𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

i. extroverts & optimists

Snow filmed over the window like television static, a white fuzz of a void. Snowbanks built up in miniature mountains along the glass of the window, piling in little peaks and hiding from the wind. Trees caught handfuls of white ice, and shards of gleaming icicles hung from any ledge that they could.

Winter had come to Pinecone.

It started with little flakes, flurries dancing playfully in circles around people bundled tight against the cold, noses tucked into scarves. It was nothing more than a nip of cold to make the cheeks ruddy and glow. But slowly, under everyone's noses, the snow thickened. Clouds grew fat and heavy with condensation, and burst down in blankets of snow. Soon lampposts had to wield their yellow glow against the oppressive ice, and walking was more challenging than getting warm. People stayed indoors, where the fire roared unobstructed, and only went out when the log pile grew shallow.

Between the sleepy houses nestled down in snowbanks, glowing inside out, a thin trail of wheels struggled up the hill. It wavered back and forth, sometimes interrupted by deep ditches, leaving a grey depression in the layers of snow spread like cream cheese. A pair of footprints furiously stomped around the wobbly trail.

It snaked up over Main Street, dotted weakly down another hill, and finally broke into a wide expanse of open space. The cottages and little houses fell away to a glade. In the summers, the glade was grassy and green and dotted with yellow butterflies. In the winter, the glade was pure white as far as the eye could see, muffled with snow that clumped up on the grass like Khione's flowers. Grey clouds gathered overhead, darkening the gleam of snow, and the sheer thickness of the snowfall made it impossible to see five feet before or after.

It would have been a stormy kind of beautiful if it didn't block Shiloh Kauffman's path, and make every step forward a thigh-burning, heart-beating struggle. She felt as if her lungs might burst with the effort of dragging the little wooden cart she borrowed through the snow. She had been walking for hours. Most people took a carriage to Pinecone Station, or one of those new automobiles, but the snow was too thick for either. Shiloh couldn't afford to miss this train; it felt like her last chance, her only chance, out of this town. If she stayed, she'd never leave.

If she stayed, she might also die of frostbite.

She let out a ferocious, echoing shout as the cart was snagged once again on the ever-building banks of snow and tipped over.

"I will NEVER write again!" she swore at the typewriter on its side in the snow, aiming a kick at it. She missed, and nearly went sprawling into the snow. "AAGHH!"

Shiloh shivered, taking a breath through chattering teeth as she stared at her belongings, sprawled about in the biting snow. A pen gleamed up at her naughtily, impaled in a pile of snow.

The station wasn't far. About fifty feet away, a little flat rectangle of a structure, dark and crouching against the furious weather. She couldn't stop now.

Shiloh blew on her fingers before plunging them into the snow, rooting around in the freezing white to find various pens, bottles of ink, a few golden bits of jewellery, and her wood carving tools.

Her fingers resurfaced, red and angry, so cold that they shook on their own. Shiloh could barely feel the items she was digging for, and quickly stuffed her hands in her pockets, pens and all. Her skirt grew lumpy and awkward in shape as she crammed more of her belongings into their deep pockets.

"Hello!" a voice, distant and small, called through the howling wind. Shiloh turned, cupping her face, to see in the wind. A figure was trudging toward her, a small luggage bag being tossed in the wind.

Shiloh raised an arm in greeting, scooping up her typewriter and hugging it to her chest. "Heading for the station?" she called over the wind.

The figure grew closer, and through the shadows of snow, Shiloh could make out broad shoulders, a thick woollen coat, and blond hair crusted with ice. The whipping roar of the wind made it near impossible to hear, and their lips were numb and tingling.