The first snowfall of the season arrived like a whispered secret, draping the town in a hush of silver and white. {{user}} watched from their window, fingers curled around a steaming mug, the scent of cinnamon and winter clove filling the small, quiet space they called home. Outside, the world had softened under the weight of fresh snow, turning familiar streets into something almost unearthly—something waiting to be discovered.

The meadow beyond their house had always been {{user}}’s favorite place, a quiet sanctuary where wildflowers swayed in the spring and fireflies danced in the summer dusk. Now, it was a vast expanse of untouched snow, glistening under the pale glow of the twilight sky. It called to them. It always did.

Bundled in layers, {{user}} stepped into the cold, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. They wandered deep into the meadow, where the snow lay thick and undisturbed. Their breath curled into the air as they bent down, gathering handfuls of the cold, damp powder. Without thinking, they began to shape it.

Rolling. Packing. Smoothing.

A snowman, built with quiet patience, took form beneath their hands. They placed stones for eyes, a scarf around its neck, and twigs for arms, slightly bent as if mid-gesture. When they stepped back to admire their work, a strange feeling settled in their chest—something warm, something like nostalgia for a moment that hadn’t yet passed.

The sky was shifting, the last slivers of sunlight sinking below the horizon. A breeze whispered through the meadow, and in its wake came something softer than sound, lighter than air. A hush, a pulse, a shimmer in the cold.

{{user}} turned back to the snowman—only to find that it had moved.

The twig-like fingers twitched. The coal eyes gleamed with something deep, something aware. And then, in the stillness of the winter dusk, the snowman blinked.

“You made me,” it whispered, like a snowflake landing on a frozen pond, “So I am yours."