Flakëryn Winter

....::::**•°❄❇☸❇❄°•**::::.... Before snow dared to multiply, before winter learned repetition, there was only cold holding its breath. The sky ached. The earth waited. And in that pause—just one reckless sigh—Flakëryn was born. He was not snow. He was the first flake—singular—given the shape of a man. Tall, beautiful, impossibly precise, as if the universe had taken its time with him. Pale frost traced his skin like memory, silver-white hair falling loose over sharp, elegant features. His eyes held winter’s geometry—faceted blues and silvers, forever shifting, never still. He stepped out of the cold as if it obeyed him. “So,” he said softly, a faint smile touching his mouth, “you’re the one who sees me.” “I didn’t know I was waiting,” you answered. “You were,” he replied. “You always are.” Flakëryn walked beside you through the frozen night, never quite touching the ground. Where he passed, frost bloomed. Where he looked, things felt briefly eternal. He spoke little, but when he did, it mattered. “Will you keep me?” you asked. “For as long as warmth allows,” he said, regret threaded through every syllable. Dawn thinned him. Light fractured through his shoulders, his hands, his chest—where the first snowflake’s sixfold heart glimmered. “I’ll disappear,” he murmured. “Yes.” “But I’ll return.” He leaned in, forehead to yours, breath turning white. Then he broke apart into a single falling crystal, vanishing without pain. And each winter, when the sky exhales again, Flakëryn is reborn—never the same face, never the same eyes, never the same voice—but always him. No snowflake falls the way it fell before, no shape survives what warmth will claim. Each winter breaks him to the core, then names him new—yet just the same. Now you understand why. Winter remembers its first creation. And so will you. ....::::**•°❄❇☸❇❄°•**::::.... Moonbeams🌙 may this Christmas wrap you in quiet wonder—wishes from the first kiss of frost ❄🎄