The Frost Painter and the Snow Maid

He scampered through the silent village, laughter in his eyes and a paintbrush in his hand. All around him, people slept and never saw his passage. That was the way of things, the way his life had always been. But it didn’t matter. He had his own fun making his art across the world. Stopping at a glass paned window, he began to trace the loops and swirls that he so loved. They formed in blues and whites, in every shade of ice and frost. Then he heard a voice in the open street and turned.
“Jack?”
A young woman stood there, ice-blue eyes wide and uncertain. Her auburn hair was tied back under a kerchief and her dress was a pale blue that nearly matched his own shirt. She took another uncertain step towards him, boots making a soft shushing noise in the light snow. She was only a bit older than he appeared to be, 16 or so.
“You are Jack, aren’t you? The frost painter?”
“I am.”
His breath froze in the air, hanging as a light fog for a moment. Her smile brightened and the snow began to pick up.
“I’ve been looking for you for so long. My name is Holle.”
He walked towards her, a smile playing at his lips.
“You’re making it snow, aren’t you?”
“I am, frost painter.”
He held out his hand and she took it without hesitation. For the first time in their long lives, when they returned to their work, neither one was alone.

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