"Once Upon a Still December Morning..." (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
On a still December morning, when the world seemed to hold its breath, the woods lay beneath a blanket of snow, muffling all sound. The trees stood like ancient sentinels, their branches heavy with frost, catching the light of a pale sun that barely broke through the low-hanging clouds. The air was sharp, biting, with a scent of pine and earth that had settled deep in the cold.
Through this wintery silence, a stream wound its way through the forest, a quiet ribbon of water that had long since begun to freeze. At first, it was only a thin layer of ice at the edges, like delicate lacework, but as the night grew colder and the days shorter, the ice spread, inch by inch, over the surface, until the entire stream was a glossy sheet of frozen glass. Here and there, cracks and fractures marred its surface, whispering of movement trapped beneath, but to the untrained eye, it seemed still, as if time itself had stopped.
The stream, once a lively rush of water in warmer months, now lay frozen in perfect stillness, as though it had turned to stone. Small ice crystals clung to the rocks along its bed, shimmering like tiny stars in the winter sun, and the occasional gust of wind sent a flurry of snowflakes drifting across the surface, softening the hard edges of the ice.
At the edge of the frozen stream, a young boy appeared, his blue and green plaid scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, and his breath rising in puffs of white vapor in the chilly air. He had wandered into the woods, drawn by the quiet beauty of the winter day, and found himself standing on the bank, staring at the stream. He knelt down, brushing the snow from a large rock, and placed his dark blue mittened hand gently against the cold, smooth surface of the ice. Beneath his touch, the faintest ripple seemed to run through the frozen water—just an illusion, perhaps, or the memory of movement in a world that had grown still.
For a long while, he sat there, watching the play of light on the ice, and listening to the silence around him. The woods seemed alive in their own way, breathing with the slow, steady rhythm of winter. It was a peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that makes you feel as though the world is holding its secrets just beneath the surface, waiting for someone patient enough to listen.
Eventually, he rose to his feet, his boots crunching in the snow, and turned away from the stream. The ice had a certain mystery about it, like a story waiting to be told. And though he didn't know it yet, he would return again to this spot—perhaps in the spring, when the ice had melted, in the warmth of summer, or in another December, when the stream would once again be frozen in its timeless slumber.
But for now, he let the winter woods embrace him, the frozen stream a quiet companion in the midst of the cold, and the world seemed perfect just as it was—still, silent, and full of possibility.
~Wylddane
Through this wintery silence, a stream wound its way through the forest, a quiet ribbon of water that had long since begun to freeze. At first, it was only a thin layer of ice at the edges, like delicate lacework, but as the night grew colder and the days shorter, the ice spread, inch by inch, over the surface, until the entire stream was a glossy sheet of frozen glass. Here and there, cracks and fractures marred its surface, whispering of movement trapped beneath, but to the untrained eye, it seemed still, as if time itself had stopped.
The stream, once a lively rush of water in warmer months, now lay frozen in perfect stillness, as though it had turned to stone. Small ice crystals clung to the rocks along its bed, shimmering like tiny stars in the winter sun, and the occasional gust of wind sent a flurry of snowflakes drifting across the surface, softening the hard edges of the ice.
At the edge of the frozen stream, a young boy appeared, his blue and green plaid scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, and his breath rising in puffs of white vapor in the chilly air. He had wandered into the woods, drawn by the quiet beauty of the winter day, and found himself standing on the bank, staring at the stream. He knelt down, brushing the snow from a large rock, and placed his dark blue mittened hand gently against the cold, smooth surface of the ice. Beneath his touch, the faintest ripple seemed to run through the frozen water—just an illusion, perhaps, or the memory of movement in a world that had grown still.
For a long while, he sat there, watching the play of light on the ice, and listening to the silence around him. The woods seemed alive in their own way, breathing with the slow, steady rhythm of winter. It was a peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that makes you feel as though the world is holding its secrets just beneath the surface, waiting for someone patient enough to listen.
Eventually, he rose to his feet, his boots crunching in the snow, and turned away from the stream. The ice had a certain mystery about it, like a story waiting to be told. And though he didn't know it yet, he would return again to this spot—perhaps in the spring, when the ice had melted, in the warmth of summer, or in another December, when the stream would once again be frozen in its timeless slumber.
But for now, he let the winter woods embrace him, the frozen stream a quiet companion in the midst of the cold, and the world seemed perfect just as it was—still, silent, and full of possibility.
~Wylddane
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