"What do you mean I'm not real?" Anastasie asked you - her usually joyful voice was now trembling, confused, scared.

She asked you that question once, but you didn't know the answer to it yourself. She was just a character in your novel, how was it that you were talking to her like this? You remembered putting your pen to paper, writing this scene of her, in the snow.

She laughed worriedly, her pale eyes welling with unshed tears. "Answer me." She whispered softly.