The thirteenth hour and the secret snow garden.

When I was little, I lived in a tiny house.  The tiny house was on an endless hill and from each window you could only see fields and woods.  After my dad died, in the tiny house there lived me, my little brother and my mum.  The three of us were snug and safe for years without other humans being able to interfere.  It was difficult and charmed and for a long time we simply hid away.

One night, asleep on the top bunk, little brother snoozing below, mum snuck into our room.  Quiet but excited, she shook us both awake.  In the whispers of the half awake and half confused she helped us dress and took us downstairs.  It was dark, I wasn't used to the house in the dark and I wasn't sure I liked the long shadows the furniture cast.  The dog was excited to see people despite the day having ended.  Mum chivvied us into our boots and coats, pulled mittens onto small hands and, together, we stumbled outside.  

It was glittering, the moon reflected off the fresh snow that blanketed the garden.  The three of us ran around in the dark, squealing and throwing snowballs at the dog who loyally ate them all.  We built a snow man with twiggy limbs and stony eyes.  Eventually though we got tired, we started to get cold and our mittens were soaked through.  I never wanted to leave the magical garden but we were taken back inside and tucked into bed, already asleep before the light was turned out.

By the morning all the snow had melted and it was like it never happened.

Whilst I still haven't found the secret snow garden again since that night, dawn in the snow with James was still pretty magical.