The World of Myth Magazine

The wooden chair creaked that winter morn, akin to the snow-laden boughs of trees barraged by frosty gales. A withered soul sat upon his ageless rocking throne, amidst a sea of white. Pale hues of azure were glimpsed beyond the vast canopy of grey above. He sat in contemplation, reflecting on a time long gone. A reminiscence of the daughter who had bravely ventured into that great unknown, the tormented son who had fled for reasons untold, and the child who never lived long enough to witness a winter’s cold. The unrelenting frost bit at his fingers, calloused and worn from a lifetime of labor. His blue eyes were bitter, his skin as pale as the season, and his wrinkled face contorted into an unending frown. His head sunk low, watching the now cold and insipid tea by his side. He was never any good at preparing such things. That was her forte. His kindred spirit, his heart and soul, his beloved. No more. His soulless eyes would weep then in memory, were her loss not already constantly gnawing at his soul. The day she departed was when he truly lost a part of himself. A wound that could not be mended. They wished only for their children by their side at the end, yet it did not come to pass. He recounted the home they built, from the ground up with what little they once had to their name. The proudest day of their lives, forging a place of comfort for their little ones who now no longer see it so. Abandoned and hollow, save for the echoes of a forgotten time.

On the horizon, amidst the din of freezing winds, he discerned faint bells. Voices high and low produced hymns and chorales. The sweet lilting voice was akin to that of his beloved daughter, the loud booming chorus full of cheer and whimsy reminded him of his rambunctious boy, and the bells stirred memories of the child gone too soon. His memories grew foggy, akin to frost upon his windows. The beats of his old heart were weak and dull, thudding incessantly like the shutters. He sat in his porch, rocking no more as he pondered the passing of time. He dwelled on the pleasures of life that he wished all would be privy to and contemplated the griefs that all would inevitably be subjected to. In time, the biting cold and bitter pangs of hunger wrenched the poor soul back into the present. And so, he rose weakly, bent like a winter’s tree. Just then, the harsh winds relented. The clouds parted and daylight painted the canvas of white in a coat of gold. He stared ahead, dumbstruck. He knew their silhouettes. His daughter with a gift in hand and his son with a tree. His memories were clear then, his heart racing in excitement. And for the first time in as long as he could recall, a smile crossed his withered old face.

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