"The Last Frost Before Spring," by Bethany Worrell

The last Frost before Spring was written by a very tired Hoosier who is mad at Phil for seeing his shadow. As she dreamed about leaving her house devoid of 14 layers, she imagined a girl becoming frozen in her home and in her grief. From this, TlFbS emerged. Bethany is grateful for the Fioretti as a great resource for all Marian students, of whom she is one. She enjoys writing short fiction and long plays, and hopes to pursue a career in writing for the stage. 1 Corinthians 15:58.

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Roaming fingers of frost encapsulated the windows like the vines that had formerly wandered here. Piercing icicles guarded the bricks that the leafy foliage once had, relieving their positions in a call of seasonal duty. Once enshrouded in splendor, then in decay, our mansion now stood frozen, silently stilled under the oppressive hand of winter.

“Spring will come,” I whisper to the shadows. Curled upon the faded red cushion of a

window seat, my cheek hovers above the glass. It turns a faded red itself, humming with the stinging conundrum of cold burns. A quiet portion of me wishes to huddle against the window, to become frozen myself. The old house has been forgotten—why would that not extend to its occupants?

Or maybe I simply wish to forget. To wake up tomorrow and not think of you upon the first breath, not search for you in the vacancy beside me. Yes, maybe that is the true desire. It is so hard to think clearly when one is so cold. I attempt to button one higher layer of my knitted sweater, but my fingers refuse to flex, remaining stiff in a clutch of my own shoulders.

Spring must come. Releasing quick huffs of warm air onto my hands, I massage them against my legs until blood flow haltingly returns. The vacant fireplace across the bedroom yawns boredly, taunting me with its potential. I could visualize the room illuminated by the comforting glows of a roaring fire, practically feeling the flames reaching to my bones and restoring the former glory of warmth. But to achieve such a result would mean vacating my prime position, my lookout tower of unrequited hope. I could not miss the signs. I must not doubt the signals.

Spring would come. And I could not miss it.

Turning again to the outdoors, I sought vaguely for signs of life. I could feel my eyelids growing heavy, my breaths becoming slow and laborious. What little grip I had left on life was softly slipping. It was essential I found something to focus on, something to keep my mind propelled by a hint of hope.

First I looked for footprints. Not human, I knew there had been none since the first snowfall days ago. Surely some woodland creature had ventured into the drifts, for it had unobtrusively transformed into quite the picturesque scene. I peered into the bright white mounds, looking for indentations to prove I was not alone. Compassionately, nature shooed her wardens, emitting signs of life in those hopeful hues that only she can provide.

A fox cheerfully trotting, meandering to its home somewhere within the hedges. A few birds chasing and calling, scouring the trees for anything left unfrozen. A gust of wind tenderly grazing the branches of a willow, encouraging lazy flakes to drift below. No, nothing human, but plenty of life.

I would give them all of what little I had left. Now completely curled into myself, I did not mind the spreading singe of cold as my forehead sagged onto the glass. I had no strength in my neck to hold myself up, no will even to find the strength.

Spring would come? I had never let myself doubt before. Noisy assurances had sustained me thus far, but the road had come to a grim conclusion. Lying is for community; the truth is proclaimed within solitude. And so I embraced it. I would die here, alone, a frosty demise of romance and pity.

With such a compromise, I felt no shame in imaginative wanderings.

Like always, they consisted of you. Coming back to the manor, coming back home. Nearly soaring up the grand staircase, desperately calling out my name, desperately seeking forgiveness. You would nearly ransack the house as you pushed through door after door, paying no attention to the dust. You did not care about the state, you did not remember the former splendor, that splendor that we had shared. You only cared about the one you had shared it with.

And then you would find me, still sitting at the window you had walked away from, still surveying the drive you had so painfully vacated. Your arms would envelop me, lifting

me from the seat of shame, the perch of perception that I had so dutifully been queen of. You would breathe life into my bones, warmth into this heart that had grown so cold, so lonely. Rejuvenation, revitalization, restoration, all by your touch.

“Spring has come.” You would whisper, and you would once again be mine. Together we would build a fire, then a home, then a future—the destination did not matter, only the accomplishment of being by your side.

With one last peer outside into the drifting winter’s morning, my eyes slid to a shut. Soon, the frost would encase this former beauty as well. One day, when the sun shone warmer and the wind caressed daffodils, they may find the girl still in the manor. Still waiting for you. Still waiting for Spring.