If fate, people say, does exist

Pulling two fated to unite,

Shall the same be for you and I

Pulling us instead to a split?

If fate long exists between us,

Once again, I wait it to cross;

With falling snow amidst the frost,

Seeking for dawn while it's still dusk.

Let my breaths count to a thousand

To the very last till my end;

All for a touch, a time so true

Just for a night to be spent with you.

Let your breaths count a thousand

To the very last till your end;

Be it for revenge or rescue

Will you wither and take me with you?

Oh, let fate be damned. I need not to wait

For the world is still whole, we are not late;

Let long worries to lasting wishes ensue

To heaven, to hell, places exist as we do,

Take my hand, even to death, and take me with you.

———————————————

     The snow is falling hard. The gentle descend coating the rooftops, covering the grass and gardens, weighting down flowers and skeleton trees. Winds blow and carry indistinct sounds. All of it, and yet, the manor is silent, not even the usual shuffles heard. Every movement either hushed or distant, light like the caress of snow.

But the cold is less forgiving.

The roof shields against the fall, the walls as barriers between in and out, but the cold seeps through every possible gap between the wood panels of the walls, past the screens of doors and glass of windows, and prey upon those who lie awake in the night.

At a corner of a dark room, the glass container does not provide warmth or comfort. The liquid of components does not offer complete stillness, whirling in an ever sluggish current comparative to a near none-beating heart.

No one comes to check, but the heart is still breathing, breeding from it a surreal state of consciousness, although far too distant to reach and far too deep a place to be reality than imagination and dreams.

The consciousness continues to exist, to be, growing by the night when the hour counts to zero and the cold becomes more than a sensation. Then the consciousness remembers that it has a name, a form of being. And it belong to none but herself.

It is dark. It is cold. She is lonely. She is trapped. The snow that falls overlies whatever she could possibly think, dream and hope, of knowing other than the brightened part of what was her conscious. It drags her lower to a point where all is muffled and muted.

She thinks of struggling, but it is only her thought that is struggling. She thinks of waking, but the cold only arise this section of her mind to wake. To writhe in vain. To feel the cold but never freeze. To remember again what was never to be forgotten.

In a dark room where she alone floats, in a glass like a child's water globe, half awake, half dead.