Snowbound Hearts

The wind howled, rattling the thin windowpane in Sam’s bedroom. The glow of his desk lamp illuminated an untouched math worksheet, the numbers twisting into meaningless shapes. None of it mattered. Nothing had, not since Jake was gone.

Jake, with his easy laugh and scraped knees, his hair always sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed. Jake, who’d disappeared without warning, leaving Sam with nothing but silence and questions he couldn’t answer.

No one at school talked about it. It was as though Jake’s absence had been scrubbed clean, too heavy for anyone to touch. His desk sat empty in homeroom, but Sam could still feel it there, like it carried the weight of everything unsaid. A teacher had whispered something once, her voice low, but the words slipped away before Sam could catch them.

Sam exhaled shakily, his chest aching with something he didn’t fully understand. Jake had always seemed so steady, so sure. How could he just… vanish? Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t Samsaid anything?

The questions clawed at him, looping endlessly in his mind. No matter how many times Sam replayed their last conversation, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something important. Something he could never get back.

Outside his window, the snowman he’d built earlier that afternoon stood alone in the yard, its scarf flapping softly in the wind. Sam had spent hours stacking the three perfect spheres, pressing in the button eyes and crooked carrot nose, tying the scarf snugly around its neck. He’d told himself it was just to pass the time, but even now, as he stared at it, the hollow ache in his chest grew.

It wasn’t just a snowman. It was Jake—or at least, the closest thing Sam had to him.

Sam whispered into the stillness, his voice cracking. “I miss you.”

Clicking off the lamp, he slid under his covers, shivering as the cold crept through the walls. Outside, the snow glowed faintly under the moonlight, the world soft and hushed. His eyelids grew heavy.

A sharp crunch shattered the silence. Then another.

Sam’s eyes flew open, his heart pounding in his ears. The sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate—reached him through the frosted glass of the window.

“Sam,” a voice called—low, familiar.

He scrambled to the window and stared, his breath fogging the glass. The snowman was gone.

In its place stood a boy.

His skin was impossibly pale, his hair white as frost. He wore the scarf Sam had tied around the snowman’s neck, but it hung loosely now, swaying gently in the breeze.

“Jake?” Sam whispered, his voice trembling.

The boy smiled—a crooked grin that wasn’t quite Jake’s, but close enough to make Sam’s chest ache. “Not exactly,” he said.

Before Sam could think, he was outside, his boots crunching through the snow. The boy stood in the moonlit yard, his breath fogging like any real person’s might.

“You’re alive,” Sam whispered, his throat tightening. “How is this…?”

“Don’t think about it too much,” the boy said, cutting him off. “Come on. Let’s make tonight count.”

Sam hesitated for just a moment, his mind spinning. The way the snow had shifted, how it had risen and reshaped into something that shouldn’t exist—it felt extraordinary. Unreal. Like something Sam wasn’t supposed to have.

But he reached for the boy’s hand anyway.

They ran through the streets, the snow swirling around them in glittering flurries. The boy darted ahead, leaving faint frosty footprints that shimmered before fading. His laugh—it wasn’t quite Jake’s, but it was enough to make Sam’s chest clench—rang out into the cold, quiet night.

They climbed the hill behind the school—the one Sam and Jake used to sled down every winter. From the top, the town stretched out before them, the streetlights flickering like scattered stars.

“Do you think anyone can see us?” Sam asked, his breath fogging the air.

The boy shook his head. “Just you.”

“That’s kinda sad,” Sam said softly.

The boy’s grin faltered, just for a moment. His shoulders tensed, as though he were holding something back. “It’s not sad if it’s enough.”

They lay in the snow, staring up at the stars, the silence stretching between them. Sam turned his head, his heart aching as he looked at the boy.

“Do you ever wish…” he started, his voice faltering. “That you could just… stay?”

The boy’s expression softened. “I wish I could, too.”

“That’s not an answer,” Sam said, his voice cracking.

The boy’s smile wavered. “Some things you can’t change, Sam. But you’ll see—you’re stronger than you think.”

Sam swallowed hard, blinking against the sting of tears. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he whispered. “You just… left.”

“I didn’t know how to say it without making it worse,” the boy said, looking away. His voice was soft, pained. “Sometimes it feels like the world’s too heavy, you know? But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

By the time they returned to the yard, the horizon was blushing with dawn. The boy stood still, his breath thin wisps in the cold air, his edges softer than before.

“I don’t want you to go,” Sam said, his voice trembling.

The boy’s scarf slipped loose. “I know. But it’s time.”

“Why?”

“Because some things aren’t meant to stay,” the boy replied, his voice fading. “You have to let go.”

Sam stepped forward, tears streaming down his face. “Please. Don’t leave me. I—I need you.”

The boy reached out and cupped Sam’s cheek, his hand cold but comforting. “You’ll be okay,” he said softly. “I promise.”

And then he stepped back. His body shimmered, frost breaking apart like fragile glass. The snow collapsed into a heap at Sam’s feet, leaving only the scarf behind.

Sam knelt in the snow, clutching the scarf in his hands. It was warm, impossibly warm, like it had held onto something more than just the cold. His breath hitched as he stared at the empty yard.

“You were real,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I know you were real.”

The sun rose higher, its light warm against his face. Sam wrapped the scarf around his neck, its fabric soft and worn. The ache in his chest lingered, but beneath it was something new. A spark.

Maybe next time, he thought, I’ll be braver. Maybe next time, I’ll tell the truth.

He stood, his legs unsteady but firm, and turned back toward the house. The scarf fluttered behind him, like a promise.