The Snow That Never Melts
I am the one who was left behind.
Every now and then, I find myself remembering. The snow that fell in autumn and never melted, even when spring arrived. The people who wrapped themselves from head to toe in furs, no matter the season. The houses huddled close together, and the snow that drifted down all day long. And the sight of myself, playing beneath it all.
I think I loved those days quite dearly. A land where I could leave my footprints wherever I walked. The deer I would sometimes come across, their eyes so clear. The hunting dog we kept at home, and the way the two of us used to run through the village, from one end to the other. Why is it those days return to me with such vividness?
But all that remains now is the scent of wood, still holding that old, cool feeling. The dog that would come running the moment I called its name. The sunlight glancing off the snow piled thick along the mountains. That is all.
And to think I spent most of my days shut up inside the house, staring out the window. That these should be the memories that come back to me.
"Number 11."
Whenever I leaned against the window with a book in my hands, or sat stroking the dog that was bigger than I was, my friend would always come by our house and ask me to come out and play.
I believe my friend promised to come find me someday, no matter what. Perhaps I remember it wrong. Or perhaps someone like me was forgotten a long time ago.
"Number 11! Didn't I tell you to come out already?"
I had been passing the time inside my own thoughts when a researcher in a white coat burst into the room, seized me by the hair, and began to drag me off somewhere. If I resisted, I might well be punched in the face, so I did not even reach up to ease my aching scalp. I let myself be dragged along.
It isn't anything out of the ordinary, really. They will only burn me again today, and stab me, and... well. They mean to do all sorts of things, I suppose. If I go on living like this, I will surely die.
Still, I don't feel particularly bad about it.
After all, if what that something told me is true — the something born from the iron needle they drove into my skull and the electricity that ran through it — then my one and only friend will never, ever be able to forget me!