Her grandson loved the snow and tomorrow was his birthday. He was born on the winter solstice. She had many children and grandchildren who had come and gone over the years. Well, that’s how she thought of them. The old woman offered her home to anyone who was lost, ill, orphaned, or needed a roof over their heads. Her grandson with the brown hair was her favourite.
Summer was fleeting there. The children would spend their days building snowmen or, when there was enough sunlight for sparse vegetation to grow, they would collect herbs for the old woman. The lake stayed frozen all year round and she warned them against going near it. For other than playing in the snow, they loved to explore it’s icy surface. Edging out step by step until they felt the slight shift of the ice under their feet before rushing back to the shore was exhilarating.
Her house was simple, made of sturdy wood and had only one room. Her cabin was coated with the bones of vines that claimed the wall as its own, for it was too cold for them to survive the harsh climate. Inside, shelves were filled with jars, bottles and vials of various concoctions she collected over the years. From the ceiling hung countless bunches of herbs filling the air with a rich, earthy scent. There was no fireplace, she liked the cold too much.
Each year, the woman made a gift for her favourite grandson, and this year was no different. She grabbed a bucket from by the door and hobbled outside, the old steps creaking under her feet. The snow was particularly heavy last night, and her garden was covered in a white, frosted tapestry, obscuring all colour save for a few specks of brown peeking through the ice. The old woman bent down with a groan and began scooping handfuls of snow into the bucket.
Bucket of fresh snow in hand, she shuffled inside to fetch her knitting needles and settled into her rocking chair. She was going to knit him a blanket but first, she had to fashion the snow into yarn. On the spinning wheel her weathered fingers squeezed and coaxed the bucket of snow into long strands of ice that still had the softness of powder.
She knitted all through the night. As her needles clicked, she whispered and murmured to herself, sometimes singing, sometimes humming, all while rocking back and forth. Her candle slowly burnt down until at times her only light was the flashes of colour from the night sky. Winter solstice was a time when the spirits would battle with the stars, their trapped souls screaming.
The old woman paused only once, thinking she heard a noise, and her head snapped up with a surprising swiftness that defied her age. Reassured nothing was there, she returned to her needles and finished the last stitch. As she finished, the sun began to rise, where it would stay tucked against the horizon for a few hours before dipping back below. The old woman stood up and hobbled back outside, blanket in hand, over to a second cottage that stood behind her hut where the children slept. It was slightly smaller than her cottage but had plenty of straw beds and in the corner sat a fireplace that was never lit. They liked the cold too.
She opened the door and approached one of the children, her grandson with the brown hair. Finn, she named him.
“Now, my Finn, you will be nice and cold all through winter,” the old woman soothed, wrapping him in the blanket.
His skin was a pale blue and solid as marble, yet the softness of his features somehow remained, as if a feather had carved his body. Finn’s hair was arranged in a messy tousle down his forehead and a dark stillness was permanently etched across his face.
As she turned away, his eyes glistened, a tear forming in the corner. But it was trapped, unable to escape on its path down his cheek. Finn wanted to turn around and face the hundreds of bodies frozen behind him. To feel something other than their presence. He longed for the cold and empty fireplace to be lit. He longed for someone, anyone. He longed for release.
