━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

Time moved forward, and so did you.

Your body continued to grow, shaping itself with the seasons. What had once been a toddler's fragile form now resembled a child of five, though time held little meaning for you.

Your features, once soft and round, became more defined, yet still carried the delicate traces of something not entirely human. Your limbs, once full of boundless youth, now felt heavier, your energy slowing with the world around you.

Winter had arrived.

You didn't understand why the air had turned sharp, why the trees had stilled, why the once-golden fields were now coated in a layer of frost that crunched beneath Demeter's feet.

The world was quieter now, wrapped in cold and shadow.

And so, you slowed with it.

You found yourself lethargic, reflective, as though something in your very being understood that winter meant stillness.

The nymphs whispered stories to pass the time, their voices soft as they gathered inside warm cottages, their breath curling in the cold air like fragile smoke.

It was from them that you first heard her name.

Persephone.

You listened as they spoke of her, of the goddess of spring, of the one who danced through fields of flowers, of the one who brought life and warmth and color to the earth.

But you'd never seen her. You had no memory of her.

Only the name.

Only the weight it carried in their voices.

You didn't understand her absence, not in the way the nymphs did—not in the way Demeter did.

But as the winter deepened, you began to feel it.

It wasn't a sharp pain, not something immediate or loud. It was quieter, heavier, something that settled into your chest like the weight of the snow pressing down on the earth.

You didn't know why you felt it, not yet.

But the air carried a kind of emptiness, a stillness that stretched through the land, through the bare trees and the frozen rivers.

And it wasn't just the land that felt empty.

.☆.
    .✩.

The fire in the cottage crackled softly, filling the space with a golden glow. Outside, the wind howled low, whispering against the frost-covered glass.

You sat curled in Demeter's lap, your small body tucked into the warmth of her embrace. The thick fabric of her robes draped over you like a second skin, shielding you from the winter chill that seeped through the walls.

She held you gently, her hand moving in slow, rhythmic strokes along your back—a soothing motion, one she'd done since the day she first carried you from the tree.

Her breath was steady, warm against the top of your head, and for a long while, neither of you spoke.

You simply watched.

The snow flurries danced beyond the window, falling in soft, endless waves, coating the earth in white.

You didn't understand the winter, not fully. But you felt the way it made everything still.

Everything waited.

Everything quieted.

Even her.

Demeter's arms tightened around you slightly, and though her face was calm, there was something in her silence—a longing, a quiet ache.

Then, her voice, gentle and low, broke the hush of the room.

"Persephone always talks about the snow, you know."

Your small fingers, curled against the edge of her sleeve, twitched slightly. "She does?"

A soft hum rumbled in her chest as she nodded. "She's never experienced it but would often stand in the fields, arms open as dandelion pappus kissed her skin, imagining them as snowflakes."

She exhaled, the sound thick with memory. "She would hold them in her hands and blow them to watch them dissapear."

Your brows furrowed slightly.

You thought of the leaves that had fallen from your tree. The way they never returned to the branches.

Gone.

You turned your head slightly, resting your chin against her shoulder, staring up at her. "Where is she?"

The question was small, but it halted her breath.

You felt the slight tremor in her chest.

She swallowed, shifting slightly beneath you, her fingers pausing in their gentle caress before resuming—slower now.

When she finally answered, her voice was softer than before.

"She is gone... for now."

It was not a full answer.

It didn't explain the ache in her voice, the way her hand hesitated over your back, the way she stared through the window, her eyes lost somewhere beyond the falling snow.

But you didn't ask again.

You only turned back toward the window, watching the endless white.

The snowflakes fell, the wind hummed, and somewhere beneath the quiet, you felt the weight of something you didn't yet understand.

☆
✩
☆

The heavy stillness of winter stretched over the land, folding itself into the trees, the rivers, and the bones of the earth. It wasn't loud like summer, nor soft like autumn—it was waiting, a season of rest, of holding its breath.

As the world shifted, your body continued to change, your once-childlike softness solidifying into something steadier. Your limbs grew longer, your features sharper, though still delicate, still touched with that same otherworldly air. By the time the frost had thickened, you'd grown into the shape of an 8-year-old.

And with that change, something else began to stir inside you.

Recognition.

Emotions, once distant concepts, now drifted toward you, pressing against your chest like the winter cold—not fully understood, not fully formed, but felt nonetheless.

You began to notice things.

You noticed the way the nymphs spoke in hushed whispers when Demeter was near, how their gazes lingered with something soft and sorrowful.

You noticed the way the fire burned lower at night, how the cottage felt emptier despite being full of warmth.

And most of all, you noticed her.

A Goddess in Grief

Demeter didn't speak of it, but you could feel it.

She carried her sorrow in small ways, in the moments in between—in the way she exhaled at the window, in the way she held you just a little tighter at night.

She wasn't absent. She still smiled, still braided your hair, still sat beside you, whispering old stories and pressing soft kisses against your forehead. But there was a slowness to her now, a weight in her shoulders that hadn't been there before.

She tried to hide it.

But you—you absorbed.

You didn't ask why. You didn't press.

Instead, you mirrored.

As Demeter withdrew into herself, so did you.

When she spent longer hours staring at the fields, lost in thought, you sat beside her, quiet and still.

When she sighed in the evenings, pressing her hands over her heart, you felt something in your own chest tighten, though you didn't know why.

When she missed Persephone, so did you.

Not because you knew her.

But because Demeter did.

And if something could make her sad, if something could pull at her heart so deeply—then surely, surely, it was something worth longing for.

And so you did; you longed for something you'd never lost.

A sadness that wasn't your own.

And yet, it settled into your chest all the same.

.☆.
    .✩.
        .☆.

As the stillness of winter remained, Demeter's careful watch over you grew stronger.

It was subtle at first. The way her hands lingered when she fixed your cloak before letting you outside, though you didn't need it. The way she called your name more often, ensuring you were always close.

But then, it became more than that.

She no longer let you wander alone, no longer allowed you to stray too far from her reach. Even the nymphs noticed how she would always keep you in her line of sight, how her golden eyes flickered with unease when she saw you near the edges of the grove.

You didn't understand why.

You'd never strayed, never run, never disobeyed.

Yet she clung to you as if the wind itself might carry you away.

She never said the reason aloud, but deep inside, you knew.

She was afraid.

Afraid that you, too, would be taken.

It had been another quiet day and winter was beginning to loosen its grip, the sky still cold but no longer weighed down by thick clouds. The trees remained bare, but the air smelled less like endings and more like waiting.

You were outside, watching the nymphs and a few tree spirits from the evergreen groves. Unlike most of the other dryads, the evergreens didn't hibernate, their bodies strong and firm through the cold.

They played in the open clearing, laughing, running, twirling beneath the pale winter sun.

You didn't join them.

You never did.

Instead, you sat beneath a thin-barked birch tree, your knees tucked to your chest, watching.

The nymphs didn't mind your quiet presence. They'd long since accepted that you were different, that you were more of a shadow than a spark, more of an observer than a player.

But then, a familiar voice broke through the air.

"Come with us."

You turned your head slightly.

The young nymph—the one with honey-colored eyes and wild curls, Ciro—stood before you, her warm brown skin glowing softly under the pale winter sun as she stared at you with a sort of expectant impatience.

She was short—your height barely reached her shoulder—but there was something about her presence that felt larger, brighter, as though her mischievous energy filled the space around her. Her figure was soft, her frame slightly chubby, which gave her an endearing roundness that matched her warm and lively demeanor.

Her wild curls, dark and unruly, framed her face like a halo of chaos, bouncing with every movement she made. Snowflakes clung to a few strands, glinting like tiny crystals against the deep darkness of her hair with occasional streaks of white. Her honey-colored eyes, sharp with mischief, locked onto yours with an intensity that was hard to ignore.

She grinned, motioning toward the others with an exaggerated flick of her hand. "We're going to mess with that river god again," she declared, her voice filled with a playful confidence that made the air feel warmer for a moment.

The others giggled from a distance, their excitement clear.

It was something they'd done before—poking at the river's guardian, tricking it into rising from its slumber, taunting it just enough before running away. A game they'd played since the start of time.

You knew this.

And normally, you would have done as you always did.

Watched. Stayed. Listened.

But instead—

"Okay."

It was soft. Barely a breath. But it was a word.

A choice.

A willingness you'd never shown before.

Ciro's eyes widened slightly, but then her grin returned, bright and delighted. "Come on, then!"

She reached for your wrist, tugging gently, and for once—you let her.

The air was cold as you walked across the frozen ground, the soft crunch of snow beneath your feet. The lake had begun to thaw at its edges, a thin shimmer of ice stretching across the water's surface.

The nature spirits whispered and laughed as they neared the bank, mischief in their eyes.

The river god was a small one, more a spirit than a true deity. Its waters were ancient but not strong, deep but not endless. It had slumbered through the winter, curling beneath its frozen surface, its presence barely a whisper.

But they knew how to wake it.

The nymphs darted ahead, their hands brushing against the water's edge, whispering taunts, calling to it in singsong voices while the tree spirits threw rocks and sticks.

At first, nothing happened.

The lake remained still, its surface glassy and unbroken.

But then—

A ripple.

A single disturbance.

The giggles grew louder, the nymphs pressing forward, their feet daring to touch the edge.

Then—a groan.

Deep, low, a sound that rumbled through the earth like the shifting of stones beneath the riverbed.

The ice cracked.

And suddenly—the water surged.

It was not playful.

It was not slow.

It was angry.

A massive current rose from the depths, twisting like a serpent, lunging toward the shore.

The nature spirits screamed, their laughter turning into shrieks as they tried to run, their bare feet slipping against the ice.

You felt it before it happened.

A pull—cold, forceful, unnatural.

The water reached for you.

And then—

"ENOUGH."

The sky darkened.

The air stilled.

And suddenly, the water froze mid-motion, solidifying into jagged shards just before it could reach you.

A presence loomed behind you.

Heavy. Unyielding. Furious.

Slowly, you turned.

Demeter stood at the edge of the bank, her golden robes billowing despite the stillness of the wind.

Her expression was not one of relief.

It was not one of gentle scolding.

It was rage.

Her hand lifted, and the frozen water began to drain, sinking back into the earth as if the river itself had been unmade.

The nymphs and tree spirits clutched one another, their wide eyes filled with something that looked almost like fear.

You only watched.

Your heart beat steady.

You didn't understand why she was so angry.

You didn't understand why she looked at you like that.

Like she'd almost lost you.

Like she'd already lost before.

Her voice came sharp, clipped, the weight of divinity pressing into every syllable.

"Come here, ____."

You obeyed without hesitation, stepping toward her, your small hands still damp from the river's reach.

She scooped you up, holding you too tightly, as if to press you back into herself, as if to undo what had almost happened.

And then—she turned.

She didn't look at the nymphs.

She didn't offer words of warning.

She only left.

And you, wrapped in her arms, watched over her shoulder as the river lay dry in her wake.

The silence that followed was heavy. The spirits didn't call out, didn't chase after you. They only stood there, eyes wide, staring at the dried riverbed where the water had once been.

Where it should have been.

But Demeter didn't look back.

She carried you all the way home, her grip firm, unyielding. You didn't fight it. You didn't speak. You simply rested against her, feeling the weight of her heartbeat, the way it pounded harder than usual.

Even when you reached the warmth of the cottage, she didn't put you down right away.

She pressed you close, fingers curled so tightly around you that it was almost painful. Her breath came slow and deep, measured—but you could hear something beneath it. Something unsteady.

Then, finally, she placed you on your feet, knelt before you, and cupped your face between her hands.

Her golden eyes searched yours, fierce, desperate. Checking. Reassuring herself.

"I forbid you from going with them again."

It was not a question.

Not a warning.

A command.

You blinked up at her. "Why?"

Her grip on your face tightened ever so slightly, her thumbs brushing against your cheeks.

"Because I will not lose you," she whispered. "Not you too."

She pulled away then, smoothing down your hair, letting out a breath before she stood. Without another word, she turned and busied herself—cleaning, preparing herbs, tending to the fire.

Her hands moved with purpose, fingers pressing dried leaves between her palms, whispering something low under her breath. The scent of crushed rosemary and thyme curled through the air, mixing with the faint smokiness of burning wood.

But you could tell.

She wasn't truly focused.

Her movements were quick, almost sharp—the kind of motion that wasn't about the task itself, but rather about keeping her hands moving, keeping her mind from lingering too long in the quiet.

She was distracting herself.

From what? You weren't sure.

Maybe from the river.

Maybe from you.

Your chest felt heavy again, the feeling you still could not name creeping into the spaces between your ribs.

So you turned away from her.

You stepped away from the warm glow of the fire, away from the scent of herbs and the weight of unspoken things in the air. Your feet made no sound as you crossed the room, moving toward the wide window at the front of the cottage.

The glass was cold beneath your fingertips as you pressed a small hand to it, the frost clinging to the corners like delicate lace.

Outside, the world was still.

Silent. Frozen. Waiting.

The trees stood bare, their branches dark against the pale winter sky. The rivers that had once carried laughter and movement had stilled beneath thick layers of ice. The flowers that had once bloomed beneath the sun's warmth were now buried beneath layers of snow, their colors lost to the season.

Everything was gone.

Everything had disappeared.

You leaned forward slightly, your breath fogging against the glass, as your mind traced the thought further.

Everything disappeared in winter.

The rivers. The warmth. The flowers.

The laughter of the nature spirits.

Even Persephone.

Your fingers curled slightly against the windowsill.

You'd heard her name many times now—spoken in hushed tones, carried in the weight of Demeter's voice when she whispered it. It was always there, woven into the silence she left behind.

Persephone was gone.

And Demeter was afraid.

Afraid in a way you didn't fully understand.

But you'd seen it today.

In the way she'd held you too tightly, in the way she'd dried the river without hesitation, in the way she'd stared at you, like she'd already lost you once before.

Like the river could've taken you.

Like winter itself could've taken you.

The thought pressed heavier against your mind.

You stared out at the frozen trees, at the brittle remains of the world that had once been full of life, and for the first time, you wondered.

"Why does everything disappear in winter?" The words left you before you could stop them, barely above a whisper, barely even a thought.

You pressed your forehead against the cold glass, watching as another flurry of snowflakes danced down from the grey sky.

"Why must things disappear?"

Why did the flowers die?

Why did the warmth leave?

Why did Demeter ache when she spoke of Persephone?

Why did she fear losing you?

Your breath fogged the glass again, a small, fleeting mark that faded just as quickly as it had appeared.

And then, the final question slipped from your lips, so quiet that even you barely heard it.

"Will I... also disappear one day?"

The thought settled inside you like the frost on the windowpane—cold, quiet, unshakable.

The fire behind you crackled, filling the space with warmth.

But you didn't move from