Five Nights at Freddy's one-shots

Who was Afton?

The snow lay heavily on the ground, covering the small pieces of gravel that made up the winding path. The world was blanketed in the most crystal white mask that a human being could picture dressed upon the earth. The shrubberies were perfect trimmed and shaped, their branches scarcely covered. Ice hung from the fragile twigs; paper thin leaves colored grey and heavily weighed with a layer of frozen evaporation sagged from them, clinging on with the last hope of fall.

The garden was expansive, a maze of bush and floral arrangements, long since dead and withered. The cold devouring anything it's wicked tendrils could constrict. And there, among the white world and grey skies, was a smear of black. Contrast to the shine of the environment, it was like a void had opened up in the garden. As soon as it was there, it was back around another bend in the brush. Around the corner, and there it was again; A boy dressed in a long black coat, adorned in a crisp suit completely devoid of color. There wasn't a speck of snow on it's pitch fabric.

The boy's hair was the color of raven's feathers, shimmering purple in the sparse light. It was like a spill of oil in a puddle after a rainstorm. His skin was as pale as the snowfall beneath his tall boots. He was spinning, his coat flying about him in entrancing arks. He was smiling, his perfect teeth flashed. His eyes were the color of the sky, the color of the leaves, the color of winter embodied. Gray as a newborn's.

He was a stark beauty in the world of nothing. An angelic form stuck in a world of imperfection.

He twirled and twirled in a girlish fashion, but he was too pretty to be criticized. He tilted his head to the sky and tears fell down his cheeks. He stopped spinning and stood there, his neck craned to the sky, not taking his eyes from the clouds. It would snow again tonight. He was sure of it.

He swept off a concrete bench, so carefully carved with the intimidating glory of gargoyles, their gnarled claws holding the seat to the sky. It was as though they were holding it for the soul purpose of the boy's presence. He sat upon it and he hunched his back to put his head in his hands. The dull skin around his eyes was now tinged with pink as he cried. They were beautiful, his tears. It was hauntingly beautiful. It would make a mother's heart ache for the loss of a baby that was not hers.

He was a child from a Victorian age, living in a house that belonged in a time past. He was stuck in a loop that was not his own. A life that was too old for the ideas that swarmed his mind. There's a voice. It was angry. It seemed to melt the enchantment. And in a second, as though he were but a ghost from the house, he was gone again. And the snow seemed much, much colder.