Dreaming of White ✔ [Completed]

Chapter 3 - Endless Winter Cold

It was cold. Really cold. The kind of dry clean cold that didn't need wind or rain or snow to make its presence known. Sometime in the night it had silently crept into the valley and breathed an icy welcome onto every living and artificial thing, spreading frost over trees, bushes, meadows, houses and trees. He watched in silence as the sun finally made an reluctant appearance and the first light of day touched the frost and ice and turned the meadow and the trees in front of him into a sea of sparkling diamonds, something straight out of a fairy tale.

He had almost forgotten about real, vast and seemingly endless winter cold, having spent so many years in places where cold was either artificial or emotional, something that was confined to rooms with overactive air-conditioning or people.

Or himself.

This cold, all around him, biting at his nose, clawing at his skin, turning his breath into tiny clouds and slowly melting into the fabric of his jacket, was different. Clean. Pure. Silent. And most importantly: Outside of him.

Well, for now at least.

He knew he should get back inside or at least start moving, before the winter wind threatened him with the prospect of hypothermia or a decent cold. But he found himself unable to do either and therefore willing to risk both. Because the cold, now pushing gently through his clothes and making his face and hands numb, brought a peace and silence with it, that he quite enjoyed. He hadn't felt this calm and relaxed in months (3 months, 2 weeks and 3 days to be precise).

He knew this state of mind wouldn't last long, expecting it to be shattered either by news about the case or Riddhima.

Riddhima. Who hadn't called. Or texted him back. Who was out there somewhere either celebrating or biting back tears.

He hated not knowing which.

He also hated how some part of him, quite a big part of him actually, was hoping for the latter.

He desperately wanted to see her.

He closed his eyes, drawing the icy winter air into his lungs and releasing it again in a long sigh, opening his eyes again just in time to see it dissolve in the morning light. He smiled and looked towards the sky, then frowned. There'd be snow. Rather sooner than later.

And probably a lot of it.

Which was a problem. A big problem.

They had reached the small town of Barnes Hollow yesterday afternoon. Too late apparently to head up to the crime-scene, which lay, very inconveniently situated, in a less than idyllic ravine halfway up Barnes Mountain.

"And what is that called?", Vansh had asked the local sheriff. He'd expected it to go by the same name as virtually everything else in and around this town. Folks here didn't seem to have much of an imagination.

"It's a ravine." The man said with unhidden surprise at the question. "It doesn't need a name."

"Ah."

Make that no imagination at all.

At least if the sheriff was anything to go by. This man didn't need a name either. He was "the sheriff": Mid-Forties, slim built and physically fit, though not by exercise, but by circumstance - meaning a wife that didn't do cooking well and a job that made him walk uphill a lot - as suggested by the marks on the soles of his worn boots. The uniform was spotless, a deep blue with a simple white and blue badge on each arm and came not with a hat but just a simple blue baseball-cap with the town's crest on it.

Vansh noted this rather thankfully.

Sheriffs' uniforms still creeped him out.

For obvious reasons.