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It’s soft here, quiet, and cold. Lying in snow a foot over my head, staring at the beautiful, tiny ice crystals on the boughs of the pine tree near me. It tickles slightly when the delicate snow flakes land on my face, arms, hands, and feet. I am wearing no shoes or socks. I wrinkle my nose.
I don’t know how I got here. There are no tracks leading to this place. I don’t know who I am, or where I am. I just decided to stay here, in the snow.
A few hours have passed, I think. There is no sun out. It’s hidden behind the blanket of grey clouds. Everything looks purple, because of the sun behind the grey clouds. I think it’s night, but I can still see everything clearly. I’m beginning to wonder if I should get up. My hands have gone numb with cold now. I decide to lay here for just a few more minutes. Maybe someone will find me.
No one has come yet. It’s been all night. My fingers should starting to blacken, along with my toes, but no black yet. My jeans and tee shirt are sopping wet and frozen to me. It has not stopped snowing, but a bird has started to sing somewhere. It’s beautiful, but sounds sad. Like mourning.
There are several birds singing now. I have decided to get up and start walking. My feet are barely moving. It almost seems as if I can’t control them. I see a cabin in the distance. It’s all lit up and looks inviting. I think I’ll go there.
There are an old man and woman who live in this cabin. They are very nice. They gave me some soup and a hot shower. I feel better now. I’m by the fireplace, eating more soup. The cabin smells like cinnamon and pine trees. The birds are still singing. It’s nice.
I explored the cabin today. The old woman likes birds. She collects paintings of birds, stuffed birds, bird clocks, even china painted with birds. There are birds everywhere here, inside and out. The birds keep singing. Sometimes the old man and woman sing with the birds. They told me the birds here are special and that, during my life, I must have liked birds.
Nighttime. I hear the last note of the singing of the bird fade away. I don’t know what kind of bird it is. The old woman could tell me. She knows everything about birds. She told me I was drawn to the cabin because of the birds.
I woke to a small bird on my window. It was all white, and fluffy. It looked soft, like an angel. I must have liked birds at some point. I just don’t remember anything about me. The old woman has taken to feeding the birds. She told me again, that birds are special.
It’s in the afternoon. I’ve decided to go outside. It’s warmer. I love the snow. It’s so beautiful. The old woman tells me that I was drawn to this place for a reason. She says I like everything here because that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Miraculously, frostbite doesn’t seem to exist here. That’s why I’m allowed to go outside now.
The old woman called me in for dinner. She looks like an image from a fairytale. Her puffy, white curls under a white bonnet, and a hand-stitched apron with birds on it on. For dinner, it’s the soup again. I don’t mind, because I have taken a great liking to it. The birds still sing.
Over dinner the birds sang louder, joining together in one beautiful symphony. The old woman told me it’s called Birdsong. She says only special people hear it. She says, that when you die, the most beautiful birds come and take you up to Heaven. She says that Heaven is a place that is perfect for you. I found out that the old man and woman are my grandparents.
Only, I can’t remember how I died.