My name is Amaka Jefferson. I am 25 years old, a fashion designer, and a graduate of a prestigious university. By most accounts, I have achieved success. But there is one thing that has plagued me my entire life. An illness that turns winter into my personal hell.
Ever since childhood, my body would weaken as temperatures dropped. My skin burned with fever, my vision blurred, and my legs trembled like an old chair struggling under an unbearable weight. I fought through it in my younger years, but by my freshman year of university, it worsened. I coughed up litres of blood, lost the ability to walk, and my hair turned silver and wiry as if I had aged decades overnight.
The illness no longer confined itself to winter, it lingered through the rest of the year, albeit less severely. It delayed my studies, forcing me to take extended breaks and even a full year off. I became a shut-in, afraid to step outside. However, I still had to push forward regardless. Because of this illness, I was forced to watch many of my friends pass me by. I had to give up on the few romantic relationships I could have had because I didn't want the people, I loved to be forced to watch me in this state. Making them care for me as if I were a foster care patient would have been unfair to them, and it would have pained my heart as well. I was forced to watch my friends grow, get married, and build families while I was stuck at home in bed, chugging pills like a narcotic lunatic. So, I cut off many people who cared about me.
I couldn't even attend my father's funeral last year. The doctors didn't understand the cause of my illness. They could manage the symptoms to a certain extent, but when it came to identifying the source, there was nothing they could do.
All my parents could do was pray. They encouraged me to pray as well; as if praying would magically make the illness go away. I listened to them, took their pleas to heart, and prayed night and day, week after week, month after month, year after year. But at some point, I just stopped. It began to feel as if God wanted me to suffer.
Sometimes, in my sleep, I had visions of people I had never seen before. I saw a young man with blonde-tipped locs, desperately cling to his sword, his clothes scorched by the tides of battle. Beside him stood an olive-skinned woman with deep blue curls of hair. She bathed him in a radiant light, as though healing his wounds. Sometimes this same woman would have hair as white as snow. Just like me. Before them, stood ten demonic beings. As these beings lunged toward the swordsman and the blue-haired woman, I would wake up.
These dreams were vivid and terrifying. Sometimes, I dreamed of floating pyramids in the middle of a barren wasteland. In these visions, I saw a sea of sand stretching out as far as the horizon. I would walk for miles with no oasis in sight. My only companion was my shadow. The desert path was littered with human skulls. The sky was a washed-out red. The clouds looked like cotton dabbed on a wound, stained with shades of scarlet. The sound of the birds was drowned by the screams of tortured souls. Occasionally, the swordsman appeared and carried me on his back, whispering words of encouragement as if we would finally be nearing the end of our sandy purgatory. Sometimes, I saw a man with braided hair as white as mine, gracefully wielding a massive spear-- only for a giant armoured hand to burst from the ground beneath him and crush him in its palm. Sometimes, I saw burning cityscapes and the haunting aftermaths of war. Every time I had these nightmares; I woke up with tears streaming down my cheeks.
I had come to accept this as my destiny, spending the rest of my winters bedridden and unloved. This was what God brought me into the world for. This was all I was good for. At least, that's what I thought, until that one fateful day on Yuletide, 254 AF.
As per usual, I spent my entire winter lying in bed. I heard a gentle knock on the door.
"Come in," I replied.
"Morning, dear. Happy Yuletide," my mother said as she entered my room, carrying a tray of food.
"Mom, there's no use saying that to me. You know I don't celebrate Yuletide. There's no point to it."
"Amaka," she said, her face grief-stricken. I couldn't bear to look her in the eyes because all I would see was the failed spawn she had spent nine months carrying.
"Ahem, I made you breakfast, see?" She forced a smile. "I cut the toast to look like gingerbread men.
Goes well with the Yuletide theme, doesn't it?"
I sighed. "Mom…"
"You used to like these as a kid. I remember how your dad used to love making them."
"Mom. Please, stop."
"I'm sorry, Amaka." She walked toward my bed, placed the tray on the nightstand under the lamp, and sat beside me. "It's just… I miss him. It's our first Yuletide without him, and--" She turned away, covering her face as if that would somehow hide her sobbing.
All I could do was look away.
She sniffled, then let out a forced laugh. "Wow, sorry about that, Amaka. I just got so emotional thinking about your father that I forgot this was supposed to be a joyous day. It's Yuletide, for goodness' sake!" She laughed, but it was hollow.
She helped me sit upright and placed the tray on my lap. All I felt was disgust. Food was nothing more than a conduit for my torturous existence to persist. I could barely remember the last time my stomach had growled in hunger. That thing on the tray was nothing but bile oozing on a plate. I turned away.
"Amaka, my dear, aren't you hungry?"
"No. I'd appreciate it more if you opened the curtain. I'd like to see the snow."
"Alright." As she got up to open the curtains, she added, "By the way, your sister and her family will be coming to celebrate Yuletide with us."
"Really? Never expected to see her around this time of year. Usually, she only comes when there's an emergency… or a funeral."
"Oh, Amaka, don't look at it so negatively. We finally get to spend Yuletide together as a family. Isn't that good enough?" My mother said as she clasped my hands. I still didn't have the courage to look her in the eye. Suddenly, the crank phone in the hallway began to ring.
"Oh, speak of the devil. That must be your sister. I'll run you a warm bath after answering the phone, okay?"
"Urgh, mom, just get a dialer. This isn't the old world anymore."
"Over my dead body," my mom chuckled as she exited the room.
As I watched her leave, all I could think about was how she didn't just walk out on me or suffocate me with a pillow. Was I not a burden to her? I tried my best to be cold toward her, yet she insisted on taking care of me. These thoughts burrowed deep into my heart. I almost shed a tear as I cursed my own inadequacy. All I could do was watch the snow fall outside my window. I was mesmerized by how free and majestic each snowflake was as it fluttered in the wind and landed on the ground, becoming one with the rest of the snow.
I realized that, regardless of how tiny or inconsequential one snowflake might seem, it still served a much larger purpose in the end. In many ways, that one fragile snowflake was far more impactful than I was. I too wished to be as free as the snowflake. I too wished to have a lifespan as short as that of a single, fragile snowflake.
Later that day, around 18:00, I was downstairs in the living room, watching TV. My mother was in the kitchen, cooking up a storm and setting the dinner table. My eyes were glued to the screen as I watched a period drama set in the era before the Great Cataclysm. While deep down, I understood that era was not perfect, the people in the show looked so free. Unlike me, they got to dress exquisitely, indulge in philosophy, science, magic, the arts, and romance. Their world was much larger than ours. They could explore seas as vast as the horizon. Meanwhile, all we have is an archipelago that, at best, stretches as far as a continent. There's not much to explore; it feels cramped compared to the images on the screen. I was quite envious of them.
Suddenly, like an alarm clock snapping me out of my dreams in the morning, the door buzzer rang.
My mother rushed to open the door, her excitement almost palpable.
"Oh! Ginika, my dear!" My mom exclaimed as she hugged my sister. "Please, come in. Oh, hello, Daquan! How are you?" she said as she greeted my sister's husband.
As Ginika entered, she spotted me in my wheelchair in the living room. We turned and locked eyes.
"Ginika…"
"Amaka…"
"Hey there, Amaka! Long time no see!" said Daquan.
"Hi." I turned away, feeling uncomfortable. Daquan fidgeted and rubbed his beard, looking a bit awkward.
"Uhm, Ginika, where's the bathroom?"
"It's upstairs, on your left."
"Upstairs, to the left. Ahem! Excuse me." He rushed upstairs. Well, that was awkward.
"Oh, looks like we've got another guest!" my mother exclaimed.
"Hello there Mrs Jefferson. I hope I ain't intruding on this family gathering. Ginika invited me over."
"Oh, not at all my dear! The more the merrier! Please, come in!" she laughed.
I turned to see who was entering the house. The figure looked vaguely familiar, and as our eyes locked, it felt like time had frozen for a moment, suspended by the falling snow outside.
"Michael?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Amaka." Michael breathed under his breath, his lips curving into a warm smile. It had been four years since I last saw that smile. With it in my presence, it felt like my home didn't need a fireplace anymore. Either that, or my fever was soaring off the charts. I couldn't bear to look at the man I had once cut out of my life in the eye.
We then all sat on the table. Everybody was chatting up a storm and catching up. My life was uneventful, so I had nothing of substance to say. All I could do was sit stare at the food on the table like the pile of bile flavoured lard that it was. All I could notice that evening on the dinner table was the fact that my dad was missing. It felt so hollow without his presence. Occasionally, Michael and I would have involuntary eye contact. Well, it was involuntary on my part. Eventually, after what felt like an entire millennium, it was 8 o clock in the night, but everyone just kept babbling and babbling and babbling. By then, I had gone into the living room to gaze at the snow outside the window.
Michael eventually followed me. He stood behind me, but I didn't turn to face him. Instead, I acknowledged his presence by glancing at his reflection in the mirror. The man I had once loved. Just thinking about it made me feel sad. As he stood there, staring out the window, he whispered, "I hate the snow." His words sounded strange coming from him.
I met Michael back in college, during my third year, though it was technically my second attempt at freshman year. He was in my class that year, but I couldn't quite get a read on him. Sometimes, he would ignore me, so I had to be the one to initiate most of our conversations. Over time, though, he started to open up, and we formed a deep bond. One day, we were watching silent Yuletide films to pass the time.
I was absorbed by what I was seeing on Michael's television. The film had remarkable sets, and the snow looked so lifelike. "Wow, the snow looks so beautiful, but it scares me."
"What do you mean it scares you?"
"Imagine living your entire life stuck in winter. That must be a torturous existence. Yet, it's still so beautiful." At the time, I despised the snow with every fibre of my being. It represented everything wrong with my life. Looking at the snow in the film reminded me of my silver hair. I hadn't told Michael about my condition yet, and he didn't know how much I hated the snow.
"I see. As for me, I'd see it as a blessing."
"A blessing?"
"Yeah, because that snow looks like your hair. Seeing it every day would remind me of you."
"Huh? My hair? You're kidding me, right? This puffy mess?"
"Amaka." He reached out and gently pulled down my hoodie. "Your hair is beautiful. It looks like snow or some kind of fluffy cloud. It makes you… you."
My heart started to race, like the drums of liberation. Our eyes locked in a moment that felt like an eternity. For a second, we forgot we were supposed to be watching a movie. Michael leaned in closer, and I realized what he was about to do. I pushed him away. I wasn't ready for that kind of relationship. I didn't want Michael to be dragged into the purgatory that was my life, because being with me meant he would have to give up all his freedom. That thought hurt more than anything.
"I'm sorry." I then walked out of his dorm.
"Amaka…"
As I walked away, the flashes of that moment with Michael kept looping in my mind. The more I thought about him, the more my heart began to beat uncontrollably. Tears flooded down my cheeks.
Embarrassed by the involuntary outpouring, I ran to my dorm, trying to wipe them away. The day after, I felt awkward around Michael. He apologized for attempting to kiss me. His apology irritated me because, deep down, I wanted that kiss to happen. A part of me wanted him to know that I felt the same way. Eventually, we put that day behind us and continued being friends, keeping the feelings we had for each other bottled up. Thanks to Michael, I had learned to appreciate my hair and the snow.
One day, winter came. I passed out while hanging out with Michael in the library. When I came to, I found myself in a hospital bed. The first thing I managed to say was, "Urgh, here we go again." The doctor told me that Michael was the one who carried me all the way from the library to the hospital.
All I felt was guilt upon hearing that. From that day on, Michael visited me every day, even when my family was around. When the new year began, I decided to drop out of college and return to my parents' home. He would call the house or send me letters occasionally, but sometimes I ignored him. Eventually, I told him to stop contacting me and to leave my life. That decision probably hurt me more than it hurt him because I had to cut out someone I had once loved.
And now, here he was, many years later, standing before me.
Everyone else was getting ready to go to bed while Michael and I remained in the living room.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to bed now, sweetheart?" my mother asked as she made her way upstairs.
"It's okay, Mrs. Jefferson. I'll take her up," Michael replied.
"Huh, wait, are you sure? Amaka, are you fine with--"
Before I could respond, my sister interjected, holding my mom's hand. "It's okay, Mom. Let them catch up. They both need this."
My mom sighed, a subtle smile forming on her face, before she conceded. "Alright, don't stay up too late, okay?"
Once they left, it was just me and Michael in the empty living room. The silence between us felt deafening. While his presence was a bit imposing, the only thing I could focus on was the snow outside. But there was one question burning in my mind.
"Why are you here."
"It's obvious, isn't it? I came for you, Amaka."
"Please, stop. It's been 4 years. Why haven't you moved on?"
"What is the point of moving towards a future without you?"
"What the hell? There are so many women out there who could make you happy! I have nothing to offer you!"
"No. You're wrong, Amaka. The time I spent with you... those were some of the happiest moments of my life."
"Shut up! Stop lying! How could you possibly be happy with someone like me?!"
"Why are you pushing me away like this?"
"Look at me, Michael. I'm fragile. I'm at death's door. There's no future with someone like me. You'd spend the rest of your life looking after me like I'm some kind of patient in a nursing home. Is that what happiness looks like to you?!" I yelled, tears streaming down my face.
"As long as I'm with you... yes. That would be my happiness," he said, gently turning my wheelchair so I was facing him. As I looked into his eyes, I saw the tears falling from his cheeks. "You are my happiness, Amaka."
"No, stop! You're lying!"
"Your family told me about your condition years ago. Since then, I've come to hate winter. I've come to hate the snow... because it took you away from me."
"Please, stop talking!" I cried, choking on my words.
"I wish I could have been there with you through it all. It must have been so lonely, being stuck in that room by yourself. I'm sorry you had to endure that... If only I had been there by your side..." He hugged me tightly, his sobs breaking through the stillness.
"Why are you apologizing? I'm the one who cut you off," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"I shouldn't have let that stop me. If I had fought harder to stay with you, maybe you wouldn't have suffered so much. How can I make it right?"
"Michael..." I turned my gaze to the window. "You said you hated the snow, right? Well... after that day you told me how beautiful my hair was, I started to love it. Now, every time I look at the snow, I remember those days when you came to visit me in the hospital. I'd watch the snow fall and pray for the day when you and I could walk through it together, under the moonlight, just like this."
"Amaka…"
"Can you... take me outside? To the snow?"
"Amaka, that's dangerous! With your condition, you could--" He paused briefly, letting out a sigh as he noticed me look away. "Fine, but no longer than five minutes, okay?"
We stepped outside together, and for the first time in my life, I held a snowflake in my hands. For the first time in years, I felt the winter breeze against my skin. This moment with Michael made it feel as if we had never been apart, as if the years of separation hadn't existed.
We gazed up at the sky, and a stream of shooting stars streaked across the night, their brilliance like a flock of birds, bundled together and traveling the world in search of a new home. It was a sight I never dared to imagine I would witness. Each moment in my life seemed to have led to this one, watching the stars with Michael, as if the universe itself was offering me a blessing, telling me it was okay to be happy.
"Hey, Amaka, look! A whole bunch of shooting stars! Quick, make a Yuletide wish!"
"Hahaha. Such a dork. You still believe in that nonsense, Michael?"
"You don't want to make a wish? Your loss," he said with a grin, closing his eyes to make his wish. I closed my eyes too. "I wish to be free."
"Hah! Dummy, you're not supposed to say your wish out loud, you know. Otherwise, it won't come true."
"Where did you hear that from, Mr. Shooting Star Expert?"
"Oh, looks like you're one of the few who appreciate my genius. Learned it off a teen magazine, my dear."
I laughed. "You're such a goofball."
"Well, since you told me your wish, I'll tell you mine."
"What is it?"
"I wished for us to have more moments like this," Michael said, kneeling in front of me.
"Now, neither of our wishes will come true."
"Then I'll just have to make them a reality with my own hands," he said, determination in his eyes.
I chuckled, my gaze drifting to the stars that seemed to mirror the resolve shining in his eyes.
"Michael, I missed you."
He didn't respond. Instead, he leaned closer, his face inches from mine. But as he did, my vision blurred. My skin turned pale, and a searing pain shot through my chest. Michael pulled back in panic.
"Oh no, Amaka, are you okay? We need to get back inside!"
I began coughing up blood. Panic flooded Michael's face as he called my name. But his voice, once so clear, began to fade, drowning in the sound of the snow. His figure blurred, washed out by shadows, as if the world itself was losing colour. My eyelids grew heavy, and despite my efforts, they closed, forced shut like the lid of a suitcase.
All that remained was an overwhelming silence, and then... nothing. Darkness. Swallowed by darkness.
Suddenly, a sharp light pierced through my eyelids, accompanied by the soft murmur of voices and the chirping of sparrows. Slowly, the murmuring turned into clear words.
"… this fine morning, my dear."
I blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. As I opened my eyes, I was met with the image of a tall, blonde young man, dressed in clothes that seemed to belong to a time long before the Great Cataclysm. The type of clothing one might see in a period drama on television. He was holding a bouquet of flowers, smiling down at me. For a moment, I was too stunned to respond, raising one eyebrow in confusion.
"What is the matter, Roberta, my dear?" he asked, his voice smooth and warm.
"Roberta?" I blinked in disbelief. "I think you've got me mistaken for someone else."
He chuckled, clearly amused. "Excuse me? Surely you are jesting, right? Unless Roberta has a twin."
"Yeah, sorry, sir. Check next door," I stammered, trying to process the situation. With that, I shut the door quickly.
As I turned to the side, a mirror hanging on the wall caught my eye. I glanced at my reflection, and my breath caught in my throat. Staring back at me was a woman with loose curls of blue hair, olive skin, and adorned in noble attire, someone I didn't recognize.
"Huh? What the…" I whispered to myself, my mind racing as I tried to make sense of the impossible scene in front of me.