Someday

Mai stirred. She pulled the blanket around her for warmth—she had never been this cold. The damp darkness enveloped her in this strange place so far from her jungle homeland. It seeped into her bones and made her feel brittle and weak.

She had escaped to this frozen land only a month ago. Then it had been golden and full of bright colors: red, yellow, and orange. Over the last month, the colors of nature had slowly faded to grey and brown and white as it died. The Smiths called it winter.

Mai could understand why some animals slept through the winter, burrowing deep into the ground and only emerging again in the spring. There was nothing here for them in this icy place. The world was sleeping, devoid of food, of color, of life. Why not hibernate and wake when the world woke again? Mai wished she could do that as well.

Her home never got cold. It was a verdant land with endless jungles and tropical waters; a place of plenty, bursting with fruit and flowers all year. But it was also a war-torn place and she would take endless wintry nights over war.

The Smiths were a kind couple who had agreed to hide her, and she was thankful they had accepted this dangerous burden.

If either the Alalani or Evren government found out, they would haul her back to the Yanoura jungle. Both nations had agreed to an extradition treaty in their attempt at peace. That was fine for criminals. But they forgot about the people stuck in the middle—the young people fleeing to Alalani trying to escape Evren trafficking. It wasn’t Alalani’s fault; they were working for the greater good, or so they said. It was the little folks that fell through the cracks, the people like her. That’s what Mr. Smith said. And so she hid.

Hugging the blanket for warmth, Mai moved to the single window of her lonely basement hideaway. The Smiths hid her here out of kindness, she knew, but she longed for the sun. The small window allowed only a faint amount of light. It was safe, but isolated.

Mai’s small hands grasped the rim of the windowsill, and her eyes peeked over the bottom edge. Outside, she heard the screams of children and the sound reverberated in her soul. She could see flakes falling from the sky, dusting the ground, and the sight sent chills down her spine.

Echoes of memories flashed in her mind. Bombs. She was unaware of any explosions. Surely bombs would have woken her. She would have felt any close enough to be dropping ash.

Her foot found a box, and she stepped up onto it to get a better look outside, her eyes growing wide. The children—they were playing? They scooped up big piles of the stuff and threw it at each other. They were laughing.

Up and down the street they ran and played and lay down in it, rolling around in the white stuff. They packed it into balls and tossed it at one another. Older people were shoveling it, tossing it into piles. Everyone, young and old, was smiling and reveling.

The flakes continued to fall. But, no, it wasn’t ash. It was light and clean and shimmered in the sun—not ash at all—snow. Mai had heard about the snow. Snow was rain, each drop frozen in time forming a beautiful flake, each one unique and beautiful.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Mai scrambled down off her box. Her heart pounded and sweat beaded on her forehead. Would today be the day? Were they coming for her? Had a neighbor seen her and reported the Smiths to the authorities for a reward?

Mai needed to hide. She scrambled to uncover the secret door under the stairs and pulled it shut behind her. She dropped a simple illusion on the door that made it look like a solid panel.

“Mai, it’s me. I have a surprise for you,” Mr. Smith said.

Mai’s pulse slowed, and she took some deep breaths. It was just Mr. Smith. Or it sounded like him—it could be a trick—maybe he was being coerced. She listened as he finished descending the stairs and made his special knock. Knock-knock-pause-knock-pause-knock-knock. Safe.

She emerged from her hiding place and sat on the bed the Smiths had kept for her in their basement. Mr. Smith rarely brought her surprises. Maybe he had more books for her—she loved books. While locked down here, she devoured them, spending her hours traveling to faraway places through the pages of books.

The door opened and Mr. Smith entered her basement sanctuary holding a big red bucket. He sat next to her and set the bucket down. “I’m sorry you can’t go out.” He looked down, frowning. “But today, I brought some of the outside in to you.” He reached into the bucket and scooped out some white powder.

“Go ahead,” he said. “This is snow; it’s cold.”

She reached out a hand and poked at the white substance. It was firm, but it gave way when she touched it. Her finger left an impression in the lump. It was rough, yet fluffy. She smiled. When she removed her finger, it was cold. She put her icy finger into her mouth; it tasted like water.

Mr. Smith scooped up another handful and formed it into a ball. The children enjoy playing in the snow. They make snowmen and snowballs. It’s fun.” He sighed. “I wish you could play too.”

Mai wished she could as well. She scooped up a handful of the snow and formed her own ball. Immediately, her hand cramped with the cold and she dropped it back into the bucket.

“Eww.” Mai crinkled her nose.

Mr. Smith laughed. “It’s better with gloves.” He said. “Someday, when the war is over, you’ll be able to play with the other kids.”

Instead of using her hands, Mai reached out with her aura and picked up the snow with her magic. She formed it into a panther. In the jungle, it would be black, but this one, made of snow, was white and glistening.

He smiled. “Beautiful.”

Mai set the cat on the floor where it immediately began melting. She climbed back into her box and reflected on the children outside. Someday.