The night was thick, and the snow showed no signs of stopping.
The pitch-black sky pressed down heavily, seeming almost within reach, and tiny snowflakes glimmered faintly in the dark like scattered stardust. Theresia sat on a withered tree branch, her boot tips tapping gently against the air as she hummed a tune-less nursery rhyme.
"The dark sky hangs low... bright stars follow along... little bugs fly, little bugs fly... who is it that you miss?"
Chapter 411