It started like all the best things do—quietly. No grand arrival, no thunderclap to announce its coming. Just a stillness in the air that made Lucy stop mid-step and tilt her face up to the sky. And there it was. A single snowflake, fragile and whole, drifting down like it had all the time in the world.

(And in that second, she did too. The world slowed for it. Or maybe just for you.)

She had always believed in magic—not the fireworks kind or the sort locked behind doors or books, but the kind that showed up when no one else was watching. The kind that filled the sky with white, turning even the ugliest parts of the world into something soft and new.

You stood beside her, shivering just a bit. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

The snow came faster after that. Gentle but persistent, clinging to your eyelashes and the tips of your hair like it wanted to claim you. She smiled at that. The snow had good taste.

The walk had started as just that—a walk. Nothing more than an excuse to stretch your legs, to get away from the hum of people and the heat of too many lamps and bodies in too small a space. But the snow turned it into something else. A story. A memory before it even ended.

You weren’t paying attention when she packed the first snowball.

(She didn’t plan to be wicked, not really. But there’s something satisfying about catching someone off guard, especially when their laugh is the reward.)

The snow hit your shoulder with a soft thud, and she caught her breath waiting for your reaction. You blinked at her, wide-eyed, like you weren’t sure whether to be offended or impressed.

Then you lunged.

The snow war was short but glorious—chaos painted in white and shrieks. You weren’t gentle either, and she liked that. Liked the way you didn’t hold back, the way you laughed like it cracked you open from somewhere deep. She liked knowing she could pull that from you. That you trusted her enough to drop the weight you carried for just a moment and be silly.

It didn’t take long for both of you to end up on your backs, chests heaving, the sky above your heads swirling in grey and pearl. Her fingers were red from the cold, nose dripping just a bit, cheeks stinging with a thousand tiny pinpricks of winter. But she’d never felt warmer.

There was something about being side by side like that—pressed into the snow like matching pieces, melting the shape of yourselves into it. As if the world would remember you both here, in this moment, when everything else had faded.

She wanted to tell you something then. Something true. But the words were too much, too raw, and maybe too big for the smallness of the snow and the hush that had wrapped itself around you both.

So she rolled onto her side, leaned close, and whispered, “I’ll remember this one. Even when I forget everything else.” And she meant it. With her whole damn heart.