Before spring had truly arrived, the vast expanses of snow began to melt in silence. The villagers were amazed; the snowflakes that had once turned into symbols of devilish destruction now returned to their facade of pure, untainted white. The surface of the lake, which had been frozen solid, began to show subtle changes, no longer just ice, but a harmonious blend of water and ice rippling at the center.
The adults were busy rebuilding their homes. They were stretched thin, working until they could barely stand, collapsing onto their beds at night without the strength to exchange even a few words. They bore the crushing weight of survival, leaving them no time to wallow in the grief of the past. Life had to move forward, and the road ahead had to be walked.
The children, their minds still unformed, were the quickest to forget their sorrow. They returned to their carefree ways, running wild in groups of three or five, darting about like little monkeys. They waged snowball fights, built snowmen, and rolled massive snowballs. The snow that the adults feared was, to the children, nothing more than a plaything. Having grown up in this place, the children seemed naturally immune to the cold; once their spirits revived, they would spend the entire day in the snow, fearless of the biting freeze.
Chapter 558