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 “It can’t be.” Again, still bemused I kept quiet and chose not to correct her right away, “Snow comes from the ground.” Ears flicked back a notch, and both orbs moved to lock with those childlike eyes that seemed so similar to mine. It was natural to wonder if she was jesting with me—but the serious fraction I saw across those features told me that this certainly wasn’t a joke. “This is the bad-dark. It killed so many, gone.” Sympathy flowed in, it latched onto my soul and snagged it tight. The worn lines on my fatherly face fell into a strained frown, “Aye, I’m sorry you have lost people—but this,” gesturing toward a falling flake I finished assurtively, “Is snow… in this land, snow falls from the sky and piles up on the ground.”
Another question comes, this one easier to answer—yet the subject was going to be harder to address. “Did you talk to Mother? Are you going to take me to her?” Sobered I regarded the child with a mixture of emotions, pity and natural care. She maneuvers closer, growing either more bold or trusting. Slowly I press my head down—extending muzzle the way an arms brother might greet another brother. Pushing the velvet soft butt of a cold snout toward the little lady I attempt to comfort her by brushing lips across that lean forehead, as I often had with Cera. “I’m Flow.” Softly I replied, “I’m Midas….and nay, I don’t think I have met your Ma, what does she go by?” it was doubtful, but worth asking anyway. Our colors come alive when I collide with you
with you, with you
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