A chill creeped into her legs. Moist dampness soaked into her thick woolen dress, making it heavy and dark. The light, filtered through mist and cloud, did little to alleviate the darkness. Muted as it was, she shivered, lacking the heat of the sun’s rays.
Creaking filled her ears, a sighing sag. Wood groaned as it held itself up, held her weight, tried to stand tall. And it did. The tree spread leafless branches over her head, like a skeleton, and she would be the tiny rodent hiding within.
Snow hovered, not forming, not falling, not existing, just hovering on the verge of existence. At any moment, the scale might tip. If enough vapor got cold enough, it would fall. Until then, six fingered crystals waited, an infinitesimal distance from one another.
Her nose turned red and a thin stream began to run from it. She lifted her sleeve to wipe it away, but made a face in disgust when she saw the crusted area made over the last hour.
An hour. Would she freeze to death? Would she thaw? Would she become and fall? Or would she hover here forever, on her perch, the canary in a bone cage.