Winter

It has been a while since we've seen this particular cravat of charcoal grey with barely discernible ash-coloured medallions, a classic foulard pattern.  Sometime in the depth of night, she awoke, freezing and aware of a dull pain in her back and legs.  Her mind felt furred and disconnected, like she was floating up from a drug-induced sleep.  A long glow of white light appeared suddenly, and she instinctively raised her hand to shield her eyes.  A massive bolt of pain rocketed up her spine; she gasped, and slipped away again, but not before she saw the frost.  It was frost, in beautiful patterns blooming against the dark window half-buried in the snow.