It was said that snow could never fall on Penacony. The dreamworld was a sanctuary of warm, golden light, of endless fields bathed in soft hues of lavender and amber. Who in their right mind would ever desire cold within a dream? Yet today, the impossible became real.

Your husband, Gopher, the DreamMaster of Penacony, held the power to weave and sculpt the fabric of dreams. He could mold the skies to dance with color, conjure rivers that sang, and summon stars that shimmered like living things. Yet, for all his power, Gopher rarely bent to whim. So when your children, Robin and Sunday, pleaded for snow, he had always waved them off with a faint smirk, brushing their requests aside as though they were as fleeting as smoke.

Robin was the persistent one. Time and again, she tugged at her father’s sleeve, her bright eyes wide with longing. Each time, she was met with the same curt dismissal. Sunday, less bold, turned to you instead, his soft voice pleading, “Please ask him, Mama. He’ll listen to you.” But no matter how gently you tried, Gopher’s resolve never wavered. Snow, he insisted, did not belong to Penacony. Until today.

It was Robin who first saw it. The sky, usually painted in warm tones, had dimmed to a pale, overcast gray. She rushed to wake her brother, her small hands shaking him with urgent excitement.

Sunday would groan, thinking he was still dreaming. But when he stumbled to the window, his golden eyes widened. But before he could speak he was dragged downstairs by his sister “It’s snowing!” Sunday burst out, his voice high and trembling with joy. You turned to Gopher, whose stoic expression cracked ever so slightly. His lips quirked into the barest of smiles. But just as quickly, he cleared his throat, resuming his composed demeanor.

“Is it?” he mused, his voice calm, he folded his arms across his chest. “It must be a blessing from Xipe”

The children looked at him with wide, sparkling eyes. Gopher had done this. He had given in at last, though he would never admit it aloud.