inter came quiet in the failing light of the eve. The first snowflake fell with silent grace. It had a good start from its fellow snowflakes, the first to make its way among the frigid winds. Now, to be the first snowflake is a very special honor, and where one lands is important to all of their kind. This season would prove to be one of special significance. This snowflake would not land on one of the hundreds of trees nor the stones nor the ground. The falling snowflake knew this when a small child's crying echoed in the forest—a little girl abandoned, dying in the cold. It was upon her little brow that the snowflake came to rest. It did not melt as it should, but rather stayed and shone on as a radiant jewel. And it was upon this child’s brow that Winter placed its blessing. The girl was enchanted by its magic, adopted as the spirit’s own—a child caught between life and death.

After a while the rest of the snowflakes caught up, bathing the world in white. The cold brought the child no harm. Her footsteps were as light as snow itself. She danced on midnight clouds and twirled in blizzards, a child of the season. Her wealth was the ice-diamonds that held the fire of the sun by day and the cold of the sapphire moon by night. Her kingdom was the mountains and the forest and all things frosted. She was a spirit of the eternal life of snowfall, a spirit of the frigid winds.

Yet for all the wonders Winter bestowed, she was a restless spirit.

ime passed and, just like the season that cared for her, she remained ageless—elemental. Unlike the wintry girl, her world changed. Slowly at first, then all at once. People came into the woods. They made homes for themselves, and the vast forest began to shrink, smaller and smaller every year. Homes became neighborhoods, apartments and shops, then buildings as tall as the mountains until finally the forest she knew became a quaint little park.

The wolves and bears and other woodland animals left, and only she remained. She was shy and wished to be unseen. Although her appearance was that of a lovely young woman, she was as wild as the winter winds. But that all changed one night.

For the last century she had kept her distance, harboring a resentment for the city that conquered her home. But on Christmas Eve, as the first snow fell, she ventured outside the park. It was a song that had roused her spirit, a song that carried on the wind.  Snow fell and upon it she soared through the air, up into the frosted clouds. She walked on them as if they were islands in the sky. From there she gazed down at the vast city. To the girl it never seemed to rest or become night. The city blazed with light that hurt her eyes and the noise of the city rose up in an unsettling clatter.

Now she heard the song again—clear and high, not competing with the other noises. It would rise, fall, and play on the air. She realized it was music, but unlike any she had ever heard. Winter’s child flew closer to get a better look, past the thousands of windows filled with people, till at last she came to the one who had caught her attention.

A young boy eight years of age had left his window open. In the glow of a bedroom lamp he played a flute—a simple melody, yet captivating. Perching herself on his window sill, she listened to the boy's playing. He then stopped, turned round, and saw her. Curious, he raised a friendly hand.

“Hello,” he said.

She knew the words of mortals but had never spoken them aloud, and they felt unfamiliar on her tongue.

“Hello,” she mimicked with a voice like gossamer, her appearance youthful and old all at once.

“What are you doing on my window sill?” he asked.

“Listening to the song you were playing. It's like the birds; it’s similar to the wind but more controlled.”

She pointed a slender finger at the flute, her eyes not leaving the instrument for an instant.

“It's beautiful. Who wrote it?” she asked.

“I did,” he answered. “I was thinking of what it must feel like to fly.”

“There is nothing quite like it. Your song expresses it well.”

“You like my music?” he said.

She laughed. “Yes.”

The boy was flattered, feeling warmth in his heart. He smiled, then pressed the mouthpiece to his lips again and played. He took a step forward in the excitement of having an audience, but his sudden movement drove her away. Before he could blink she was gone. The wind howled into his room, knocking him over as if coming to her rescue. Now all alone, he went to bed.

hristmas morning was cold, but not unpleasant. The boy opened a present his mother Charlotte had gifted him. It was a new flute. He thought about mentioning the girl on his window, but he feared his mother would call it a hallucination. Charlotte was a woman of severe practicality. She did not see her son's musical gift as something beautiful, but rather a useful skill. She viewed imagination as a hindrance. She would keep his head out of the clouds and feet on the ground.

The next night the princess returned. Bobby had left the window open for her.

“Can you play that song again?” she asked.

He wasn’t startled, but happy to see her again. He stood up slowly.

“Hello. Sorry I scared you,” he said. 

She did not stir but only stared at him, waiting. He followed her gaze to the flute  resting on his bedside. He picked it up.

She brightened and nodded. He smiled, raised the instrument to his mouth then stopped.

“I just realized, I don’t know your name. Mine’s Bobby. What's yours?”

She tilted her head, confused.  “I don't understand, why would I need a name?”

She came down from the window, placing her bare feet on the carpet floor.

“What should I call you?” he asked. They were now face to face.

Never had any of the elements and natural forces called her by a human name. She conversed with the winds, as well as the snow, with more than words.

“I don't have one. I’ve never needed one,” she said. The girl moved about the room cautiously, not unlike a wild animal—the lamp’s light shifted through her being.

“Well, that won't do,” said Bobby and scratched his chin in thought. “Oh, I know! I'll call you Melody! Because of your love for music.”

She stopped, then nodded. “I like that very much.”

With that settled, he played and Melody listened.

Lovely music filled the room. There was a knock at the door, and his mother's voice silenced them as she entered.

“Are you talking to yourself?” She eyed him with concern. “It's unhealthy for a boy your age to be talking to himself.”

“I'm not,” Bobby protested. He looked back to Melody but she had fled again into the night. Charlotte shook her head and scolded for him leaving the window open.

Melody returned  the next night, asking for him to play more music, and this time the boy had a thought.

“You're not a hallucination, are you?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, rummaging around his room picking up books and toys that interested her. “Why would I be?”

“It's just...you can fly, and are quite unlike anyone else I've ever met.”

“I could say the same about you.”

He chuckled. “That's a good point. But where do you live?”

“I live in the park that was once a mighty forest. I come out to play when Winter wakes me.”

“What do you do when winter ends and spring begins?” he asked. 

She looked at him as if this were a silly question. “I slumber until it is cold once more.”

“And what else?”

She was quiet. “I exist.”

“It's not enough just to exist, a person should have something to do,” said Bobby.

“Well, I never have,” said Melody.

“In that case, it's not going to be winter for very long, and before the season ends you should have something to do when you go...so here.”

He took his old flute out of its case and attached it to a sash which she could tie round her waist.

“This is for you,” he said. “Merry Christmas!”

“But this is yours!” she protested. 

Bobby nodded. “Yes, it was mine, and now it's yours to make songs of your own.”

Melody was moved by his generosity.

“I take lessons once a week,” he said. “I could teach you what I've learned—that way you can play for yourself.”

Melody was pleased. Every Tuesday evening, Bobby would find her waiting on his windowsill, ready for a lesson. Many a winter night was filled with the sweet music of the two friends. But eventually the cold began to subside, and so did her visits, until the nights were warm, and she was gone.

pring colored the parks, summer freed the children, and fall browned the city trees. The boy wondered if he would ever see his little friend again. At last the nights grew longer and longer, and the windows covered with frost. It was Christmas Eve again when Melody returned, eager to see her friend. What a pair they were, in their own way both lonely souls. He gave her many lessons till Melody's skills were equal. They played such charming duets together.

One night, she was overwhelmed with excitement. Bobby opened the window but stood in the way, keeping her from entering.

“Something amazing has happened,” she declared. He seemed very sad. His eyes were red and puffy from crying.

“With this music,” she grasped her flute with joy, “I've found my purpose. I can't explain it. I just have to show you. Here, come with me.” She offered her hand. This only made him more upset.

“I...I can't,” he said. “I told my mother about you. She got very upset and took me to someone called a therapist. They both said I can't talk to you anymore, they told me little girls can't fly and that you aren't really real.”

She was confused. “Of course I'm real. Look at me. I'm right here.”

“I…” he lowered his head. “Mother and the therapist say you’re only my imagination.”

“You can't have someone tell you what to believe in— that's up to you. What do you believe, Bobby?”

He said nothing, just looked very sad. He closed the window and brought down the blinds, leaving her out in the gathering storm.

Several years passed and every winter Melody raced out of the park, flying on the winds to play her silver flute, doing the wondrous deed she wanted to show her friend.

This winter was different. The winds were stronger. A heavy blizzard gathered itself to freeze the whole city. It snowed and snowed, so much  that even in broad daylight you could barely see your own nose. The town-homes, shops, were covered in a blinding frost. It went on like this until Christmas Eve.

Melody wandered about in the city, waiting for the sun to set. The snow came harder than before, with the kind of snowflake that really sticks. Her eyelashes caught many of them. It was then she heard a sound that made her rise into the air in utter joy! For at long last, out of all the city's noise, even in the blizzard, she heard a melody meant for her, clear and pure. From her vantage point high in the snow clouds she could see him.

She raised her own instrument and played in answer. A magical sound soared on the Winter winds— a lovely duet of two friends making amends. She descended in a shower of white.

Bobby was on the rooftop of his old building. He was older now, having grown into a young man. It was twilight, and the sunset cast the snow in liquid gold.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he mimicked. They looked at one another in silence.

“Melody, I'm leaving for a school that's very far away. This storm got me thinking about you. I'm going to miss you. Whether or not you're real, I don't care. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

She smiled, hovering above him. “I missed you too.”

It was dark now and the shadows played about.

“Well, Bobby, if this is truly goodbye, I still want to show you something amazing.”

She reached down, extending her hand.

“Come on, Bobby, have a little faith.”

As she spoke her face seemed older than he could understand, then eternal youth leaped across her face as the snowflake on her forehead shimmered with magic. He took her hand, now standing at the edge of the building.

“Can you  believe in me like when you were a child?” asked Melody.

He took a breath and nodded. “Yes.”

She pulled him up and he became weightless. They flew into the sky, higher and higher until the city in its entirety could be seen. She let go of his hand but her magic held him aloft. Melody took her flute in the midst of the storm and played a song all her own. The song’s notes were of pain and loss, joy and purpose.

It was then that Bobby noticed they were no longer alone. From all corners of the vast city rose the spirits of those who had died—rushing up into the night sky to join them. They were of all ages—young and old, rich and poor. They were not as visible or tangible as Melody, but the great ethereal crowd gathered to her music.

“Who are they?” asked Bobby.

“The lost ones. Like me, when I was a child. But now with this,” she held the instrument to her lips. “Now, I can show them the way beyond this world.”

The sky parted, and a light came from  beyond. In the light Bobby was engulfed by the music of paradise. The snow shone and blazed, reflecting its purity. In the light's glorious conflagration the spirits passed on. After the light subsided, Melody and Bobby walked hand-in-hand among the clouds.

She brought him back to his rooftop.

“Will you do one last thing for me?”

“What is that?”

“Play me one last song goodbye?”

With tears in his eyes he played, and the girl faded with the snow on the wind.

Some say the old park is haunted and that during the cold season you can hear strange music. But I, your great-grandfather, know the truth. If you look under my bed you will find my most treasured possession, a case missing its flute. Now when Winter comes, frosting our homes, and the wind nips at noses and reddens cheeks, she comes to find them, the wayward souls lost in this city—for she is Winter’s Melody.