The Wind Still Blows – A Winter’s Tale of Hope and Magic
The wind howled relentlessly outside, swirling snow into ghostly shapes that danced beneath the pale grey sky. Giggles echoed faintly, as though whispered from the curled edges of yellow-brown leaves—memories of autumn long gone.
Frost had slowly crept into every crevice of the quiet village, weaving icy lace over bark, branches, rooftops, windows, and doors. Winter had settled in weeks ago, yet the snow still fell gently, steadily, like time itself had frozen with it.
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“How tides bring us together, how tides push through the weather, how tides wash our worries away, how tides never seem to stay…”
The old drinking song drifted warmly through the cabin, its melody softening the storm’s scream beyond the walls. Inside, laughter and the clink of mugs created a bubble of comfort, a defiance against the bitter cold pressing in.
Elena sat apart, her gaze fixed on the window fogged with frost. She hummed the song softly to herself, trying to believe in its promise of reunion and peace. But her heart was too heavy to join in the merriment. Her father had promised to return this evening, and though the storm outside was unforgiving, hope still clung to her chest like a flame refusing to die.
He promised. He should be home.
“Elena,” her mother said gently, approaching with concern etched in her face. “You know he can’t come tonight. This is the worst snowstorm in years. It’s dangerous out there.”
But Elena didn’t respond. Instead, she nodded politely and excused herself, walking quietly back to her room.
“That child,” she heard her mother murmur as she left. Perhaps she thought Elena was being selfish. But was it truly wrong to yearn for a promise kept?
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Her room was small and warm, the fireplace crackling beside her bed. She sat by the window once more, staring into the flurry, searching for some sign. “Please come back, Father,” she whispered into the frost-covered glass. “Please.”
But no answer came. Only the howling wind and her quiet tears filled the room.
Tap.
She blinked and looked up.
Tap. Tap.
The sound came again, soft yet distinct—like fingernails brushing the glass.
She crept toward the window. Nothing. Only the same frost and swirling snow.
But as she watched closely, something began to take shape in the frost—a delicate picture forming like a painting from the air’s breath. It was a ship. A lone sailor stood on its deck.
“Father?” she gasped, her breath fogging the glass.
A soft shimmer passed through the room. The frost suddenly billowed into brilliant white light, wrapping her in silence and cold—though she didn’t feel it. She wasn’t afraid.
When the light cleared, she stood aboard a ship. The ocean roared, waves taller than houses surged around her. And there—there stood her father. She ran to him, arms outstretched…
But he faded through her. A ghost. A memory. A dream.
Still, she wished, harder than ever.
Please bring us home.
Then darkness again.
She awoke with a start in her bed, heart pounding, morning light seeping through the window.
The storm was gone.
Outside, the sun glistened over a blanket of melting snow. Frost still rimmed the window, but peace had returned.
“A dream… just a dream,” Elena whispered to herself, over and over, clinging to the comfort of daylight.
Her mother entered, her face unreadable.
“Elena, your father… came back early this morning.”
Elena’s breath caught.
“He was found on the shore,” her mother continued slowly. “Said the last thing he remembered was a giant wave, just before he blacked out…”
She paused, unsure if she should go on.
“But he’s home. Come downstairs. He’s waiting.”
Elena didn’t wait. She raced from the room, warmth blooming in her chest, ready to tell him what she had held in her heart all night.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered as she hugged him tight.
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That night, by the fire, Elena curled beneath a thick blanket while her father read from a storybook.
He spoke of magical adventures, brave heroines, and how belief always found a way to break through even the darkest winters.
“…So when you really hope for something on a dead winter’s day, know that the frost fairies may guide your way,” he finished, smiling.
“Father, do you believe in fairy tales?” Elena asked, eyes wide.
He paused, thoughtful.
“Do you?” he replied.
Moral of the Story:
Hope, even in the harshest storms, holds the power to carry us home. Sometimes, belief is not about magic—but about the strength it gives us to endure.
