Snow Fairy

I leave no footprints in the snow. White wisps drift down from the sky, born from the abyss above.

A lantern flickers. Frost has gathered in the corners of the faceted glass, distorting the flame and reducing it to a blurry outline, a shadow of its original burning brightness. The final train pulls into the station, golden light spilling out from its windows and pooling out onto the platform. Carriage by carriage, the doors slide open and the passengers descend, pulling on gloves and drawing out umbrellas. Tired workers in their coats of black and dark navy, hats tilted low to shield their faces from the cold.

It’s been a long time since I felt winter’s frosty touch. I climb the steps to the platform, all wrong, all reversed, the only one to mount. The mass swarms towards me, around me, through me, as I make my way towards the station. As I approach, the lights go out inside. The stationmaster emerges, reaching into his pocket for the keys.

Normally he would stay for a while, waiting at least an hour to ensure that all the passengers have left safely. But there’s a storm brewing tonight and everyone is making haste to return to their homes. The platform empties, voices fading slowly into the distance. Soon I am alone, standing there quietly as the snow steadily falls. I turn around, watching the silence as it hovers in the spaces between the falling snowflakes.

A glimmer in the snow. Something that’s there but shouldn't be. I kneel down, my old, frail body making contact with the earth. A tiny carved trinket, small enough to fit within a child's cupped hands. Its pearly luminescence makes it seem as though it's glowing in the dark. I try to trace my finger along the outside, following the silver filigree that curls into spirals and blooms into tiny lilies. Inside is a small figurine made of porcelain, a ballerina.

Underneath is a winding key. Turn it six times and from the box tinkles a familiar warbled melody.

She was only four years old when I bought her her first pair of ballet slippers. Too young to tie them herself, it was my clumsy hands that knotted the ribbons, looping them round and round the best I could. She was off before I could finish, twirling around the room, dancing to music only she could hear. I called out to her in protest as she raced out the door, throwing fistfuls of snow in the air. The melted snowflakes studded her hair with droplets that glittered in the morning sun. She was my little one, my Snow Fairy.

A gust of wind blows, sending the trinket box tumbling. I hope that it wedges itself into the ground, that the snow will fall thick and fast enough that it covers it entirely. Allowing the ballerina to sleep peacefully until the warmth of spring thaws nature's coffin.

The first performance I took her to was Swan Lake. I remember little of the performance; I was mostly watching her, the look of complete rapture in her eyes. She couldn't take her eyes off the dancers. It was almost as though she were terrified they would vanish if she looked away. It was a full house that night, the theatre filled with distinguished gentlemen and elegant ladies. Everyone dressed in their finest, hair coiffed and shoes polished. When the final act drew to a close and everyone rose to their feet in applause, she remained quietly seated. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. But when she turned to face me her eyes were filled not with tears, but with a fierce determination. A look like fire. Eyes wide and earnest, she told me that one day she would be on that stage too.

I can still picture her now, her girlish silhouette against the fading light. Her chiffon skirt hanging in the air as though the earth had forgotten to claim it.

Each stage took her to new heights. Fuelled by passion, she held the audience in the palm of her hand. To them, she was an enchantress, a dancer talented beyond any that had come before her. But to me she was still the little girl out in the snow.

At first glance, the ballerina appears to be the image of perfection. But if looked at up close, the rosy paint on her slippers is beginning to peel. There is a stain on her corseted back. A small piece of her beautiful golden hair has been chipped away, the forgotten fragment lost to this world forever.

The theatre took my breath away. Never before had I been in a place so grand in scale and splendor. Rows of burgundy velvet seats stretched back as far as the eye could see, towering three levels high. On the walls, viewing boxes for the wealthy, binoculars in their silk-gloved hands. The atmosphere was electric, the crowd buzzing with anticipation for the biggest show of the season. I was led to the prime viewing spot, right in the center of the front row.

When she leapt onto the stage, the world seemed to come to a standstill. She was the sugar plum fairy, all glitter and lilac, twirling across the stage. Her dreamy eyes aglow as she and the music wove their magic. I waved as she glided past but she didn’t see me, head held high, her gaze fixed ahead in concentration. There was a collective gasp as she soared into the air, supported by invisible wire rigging. She flew across the stage, soaring above as she began to spin. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster. Until she jerked to a standstill.

For a second, just one second, I saw her falter. Confusion in her eyes as she looked upward, wondering why she had stopped. A clang from the iron railings. And suddenly she was plummeting back towards earth, limbs twisting and turning. The sickening sound of cracking bone as her body thudded onto the stage.

Amidst the screams of the audience, the bustle of photographers pushing for the front, the crying of children, I watched her lifeless body.

Is that a whistle I hear in the distance? The sky has grown a shade lighter, dawn is almost here. At my feet lies the box, blown open by the wind. Half buried, the ballerina’s tiny torso and arms emerge from out of the snow.

I hope she doesn’t see it. The thing that started it all, that enamel trinket she found one cold winter’s morning. The ground trembles and the train comes puffing into the station. From the first carriage runs a young girl, barely more than a child. My heart aches as I watch her, my little Snow Fairy alive once more. Behind her steps a young man, myself. A man of clear mind, a man oblivious to the pain yet to come. My Snow Fairy bounds into the snow, clapping her hands in delight, laughter muffled by the thick woolen scarf around her neck.

I rush forwards to embrace her, but both she and I meet nothingness—the unbreachable space between us. I whip around. Breath tearing in my lungs, I reach the trinket before she does, desperately grabbing at the wretched thing, silent tears sliding down my cheeks. But no matter how hard I try my hands claw at nothing but thin air. I kneel down, defeated and ashamed.

She approaches and I look up at her. Slowly, gently, she pulls the ballerina out of the snow. Then her face splits into a smile.

She races back towards what once was me and I watch as my younger self picks it up in his hands, admiring the clever little mechanism. He turns the key, and the music plays. He hands it back to her, telling her that she may keep it. And so I watch as the two hurry home, shivering in the cold I cannot feel. Two figures growing more and more distant, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow.