The rain had stopped a few days ago. The sky was clear today—no clouds, only a silent snowfall drifting down over a mountain village wrapped entirely in white. Between the dense pine trees, rows of tin-roofed houses stood still, their fences half-buried in snow. Warm yellow light flickered from kerosene lanterns inside each home, casting a gentle glow across the icy ground. Old lampposts lit up the road corners, their light trembling through the falling snow.
The sloping path coming down from the hillside was completely white, while the pond nearby had frozen solid. In the distance, the pointed roof of a small mosque and the silhouette of an old royal manor stood against the pale sky. Everything felt quiet, mysterious, and strangely warm despite the harsh cold—like a serenity only winter could create.
In this icy world, a woman was beginning her day, walking slowly with a cane in hand and her loyal dog by her side. Her warm overcoat and familiar scarf spoke of years of endurance and tenderness. Not far from her, new parents pushed a baby stroller carefully through the snow, their thick jackets symbolizing the gentle responsibility that came with new life. From a small roadside stall, I walked away with a steaming cup of coffee, its heat melting even the cold morning fog around me. Children played in the open, their wool-covered little hands shaping snowballs with bursts of laughter. In one corner, a family scattered grains for birds, their simple kindness adding a touch of humanity to the frozen scene. Thick winter wear—coats, gloves, hats—kept everyone warm and safe, turning the entire village into not just a place enduring winter, but a portrait of life moving at its natural rhythm.
And now, throughout the village, only one name traveled from house to house—
Riven.
From the tea stalls to the town roads, everyone said the same thing:
"See him? That's Riven! If he wasn't there that day, no one would've survived."
A faint blush crept onto my cheeks.
It felt good being called a hero… yet uncomfortable too.
(Inside, I was still Jason. The eighth grader who used to yawn reading history books!)
Date — October 11, 1928.
Tuesday.
Exactly seven in the morning.
The entire house lay under a thick, cotton-like blanket of snow, glowing softly in the pale blue and pink morning light.
Our home was built with a wooden frame, its walls covered in aged, faded brown shingles. A heavy layer of snow coated the roof, while long crystal icicles hung along the edges of the porch, shimmering in the cold. Two windows glowed warmly from inside, promising comfort and heat. The front door, painted a bright, striking green, stood out vividly against the white-and-brown background.
To the right of the main house stood a large, traditional red barn. Its color blazed brilliantly against the snow, the slanted roof also carrying a thick layer of white. Icicles hung there as well. The barn door was slightly open, revealing a cow and a chicken resting inside from the winter cold.
The yard and the road were buried under snow. The dirt path leading out front was almost hidden and looked dangerously slippery. The rough wooden fence was partially covered, its rails capped with tiny icicles. Behind the house, the distant hilltops rose gently under the weight of snow, wrapped in soft fog that added depth to the landscape. A brown cow stood just beyond the fence, unmoving, blending into the serene scenery.
Ryan and I sat in the yard trying to start a fire. A thin trail of smoke curled stubbornly from between the dry logs—half playful, half defiant. When a small flame finally burst to life, Ryan cheered,
"We got it! Finally!"
The dry branches crackled, filling the cold air with the smoky, warm scent of burning wood. The yellow-red flame flickered on my face, spreading a soft warmth across the winter morning.
I wore a high-necked deep blue sweater, its thick folded collar protecting me from the cold. Over it was a black—maybe deep navy—parka-style jacket with buttoned flaps on the shoulders and pockets. The hood was lined with thick white fur along the edges, adding both warmth and elegance. Everyone else had their own winter layers: Father in a gray shawl, my brother in a red trench coat, and Mother in a long, flowing maxi dress.
Her dress was pale cream with light blue or soft green floral prints, sleeveless or tank-top styled with a deep V-neckline that shaped her figure gracefully. Around her waist was a wide, dark black or maroon fabric belt, defining her silhouette.
Over the dress she wore a long, floor-length blue kimono-style robe. The bright deep blue framed her dress beautifully as she held the robe's outer edge in her right hand with quiet elegance. Her long golden oval earrings shimmered gently, a slim golden chain rested at her neck, and a golden bracelet adorned her left wrist. She wore high-heeled black pump shoes, completing her refined winter look.
My sister wore a knee-length dress with a voluminous, bubble-skirt style bottom, in pale grey or pale olive green—classic, simple, charming. The upper part resembled a blouse with a button-up collar and long puffy sleeves tightened near the elbows. A dark black ribbon tied loosely around her neck hung like a small bow. A wide black belt around her waist separated the bodice from the skirt, giving structure. She wore dark tights and black loafer-style shoes, adding a school-like charm. All these layers were their shield from the cold, keeping them safe from the winter chill.
Everyone gathered around the fire, warming their hands and laughing. My uncle and aunt had come today with their kids—Fahim (7) and Fahmida (9). Father and Uncle sat near the fire with tea, reminiscing about old days; Mother and Aunt stood by the stove, flipping pithas with wooden spatulas.
My brother, finished with the fire, went inside where the clacking of his typewriter began—working on his latest article. Warmth filled every corner, inside the house and out.
In the yard, I ran around with Fahim, Fahmida, and Kelly, our laughter echoing in the cold air.
Then suddenly, from the gate, a soft, cheerful voice rang out—
"I'm here!"
I turned around...
---