted the lid to the box, sealing it shut with a handful of nails. He turned and looked back to the house, knowing how empty it would feel without his wife's presence.

It wasn't until he was at the door that he heard the desperate sobs of his daughter. His eyes widened as he threw the door open and ran to the crib.

"Oh, oh Christine, my sweet little girl, I'm so sorry." He scooped the girl up and hugged her tightly, letting her bury her face in his shirt as she cried.

He did his best to soothe her, but that had always been something that her mother had been best at.

"Shh, I'm sorry. Hush now, you're all right. I won't leave you again," he whispered into her hair. He fought back the tears that threatened his eyes knowing that he had to be strong. Christine needed him. He didn't have time to mourn.

"You must be so hungry after such a long morning without you Papa," he said as he carried her out of the bedroom. He quickly shut the door behind them, silently vowing not to step foot back in that room for as long as he could manage.

The main room was warmer in the winter, anyway. They would go into town in a day or two and purchase a few blankets, perhaps notify the local church of the death.

With blankets and the plush rug that covered the worn wooden floor, Papa Daaé would construct a lovely bed. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep without her beside him anyway, though he doubted he would sleep at all for a long time.

Once he could pry her tiny hands away from his shirt, he set her down in her highchair.

"It's just… It's just you and me now, sweetheart," he said as he fixed her some breakfast. Christine had finally quieted, only giving the occasional trembling sigh as she watched her father. She did not intend on ever letting him out of her sight again.

After breakfast, he dressed Christine in her warmest clothes and strapped her to his back with a long woolen scarf that her mother had made. They needed more firewood, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her alone in the house again.

Christine gasped as the cold air hit her cheeks. For a moment, he thought the girl would begin to cry again, but she made no further sounds of distress.

Once he'd brought in more wood than they would probably need for the rest of the week, he finally deemed it enough and stopped. His muscles were screaming at him as he let Christine down.

The first thing she did once free was rip the hat off of her head and throw it across the room. A cascade of blond curls fell from beneath the hat, framing her face and making her look exactly like her mother.

He couldn't hold back the tears that threatened any longer. Papa Daaé sat on the floor beside her and wept openly as she looked on in confusion.