Birth of Snowlight

***Birth of Snowlight*** is the first chapter of *Winter's Tales*.

## Synopsis

Winter is born healthy to her sickly mother, Lorelei, and strict father, Edwin, and from a young age, is stricken with incurable curiosity and nature-driven wonder that sometimes leads to her inadvertently putting herself in danger. Despite these occurances, Winter is full of glee and learns early on to to immerse herself by following nature's rhythm.

## Content Warning

*This chapter contains blood and a few scenes which younger viewers could find distressing.*

## Transcript

*"Who has no house now, he will never build."*

*"Whoever is alone now, long will so remain."*

*"Stay awake and read, and write long letters."*

*"And wander the alleys up and down restless."*

*"As the leaves are drifting."*

*Nothing in life ever comes easy. Worth is proved through hardship. Survival of the fittest. Only the best, the ones born in silk, conceived in a nest of light, would thrive.*

*As a child, I believed I had everything right from the day of my birth. The blossoms of strength, the fruits of curiosity, and feathery hope around my edges.*

*But I was naive and stolid, even as I continued to grow.*

*Even with light, darkness never truly dispels. It's always there, a part of life, a part of our autonomy we can't break, or rid ourselves of.*

*I trusted everyone in my life, only to be met by death, prejudice, destruction, and the bloody end of morality.*

*I lived wild, prowling under the cover of night, where millions of imaginary friends shielded me. In the broad daylight, where everything flowed by design, and my leader was the rhythm beating in my heart.*

*Heaven knows I was flying high off the ground. Too high.*

*You could say for someone young as me, earth was cruel. Relentless. Bitter. Wanted nothing more than for me to fizzle out of existence.*

*The earth is my friend. Others are not, some leaving behind a blood trail for demons and ghosts to follow. The earth protected me, gave me a home when no others could.*

*I found love, and yet it turned to the smoldering embers of greed in my hands.*

*I went from the hunter to the hunted. Everyone else, shut out of my life.*

*Famously, I disappeared - out of sight and out of mind.*

*And yet you're here, asking yourself, "Why is this child still alive?"*

*Because I stopped being a child. I stopped shutting others out of my life. I stopped fleeing, stopped running, stopped denying myself the ability to have hope when all was lost and torn apart.*

*My story is not easy to tell. It's not easy to repeat. I know people still whisper about me behind my back.*

*That doesn't matter to me. Not anymore. People can call me vile names. That I'm an idiot, blinded. A forest-dweller, delusional, a witch, a ghost in a shell.*

*I was the girl that time forgot - until time snaked around my body and brought me back into the light, the thousands of hands tugging at me, seeking answers I used to be unable to give.*

*But here I am today, different, unique, and proud. I'm more than anyone thinks I am. And after losing it all, I now have everything I could have ever wanted.*

*Hope.*

*My name is Winterlyn. Winterlyn Falin McCormick in full. You're welcome to call me Winter.*

*And this is my story.*

**DECEMBER 15TH, 1999**

It was a quiet winter day when a small, still baby was brought into the world, her eyes shut closed, her skin pink, her tiny hands unmoving. Yet her heart was strong, its beat felt through the scratchy fabric of the blanket she was wrapped in.

I'll never know what day it was or what the weather was like or how my parents first felt when I opened my eyes for the first time. And I'll never know what my first days of life, inhaling and exhaling the crisp air of the hospital room I was in, were like.

My parents, fortunately, *do* have a summary in place of my long-lost baby thoughts.

If you didn't read the opening I composed for this, I'll repeat myself: my name's Winter.

Winterlyn.

Winterlyn Falin McCormick.

You're welcome to call me Winter.

Find my name nice? Here's some background on it. The middle part, Falin, is from my mother's maiden name. You'll learn more about her in this chapter, but the name happened to click for my father, the one who proposed it in the first place.

You'll be hearing more about him soon.

Falin aside, the real meat of my name has a complex story behind it. If you're familiar with me, you'll know how it goes, but if you're not, here's where it came from.

The very moment little me entered the world for the first time, it was pouring (does snow pour?) snow outside. Dumping more than fistfuls, buckets, *torrents* of snow. Washington in a nutshell, it's cold here. And wet. And snowy.

What do we associate snow with? Winter!

That's how the first part of my name was the born. The second part? My father, being a *creative genius* (good for him, I guess), glued "lyn" to the end of it to create the name we all know as *Winterlyn*.

I mean, I won't complain! I don't hear of many children named Winter. They're usually named Summer or Autumn.

Yes, I'll give you a stink eye if you name your child Fall or Spring. But anyways.

There's more to just my name than the snowy weather and my father extending it to his liking. Just a day after my birth, a doctor picked me up in their hands and discovered a tiny dark spot on my shoulder.

A small, dark pink dot, split points surrounding it. At first, they thought it was a sun, but saw thinner lines forming around the marks.

A *snowflake*.

My father wanted to leap around the hospital room and holler to the people five stories below that his daughter was born unique, blessed in the graces of this guy. Yihwei. Huahwei. Or was it Huawei? You'll learn about that a little later.

The snowflake birthmark was also considered a blessing to my mother, and she, along with my father, put their heads together and named me Winter, Winterlyn Falin McCormick, and thinking about it now, it's a perfect fit for me.

It didn't take long for my primary traits to start growing in. I was pale-skinned, like both of my parents, but more akin to my mother's.

Then, my eyebrows grew in, thin little strands of hair. *Sandy-brown*. Who else had sandy-brown hair? My mother.

And finally, my eyes opened for the first time, and my parents were captivated by the striking shade of ice-blue it was. *Pure* ice-blue.

Once again, *another* trait taken from my mother. Father was disappointed, not in a serious way, but just *disappointed* that not one *inch* of his traits landed on something he thought was his crown jewel.

Better luck in the afterlife, Father.

While not having enough features to be deemed the *spitting image* of Mom, I had a shade of pale skin similar to hers. My hair color was the exact same as her hair - well, the roots. She dyed everything else to be honey-colored. And lastly, her eyes, blue like mine, but more like the stormy seas and not sunlit ice.

More features would come in with age.

I know very little about the first few weeks of my life, only knowing what my parents have told me over the years. I wasn't born prematurely, but was still very small.

My home for the first few weeks? A small room with close surveillance from the doctors and nurses. Around my puny, pink, towel-laden body were tons of machines, monstrous ugly gray things that loomed over me, scanned me, possibly wanted *to eat me*.

Issue was... I was born *perfectly* healthy. So why was I held in that room with the big scary machines that beeped and clunked and were tended to by men and women and potential theys in blue scrubs?

My mother had lupus.

Ooh yes, I hear your shocked gasps and murmurs. Let me explain.

Lupus is an autoimmune disease, cruel, vicious, and demeaning. It turns the body's immune system into your greatest enemy, destroying the tissues and organs. Mom never knew exactly when the disease called the cavities of her body home, but she believed it was from when she received a variant of pneumonia when she was younger.

There was no cure. Mom could only do so much to keep up her strength and make her flareups more bearable, such as avoiding going out when the temperatures were too low or too hot, greasing her body in the highest, most expensive sunscreen she could purchase from the drugstore, and eating the healthiest diet (Father made sure she didn't completely wipe out the sugar).

No *wonder* the doctors wanted me to stay in the hospital for a little while; I could have very well inherited lupus from my mother and not even live to count five years of the earth and moon revolving around the sun.

They lurked around me, prowled, checked on those machines, checked on me, examined me, tested me repeatedly. They were concerned, biting their nails through the latex gloves, fearing that I was born with a defect. With lupus. Be the hooded bearers of bad news and break the hearts of Mom and Father.

I can't imagine the pain they would have felt if they ever got told I would never be fully healthy... and that I'd never shine.

But, to their relief, I was born differently.

*Perfectly healthy*.

The spooky scary skeleton machines disappeared; I was out of this incubator-pit-thingy and back in my mother's arms.

And a week after being given the all clear, little, innocent baby me went home for the first time.

Home. Melancholy wells in my heart when I think of home, the small, grayish-yellow stoned house with a low-hanging gable roof and neat windows, the worn painted windowsills where alligator lizards would commune with the barn swallows, the bushes that mice and rabbits would hide in, the winding sidewalk that experienced the patter of bare feet in the summer and the stomping of snow boots in the winter.

Home is also where the seed began to blossom into a sapling...

**2001**

Two years passed, and the pink, meek, delicate baby that defied the doctors' expectations had grown into a toddler.

New features had grown in. My hair had gotten longer and fluffier, the sandy-brown curls tracing the outlines of my neck and forehead, and my snowflake birthmark had gotten just a *bit* bigger.

However, little brown dots started to appear near the dimples of my mouth and on my cheeks.

Freckles.

From how my mother described it, Father probably doubled over in pain the day of this discovery - he didn't have freckles, but Mom did.

Further proof that the superior gene in the McCormick family was definitely in my mother.

As a child, I was trapped in a bubble of sheer, invisible innocence, glowing with the help of a halo on my end, a halo that enshrined me.

I was very carefree and mellow, unaware of what shenanigans the world had going on, the terrorizing, haunting forces of the outside. I didn't care. The world was a space I was adapting to, learning to befriend. Thinking back on it, it was like looking a tiny town through the lense of a magnifying glass.

"Devoted" and "passionate" would also be words to describe me. Young me had a habit of investigating every sound she heard, every single thing that happened. Every moment, tracked with observant ice-blue eyes. Every word, unintelligable, yet *something*. Something *important*.

Wherever I went, mostly in the sundresses or frilly dresses or graphic tees my father would buy and whisper to me that I was "adorable" in, my smile was contagious, and I could already tell my parents *adored* me. My happy-go-lucky contagion spread around, too, until everyone smiled at me and complimented me with sugar smiles and words that roll off the tongue like watermelon sugar and strawberries.

Quick break! You have the basic rundown of me, but you need to know about my parents, too.

Starting with Mom, also known as Lorelei. Mom was like me, pale-skinned and with brown hair, dyed honey-brown and having her regular sandy-brown roots present at the top. Her eyes were a deep shade of cerulean blue, and whenever I stared into them, I faced a calm day at sea combined with the milky night sky.

My mother, even when restrained by lupus being a continual thorn in her side, was just as jolly and always had a wide smile etched onto her freckled face.

I remember asking her early on how she could be so positive with lupus constantly fighing her own body.

"Mommy, why do you smole su much? You're sa-ick."

"Oh, darling," my mother murmured, sweeping me into her arms, "being sick is just a part of life. Your mommy is very strong, so that's why she's still here."

Boy, those times are a doozy to think about now.

My mother was always compassionate to all creatures. We couldn't adopt a cat or a dog or any pet because Father was allergic (and feared that allergies would cause flareups in Mom), but Mom seemed to love pets. She expressed interest in cats on numerous occassions.

"Cats are interesting little creatures, Winterlyn. Nimble, smooth, sneaky... I'd adopt one if I could."

"You know you can't, Lorelei," Father would put in with a brisk shake of his head. "First things first: your health. And then-"

"You're *such* an optimist, Edwin," Mom fired back sarcastically.

Mom *also* served as a figure of wisdom to young me, who'd frequently pester her with questions about how so and so worked or what x and x were doing or what the cartoons on TV were talking about or what happened when x and x and... yeah.

"You're so curious, my love."

"Mommy, what does corious mean?"

"It's pronounced *kur-e-us*," my mother gently corrected me, tapping me on my nose. "It means you like seeing things and want to know how they work. And I want you to *stay* curious."

"Really? Why?"

"So you can continue growing like me and your daddy want you to."

Young me certaintly took those words and planted them in my heart that day.

On the other hand, my father was a sharper contrast to Mom, not just in appearance, but his personality, which, to me, had a darker cloud over it, not noticable unless you glanced hard enough.

Or unless you knew him the way I did.

A sharp pain fills my heart as we speak, but I continue on. You deserve to know about Father, even though you likely know (or not) of the things he's done.

Father, was pale-skinned, pinkish, in a sense, his skin smooth except the part were thin, course hairs were present on his arms and legs. His hair was slicked, smelling like apple cinnamon, which I thought was a perfect compliment to how dark brown his hair was. Yeah, that's a *really* stark contrast to Mom.

Father also had chestnut eyes, breaking up the dominant blues in the household. His eyes were always alert, focused, and mostly on me - I could feel them burn into my back repeatedly, even when I sat perfectly still on the sofa watching an episode of *Oswald* in my mother's cozy lap.

He reminds me of Roz from *Monsters, Inc*. Always watching like I'm Wazowski about to do something *supsicious*.

You've probably noticed that I refer to my father as simply *Father*, rarely ever calling him another endearment term like *Dad*. I will explain why this is so later, but you can take guesses as to why (or you're smart and already know, good!).

His actual name is Edwin.

Edwin, or Father, was doting. He loved me very, very much, just like any father would love his daughter, picking me up in his big arms and letting me burrow into the silk or wool Allen Edmonds sweaters and play with his tie and buttons, wanting to see if they'd jiggle or move in my tiny fingers.

Father also had a *strict* side. It wasn't quite as bad in my youth, though. He watched me, watched me like a hawk, and thinking back on it, it was because he *cared* very much and saw me as everything.

He didn't want me to get hurt.

He didn't want me to jump off a cliff.

He didn't want me to do anything *stupid*.

Something snapped in him, like one click of a switchblade, whenever I did something that involved *danger*, intentional or not. Unfortunately, when you're a child with zero comprehension and understanding of the great big world, you are *increasingly prone* to doing stupid crap (do not scold me for my language, I'm dead serious).

A great example of this was when I picked up what appeared to be a stray Skittle on the coffee table, yellow in color, and tried to eat it.

He screamed like a bucket of ice water was dunked onto him, and quickly, he yanked the yellow "Skittle" out of my hand, chestnut eyes exhuming the inside of me, the glare intense and chilling.

"Winterlyn McCormick!"

Small bean me cringed in my sundress and hid my face with my noodle arms. He used my first *and* last name, and that alone was a *bad sign*.

I had done something *wrong*.

Making Father mad... oh, young child me couldn't *bear* it.

"What do you *think* you were *doing*, Winterlyn? That isn't candy! You could have poisoned yourself! And you already had candy today!"

"W-Wha?"

"That's your mother's *medicine*. **No child like you** should be playing with that!"

I shivered, his chestnut eyes darting all across my trembling body. I flexed my fingers in and out, in and out, feeling my heart scrape the edges of my ribcage from the panic. Oh. My. God. Father. Was. Mad.

"I'm s-sorry, daddy... I didn't k-know..."

Then it happened in the blink of an eye. Father softened, his fury departing for the next town around, and just like he was minutes before, he was *normal*.

There was no storm, but sunlight.

He kneeled down, grasping my arms in his tender, warm, large hands. "It's okay, Winterlyn. You learned your lesson. I'm not mad, okay?"

*Relief*. The water that comes in the sweltering heat of the desert, just the sheer *relief*, all my troubles melting away.

Lightening up, I hugged my father, the silky scent from his suit flooding my nostrils.

From that day forward, I never touched *any* of mom's Methotrexate (also known as: lupus medication) *again*.

Father was very protective of me. *Very*. He wouldn't let me out of his sight, not even for one second, and when I wanted to go outside, it was either him or Mom keeping me in line.

One time, I got an idea while playing near the sidewalk, a cool idea, but a dumb one; not too long ago, a figure skating championship came on television, and these pretty girls and pretty guys would do all these flips and somersaults and spinny things and dances. It was *captivating*, and young me was hooked, itching to try it out.

The concrete sidewalk was my first - and only - ice rink.

"Hey daddy! I can spin like the ice people! Look at me!!!"

With a leap, I soared into the air, letting the sky help my body defy gravity.

I spun my small body around.

And then... I landed on the concrete on my knees.

Hard.

The sweet, blissful euphoria, the feeling I got when I had soared through the air and showed up gravity, faded, and in came a horrible, stinging sensation that made me *screech* like a bear caught in a trap.

*Excruciating pain*.

The pain morphed quickly into two streams of tears, and young me wailed, the pain in my knees overwhelming. My pink leggings were turning *red* at the kneecaps, almost as if I was suddenly an alien, or as if tens of thousands of bitey ants had emerged from my knees to drag me down to the abyss, a distinct shame that pretty much defines what the average human calls *hell*.

"*Winterlyn*! Oh god *dang it*," my father cursed and yelled, being light enough to not give me incentive to pick up on the swears (spoiler: I later did anyway), and instantly, he sped to my side.

He winced, grimicing at how banged up my knees were. "Be *careful* when you play on the sidewalk! You *will* get hurt, and I *hate* seeing you in pain."

"Wah!" I cried, hiding my face, rapidly reddening from the onset of the tears, unable to face Father, and the words he had just spoken seared through my brain, an invisible blade cutting deep.

*Hate*. One of the *strongest* words that can be used to describe a relationship.

Father *hated* when I got hurt.

He couldn't *stand* it.

It made me feel *agony* when he *hated* seeing me hurt.

That just pushed us closer together.

So, I strived to be Father's perfect little girl, and while staying true to my optimistic, playful nature, I tried to keep my excitement curbed and controlled. I didn't want to make him upset or injure myself and make him worried. Father was one of the most important people in my life. I couldn't let him down!

I was *going* to be the daughter he *wanted*.

Okay, that's enough about my parents. Now let's talk about the place I called home for eleven years of my life.

*Home*.

Our house was small, really not that big, and squished in with several other small houses on a quiet Pineshadow street (for reference, it's one and a half miles away from where I live now). The bricks here were mixes of reds, whites, and browns, though beige and yellow sandstone were scattered about the streets.

Everything around here was tranquil. Silent. I assume most of the people living on our street were past their prime years, but sometimes, I could hear the echoes of children playing soccer and losing a frisbee on a tree branch (been there, done that).

Our front yard had two trees arching over the rooftops and sidewalk, bending down, almost as if creating an awning that made the house more presentable to the Pineshadow community. Young me was *fascinated* by the leaf dapples and put my hand on the sidewalk, whether in cold or hot months, pondering if my palm would be the size of those dapples before Father yanked my left or my right away.

The last thing he wanted was a third-degree burn or frostbite. The worst of both worlds.

Inside my house, the front door would lead to the living room, flanked by big, wide, cushy gray and green sofas in a triangular shape, and in the middle was a dark gray-wooded table where my parents would put their coffees and desserts. In front of the table was another dark gray-wood table that held the TV (well, not really, it was mounted on the wall), DVD player, and two cases that stored the DVDs we owned.

My favorite DVD in the cabinets was *The Fox and the Hound*. Adore that movie!

The living room had what my family called a "mini library," but in other words, it's a game room *and* a living room compacted into one space. Or maybe it's not, since there was literally nothing involving a game in here other than the TV mounted on the wall. Coasters were stashed under the bottom of the table, patterned in forests and nature (from Tuesday Morning), that we used for drinks or the sports nights (my favorite was the one with a pine forest on it).

Against the wall were two tall dark-wooded bookshelves full of books. LOTS AND LOTS OF BOOKS. Yeah, that's the library part in a nutshell.

From my mother's cookbooks to the holy books (taking a hint here?) to the adventure books to the fantasy books to the animal books to the books of books of books, that's why we called it a mini library.

In a corner near a bookshelf was mom's "beach chair," a chair she also got for sale at - you guessed it - Tuesday Morning. It's a woven brown, looking like a basket that went through several fights with a machete, and on top was a striped blue pillow. Mom would sit here and read her catalogs, magazines, and her books.

On the far left of the living room was the fireplace, made of dark gray and brown brick. We lit the fire sometimes, mostly for the winter season, and we'd also cook marshmallows by the flames as we stoked them (hey, no judging, everyone makes s'mores differently).

Why do we use the living room as a living and game room at the same time? Blame Father. It was so he could watch his Washington sports content. In fall, he'd boast about the Huskies' football team and how he was a Washington alumni, much to Mom's chagrin - like me, Mom was not a sports person.

We were kind enough to sit through a few games for Father, though.

Moving to the right of my old home, there was a desk and two chairs, one for Father, and one for me. We'd sit there, drawing and writing together, our brains spilling and submerging new thoughts onto pale white sheets of paper. Mounted on the wall was a cat clock Mom found at - *how many times do I have to utter these words* - Tuesday Morning and bought, feeding into her love of felines.

That Tuesday Morning's been closed for *ages* now. Unfortunate. My head hurts naming the discount home goods chain repeatedly.

Right beside the living room was the kitchen - honestly one of my favorite places of the house to be. There was a wide, open gap in the wall, shaped like a rectangle, that gave you a perfect view of the dining area with seats for three. The dinner table, made of a polished, laminated oak wood that made me wrinkle my nosebridge from time to time, was covered in a plad blue linen, and in the middle was a vase full of five Pacific bleeding hearts, Mom's favorite flowers.

In the rectangular gap cutting through the wall, a thin string line was tied at the edges, decorated with trinkets that we'd always get to reflect on as a family - and it brings back sweet memories.

What trinkets, exactly? More on that shortly.

Oh, forgot to mention, but the kitchen *and* living room smell like spices. I think my mother shopped at this spice place called Penzeys and flipped through their catalog several times.

Every time you stepped in, it'd always smell like cinnamon, nutmeg, oregano, rosemary, thyme, lemongrass, and...

It was beautiful, and thinking of the kitchen brings back so much nostalgia... great, now I'm hungry for Triscuits. I'm going to have to go get a box later.

Anyways!

Perhaps the most sacred part of my old home was my bedroom, *my* stomping grounds, *my* quarters. The place where I rested my things and slept each and every night, where I'd wake up happy and run into the kitchen for Mom's homemade syrupy Belgian waffles, where Father would hug me and tell me that I was loved, where he and Mom would wipe the tears away when I was sad and scared.

A place where I felt safe, snug, and where my parents would always give me a kiss on the cheek before bedtime.

In my early years, my bedroom was made of sage-green walls that were tinted beige *just* slightly. They weren't that detailed, but child me could care less about how they appeared. Change would come later down the line.

My bed was low-hanging, composed of a dark wood frame, a white squishy mattress, and white sheets, topped with a light pink and dark blue fuzzy blanket that younger me would curl up like a snail in. Fuzziness brought great comfort and warmth, putting my mind at ease, letting me grow sleepy and disoriented from reality. Fuzziness brought warmth and joy to the heart. Fuzziness is a funny feeling, but a tender feeling.

That's how Father happened to put it.

On top of the mattress and blankets was a set of pink pillows, all in varying colors. Younger me, once again, didn't care.

Nowadays, if I was stuck with pink pillows on my bed, I'd *insist* the color be changed to be darker... and not pink. Pink barely reflects me. Except *that* one part of me that's coming way later in the story. Hang tight.

Hiding in those pillows were my stuffed toys - most of them cats because Mom *loved* the cat plushies at Toys "R" Us, though I also had a parrot plushie and two dog plushies.

I loved all of them equally and treated them as my best friends, not ones I'd force to join a tea party (ew), but ones that I'd confide my feelings to when I didn't want to turn to Mom and Father. They kept me safe as I slept, served as vigilantes, and stuck with me through the thickest and thin. They were my comrades, my partners in crime, and my beautifully innocent, wild childhood mind imagined us going on adventures and plundering and owning the world like bosses.

Like the Denny's Grand Slams with a bucketload of extra childhood *cringe*.

They *were* my best friends, and we were united like the Grand Slams. I don't know where they are now; maybe they'll greet Father in the afterlife.

Wrapping up the house tour, next to my bedroom is the bathroom, and just a hop away is Mom and Father's bedroom. There's not much to see there - both of those places are plain if not for the beach accents Mom happened to sneak in.

Mom had a garden past the back patio, which was reached by a sliding glass door near the kitchen, where she grew a small batch of herbs. I remember that she planted mint, chives, and thyme, and maybe sorrel? The pictures are fuzzy as I try to think of them, smudged and ashy. Things are definitely different in perception when you're young.

These components are what made my old home *home*. It was everything I could've wanted and had everything I needed. Even if we weren't the wealthiest people in Pineshadow and weren't on the top tier of the social class, resting comfortably in the crook of being middle class... we did what we could to make our home a *home*.

I think it paid off well in the end for the eleven years I woke up, ran around, zipped about, and went to bed in that place.

*Alright*. I've been rambling for too long about the damn house, so let's continue this chapter and take a deeper dive back into the star of the show - me!

My mind sinks into a state of calm, a state of fluid-ish suspense that lets my body relax. As we talk, my shoulders feel loose, and my sight becomes crisp as the thoughts change and melt in my head, forming new, fragmented thoughts.

They bloom and visualize like the petals of a flower, each connected to the deepest parts of me.

They are my early memories, built in part by scraps my brain can remember and lend me visuals of, but with help from Mom and Father, are made into the clear skies of a winter day, where the clouds have parted, letting the sunlight shine on my pale skin.

Like the patter of snowflakes against the pine trees and ragged leaves, I start to think about my early days, not in a miscellaneous form, but more... *concise*.

Everything clicks into place.

The first memories I can vividly remember was from when I was two years old. I could hear my mother humming, and in my blurry, tiny ice-blue eyes, I saw a woman in a pale red t-shirt with this brown and and gray *splotch* in the middle. It was in this... this *form* and had two streaks of gray coming up from the brown.

Two-year old me was intrigued by the marking. A few years later, I'd learn it was a coffee mug.

Back to Mom, she'd put me in one of the kitchen chairs and let me watch as she cooked and tidied the kitchen, coughing occassionally. My curious eyes followed her moves, surprisingly vivid in my collection; I was usually quiet, the smell of the herbs kept baby me pacified and patient.

Quickly, I learned one of Mom's many hobbies. She'd hold this blocky gray object, approach an object, and press a button. *Snap*. Out the bottom of the contraption came a square, thin, framed by white, and having what appeared to be an exact *copy* of the object imprinted in it.

This was *fascinating*. I hadn't heard of objects that could effortlessly capture a picture of something, preserving it.

As I sooned learned, this was called *photography*, and my mom's object was a *camera*. More specifically, a Polaroid.

It almost died. Nostalgic hipsters kept it alive.

Mom loved going outside to take pictures of nature, whether it was a cloudy or clear sky, rainstorms, snowstorms, sleet (from the inside to avoid sickness), or a pure summer day. She'd snap pictures of the flowers that would bloom in the garden, her spices, her herbs...

...and then she'd glue them to her scrapbook to cherish them. My mother was deeply bonded with nature, having admitted that it started when she stargazed when she was little, put into a trance by the little white dots in the sky. She'd draw constellations and look out through her father's telescope at night, growing familiar with when the stars first appeared in the sky and taking note of their color and shape.

The apple *never* falls far from the tree.

Even when I was a baby, I had *really* deep, *vibrant* memories of my mom's photography. She'd put me up on her shoulders and let me listen while she explained the context behind each and every photo. I'd snuggle into her skin and the fluffiness of her hair, resting peacefully, hearing her words, still muffled to me, but I was *listening* to something I had yet to fully grasp.

Someday, I wanted to use the Polaroid myself, to take pictures of what I *loved*, and maybe like Mom, I'd put them somewhere *special*.

However, there was nothing more personal to my mother than the photos she hung on the wire in the kitchen wall gap. *These* photos weren't nature, but *different*.

Not nature, but *personal*.

On this wire were pictures of *me*.

The first photo she ever hung on the wire was of me around two months after I was brought home. It was a close-up of my shoulder and the snowflake birthmark in all of its smooth, shimmering glory.

"The snowflake was so rare and so unexpected, and yet, it's a key part as to what makes you the beautiful girl you are, Winterlyn," she'd tell me, ruffling my long, fluffy sandy-brown hair. I gave a toothy, slightly flustered, smile, not knowing half of what she had just said.

My first word is a memory lost to yesteryear, but I had my parents to vouch for how it went. One morning, when I had just turned a year old, I was standing by the window, peering at the falling snow outside on a chilly December day. The soft skin of my fingers was growing cold, but the sensation was one I welcomed, ignored even, as my ice-blue eyes watched the snow fall.

Dots of it accumulated on the grass in the yard, forming big white blobs, and more, and more. The tops of the bushes were coated in the snow, looking like they were dusted with the powdered sugar Mom put on her pancakes. Then, out of nowhere, something must have fallen into place in my head...

"Snew!"

My first word was *snow*.

Father jumped for joy, so much so that he could have accidentally hit the ceiling fan in the living room, and he swung me around in his arms and expressed his pride in me while Mom desperately tried to calm him down so he wouldn't make me extremely dizzy.

Sometimes, I think it was pure instinct for young me to blurt out "snow." The whole *etymology* behind my name involves the winter season. Maybe it was *destiny*. The fate the Yihweh Huahi guy or whatever he was called to young child me then wanted.

Just a few weeks after that, tiny young me had more gears fall into place in her still-developing brain, and I withdrew from crawling to get around. I stood up on wobbly, small pink feet and walked to Mom, who was in her beach chair flipping through a Montgomery Ward catalog, and using some new words I had picked up on...

"Hi mommy!"

Mom put down her magazine and gasped when she saw that I, her daughter no more than a year old, had learned more words - and was standing up.

*And was walking, not crawling*.

"Edwin! Edwin, get in here *right now*!" she called, and just a second later, Father ran in from the kitchen, foregoing his efforts to find the cracker box.

"Lorelei, what-"

He saw young me face him and say, "Daddy!"

His face paled.

Then he cheered, and so did Mom, and they hugged me and showered me in loving kisses and held me, praising me for how quickly I was learning to be a *human*.

Being human means you let your mind develop. You have a natural perception of the world. You're open to change.

Tiny small potato me checked all these boxes.

After I had begun walking, my personality began to flesh out more, and it turned from a small stream and pitch-black spots to a tiny river with more colorful spots.

I've evidenced it before, but I was *curious*. Curious to know what the world had in store. What life *outside* the house was like. I had only known much of the inside and hadn't gone past the mailbox. I didn't know what was *past* our neighborhood.

Were there scary things? Like those creatures in those epic movies Mom and Father watched that would eat me? Or would I meet a hero who kicked ass and defeated crime at the source?

*Oh*, *what was beyond the stinking house*?

Another one of my blossoming priorities was to see how everything worked. How did the gadgets in our lives function? *What* was their purpose? I *had* to know. I had to *learn*. Knowledge was my food, and I wanted to *consume all of it*.

My first quest started with the TV, and I noticed that it came to life when one of my parents held a thing I called the Gray Block Thingy. The Gray Block Thingy was dotted with these multicolored dots, red, blue, green, and yellow, and when pressed, the TV would flicker and change to something else. From people talking to people in suits talking about the sunny sky and then to animals and nature, I wanted to test it out for myself.

So when I picked it up on my own, I pressed the button that said *GUIDE*.

Numerous gray squares appeared on screen with all these names, and I shrieked in surprise.

"Winterlyn? Are you okay?" Father asked, stepping into the living room, and he saw my confused attempt at changing the channel.

"Oh, you want to change the channel? What do you want to watch?"

I looked at my toes, baffled, not knowing *what*.

Hi, Father, I'm a child. I wish I knew how many great channels were on our provider, that being Ziply Fiber.

"How about weather? You like the music." He flipped it to Weatherscan, Weather Channel's sister channel, and I sat on the sofa, observing the the forecasts and additional information for Pineshadow's local weather.

Other times, I'd attempt to figure out how certain objects worked, such as the clock.

"Mommy, whey do the cluck tick?"

"A clock tells time, darling. The small hand tells you the hour we're in, and the longer hand points at the mark showing the minute. Can you look at the time and tell me what it is?"

"Uh..."

The numbers were baffling. I didn't know how to pronounce anything. Mom chuckled.

"Can you show me what you see?"

To demonstrate, Mom traced the air with her fingers, spelling out a *number*. I was beginning to grasp numbers, but a lot were still fuzzy to me.

Somehow I managed to copy her and traced out *one one two four*.

11:24.

"Marvelous, Winterlyn! You're a fast learner."

Indeed, Mom was right. I was learning *fast*. Which also meant that I'd start getting in more trouble, the *good* kind of trouble.

John Lewis said to *make* good trouble, *get* in good trouble. I couldn't agree more.

I had an itch to see the world that couldn't quell itself. It always ebbed, especially when I was outside, yet I was sealed off. It was an area I couldn't unlock, not yet.

Not until I was ready.

Until the time was right, until the sun was at a certain point in the sky, those notions would have to be put to rest.

And, well... Father helped with that.

When my curiosity became a bit much... he had to intervene to prevent me from getting hurt. There are a few instances of this that I can recall (with help from the parents, again).

On a breezy afternoon, I sat atop the family car in the garage, watching Father fertilize the back lawn, pushing his grainy, dusty fertilizer wheelbarrow around the tussocks of grass. I had wanted to help, but he told me that I was too young to handle such a task and cutely placed me on the top of the car, allowing me to watch as long as I stayed still.

Alas, staying still is just a wishful plan, and I got bored fast. All Father was doing was going around in circles in the yard, endlessly sprinkling the fertilizer, which smelled like ground corn and beans, and I was here, on top of the cold metal paneling of the car, watching nothing.

I stared at the sky, the itching in my heart turning to a sting. It was a cloudless day, so I had no clouds to occupy me, and my friend was an empty blue sky.

Blue skies don't talk to you unless you're delusional.

My dreams weren't coming true. I needed a hobby.

Swiveling my head to the right, I faced one of the shelves out of my reach and noticed, on the lowest rung, a statue of what appeared to be this creature, scaly and bug-eyed, that was golden and resting there.

*Huh? What's this?* I thought. My curiosity burned, bubbling and straining to escape. What was that object?

I had to *know*. I had to *touch it*.

With Father distracted with his yard work, I stood up and tottered to the edge of the car, each step of mine wobbly and shaky. Two-year old me knew that a misstep would send me flying over the edge of the car and into the hard, cold floor of the garage.

But I was at the shelf. It was an arm's length now, and so was the golden prize that was the apple of my ice-blue eyes.

Was this object magical? Was I about to be visited by the Yuahwei guy my parents spoke about sometimes? I was about to find out.

Slowly, I bent over and put my small hand around the golden scaly bug-eyed creature, grasping it.

Suddenly, my right foot gave way, and before I could recapture my footing, I plummeted off the car and landed in an old fruit crate roughly.

*Ow*.

The golden thing also fell on my head. Double *ow*.

I screamed, wailing, the pain overwhelming, and in a minute, Father saw the foolish mistake I had made.

"**Winterlyn**!" Father yelled, picking up my tiny body in his arms and noticing the bruise I now had on my forehead, as well as two cut fingers on my right hand.

"Winterlyn! You were *supposed* to stay on the car..."

I pouted.

"**Here**," said Father, who pointed to the top of the car. "Come on, we're going back inside and getting you fixed up. **Then** you're staying with your mother. No more garage time."

He saw the golden creature on the ground and picked it up, his chestnut eyes lighting in understanding. "Oh... you wanted to see my fishing trophy?"

Happy that he acknowledged my wish, I nodded through my sniffles.

"I'll tell you about it when you're older. Let's get inside."

I was not allowed back in the garage or learned about the fishing trophy until I was three.

Another instance of Father's protectiveness showed when Mom let me help her cook in the kitchen. Father sat nearby, reading a newspaper in the chair.

"Okay, Winterlyn. Would you like to help me peel the carrots?" Mom offered. Father dropped the newspaper, eying Mom worriedly and scratching his hand against the tablecloth.

"Lorelei, isn't she a bit young to use the peeler?"

"She's young, but can use it if I show her how," Mom retorted, much to my excitement.

Mom understood! She valued me as her cooking partner in crime. And her cooking was so delicious, saliva would drip out of my *mouth* at the thought of some quality meals.

"Okay, here you go." Mom handed me the peeler. "Hold the handle, *don't* touch the blade, Winterlyn. And be sure you're gripping the carrot firmly too. Peel it over the trash can, got it?"

"Yes mommy!" I declared, triumphantly taking the peeler and a stub of orange carrot, approaching the trash can. Father's stare pierced my back; I sensed he was observing me, his doubts and concerns arising.

Disregarding him, I held the stub of carrot and placed the peeler down on the skin, yanking down.

Instantly, pain shot through my finger.

So did regret.

"Aaaaah!" I shrieked, stumbling and waving my flaming-hot finger around. Blood trickled from the cut, and with it, a torrent of tears from my eyes.

Father swore something not pretty under his breath, roughly shoving his chair aside and pulling me into a hug.

"Baby, what happened?" he asked gently, and I responded, "T-Thimber! Aaah!"

I sobbed into him, holding out my outstretched, bleeding finger (which was beginning to look like a dark red carrot). Seeing the blood, Father let me go and approached a shocked Mom.

"Lorelei! I told you, she's too young to be handling utensils like that!"

"Edwin, she made a beginner's mistake, it's okay. I'm going to get-"

Father facepalmed. "Lorelei, she's **two**, and until she's older, she's not touching the peeler **or anything else** capable of cutting in the kitchen. What would have happened if she cut deep enough to sever an artery? Or get stitches?"

"That wouldn't have happened!" she snapped.

"I don't care. Winterlyn could have been *seriously injured*. Now, you finish cooking, alright? I'm going to bandage Winterlyn's finger before it gets infected."

Father swiftly rushed the convulsing, stunned two-year old me to the bathroom, doused my cut finger in antiseptic (which hurt like *hell*), and then bandaged it, kissing it for good measure.

"I'm sewry, daddy..."

"It's okay, pumpkin," he comforted me, pulling me into another hug. "I know you're eager to help your mother. But sometimes it's better to wait until you're older so you can handle things safely."

Why do people speak such complicated words?

"Ore you... mawd?"

"No. But maybe a little, only because you're precious and I want to protect you." The embrace became deeper, and he planted a delicate kiss on my forehead.

Two-year old me's faith in humanity was restored.

Perhaps one of the most serious instances of Father putting my restless curiosity to rest was when I got into a hair-raising close call.

Hey now, please don't suggest I nearly died. I have been through *way worse*. **Way worse**.

Actually, "nearly died" is accurate. Proceed.

It was approaching my third birthday, and I was romping around outside, dashing around and flopping through the leaf piles. Father was supervising; Mom didn't come outside because the temperatures had dropped, and she didn't want to risk getting sick. Lately, she had been dealing with flareups again and wanted to de-stress by not going out.

Laughing, I leapt over the sidewalk, narrowly clearing it.

"Be *careful*, Winterlyn," Father reminded me.

"I yam!" I shouted back, toppling into a leaf pile, giggling from ear to ear. I waved my arms around like a madman, scattering orange, brown, and yellow leaves and sending them into the air momentarily.

One poked my eye, and I flinched. "Umph!"

Father stood up, hearing the *umph*, and his chestnut eyes stared at me pointedly. "*Careful*," he repeated a second time, and still laying on the ground, I crossed my arms.

It was just a leaf, Father! A leaf! Leaves don't kill you! Indignant, I leapt back up and went on my merry way, running back over the sidewalk and jumping through more piles of leaves.

A falling leaf landed on top of my long hair. I snorted, plucking it and letting the breeze take it away.

All of a sudden, I heard a chittering sound, and whipping my head to the right, I saw a gray squirrel, its plumy tail tucked behind its back, chewing on a cob nut he must have stolen from Mom's garden.

"Oooh," I murmured, and I stalked toward the squirrel, wanting to investigate.

This meant that I was approaching the curb - and the road - and the mailbox.

Everything past that was forbidden. Unobtainable.

"*Winterlyn*! Not past the mailbox. Stay on the *lawn*," Father demanded, an edge creeping into his tone.

But I didn't listen.

No, Father. I want to go *beyond*! I want to *learn*. To *see*! You can't stop the heart from *wanting and yearning* for adventure!

I crept even closer to the squirrel, my footsteps light. It finished a cob nut and went to eat another.

"Hi bwuddie!" I whisper-shouted. I then stepped on a leaf.

The squirrel stood erect, seeing me out of the corner of its eye.

It dashed out onto the street.

Being a stupid two-year old, I gave chase.

**Winterlyn**! **Stop this instant**!" Father snarled, and this time, his tone wasn't friendly and stern. I had made him angry.

So be it! I wanted to follow the squirrel. I was going to break the barriers that kept me in!

Breaking the rule of passing the mailbox, I soared right out onto the road, but by the time I reached the middle, the squirrel had crawled onto a fence on the other side.

I heard a *terrible* screeching noise, a *loud reeeeeeeeeeee*, so loud the tips of my ears stung.

The blood in my veins froze, and my pupils dilated in alarm. I turned to my left.

*Someone's vehicle was about to run me over*.

In that moment, I realized that my childhood ignorance came with a price.

I screamed, shutting my eyes and expecting myself to be deposited at the gates of heaven or the gates of some afterlife when I opened them.

Next thing I knew, Father had barreled into me, and we both went flying onto the asphault of the road. The world spun like mad, and the back of my head throbbed, and my hands were sore and stinging, and I was gasping for air.

Mere inches from our panicked bodies was our neighbor's truck. He stepped out, frantically waving his arms and running toward us.

"Holy cow, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry Edwin, I didn't see her! I didn't see her at all, I didn't mean it-"

"Saul," Father cut in, panting and rising to his feet. "Calm down, Saul. She shouldn't have ran out onto the street. She's not allowed to."

"I could have killed her! Oh please, I'm so..."

"*Saul*. You can go home. You're not to blame for this." The way my father spoke the word *blame* was *icy*, and on the cold pavement of the road, I shivered, tears beginning to stream down my face.

Our neighbor wasn't to blame for nearly hitting me with a truck, or to blame for nearly getting me killed.

Rather... it was my fault. And I knew it.

Once Saul had driven past us, Father growled and roughly picked me up by the collar of the long-sleeved graphic tee I was wearing. He pulled me back across the street, back into the safety net past the mailbox, and let go of me near a lifepile.

Phew. That was over. Maybe then I could go back to-

"***Winterlyn McCormick***!" my father yelled so loud the sound ricocheted off the windows of the house, and I yelped, stumbling backwards, shaking, tears leaking out of my eyes like a dam overflowing.

Father used my full name, which meant I had done something *bad*. *Awful*. *Horrible*.

And from the way he said it with a startling amount of force, he made it clear that he was *enraged* with me.

I don't even know how Mom didn't hear him. Heaven knows if she was sleeping (I sure hope she was...).

"Daddy, I... I..."

"No, no **excuses**." *Ekksushes*. What the hell did excuses mean?

Word soup aside, I was screwed as *shrimp*, guilty as charged.

"**Winterlyn**, that was *stupid* and *dangerous* of you! You almost got **hit**! You could have been seriously injured, you could have been **killed**. For Pineshadow's **sake**! How many times did I tell you **not to go past the mailbox**?"

The majority of the words were like cotton fuzz, and the thoughts I could gather were: Father was mad, Father was mad, *Father was mad*.

*Father was fuming*.

"Daddy, peese!" I wailed, my voice cracking, and I coughed out a guilty sob. "I'm sawry! I... mulbox... I wah-"

"Put yourself in danger?? **Young lady**! When your mother and I tell you not to do something, ***you don't do it***. What made you *think* that endangering yourself and almost getting hit was *ever okay*?"

Well, that made things *worse*, and he wasn't helping by using words a two-year old was still *learning* to *speak* in the first place.

The pain was weighing me down, muffling my vision, and unable to reply, I collapsed on the grass, ripping the tussocks. My face was warm and sticky with the tears, and the shame was a burning wildfire in me, which made me scream and cry louder. I was in hysterics, and this was even more ugly than the meltdowns I would have at Haggen when I wasn't able to try a fresh-baked bun.

I couldn't meet the eyes of Father anymore. They were furious. They were condescending. They were unforgiving. Though that didn't stop him from trying to beckon my attention back to the unmoving hot rock before me.

"*Look* at me, Winterlyn."

"Nu!" I refused, about to slam my red face into the grass.

"Winterlyn. *Look* at me. Eyes up to your daddy."

"You hat me daddy!" I spat, doubling over on the ground and curling into a ball. I sure was one oversized pill bug (roly-poly) that probably leaked out a whole bathtub of tears at this point. Not like it mattered to me anyway; I was convinced my father was going to drag me on the concrete and leave me for what I had done.

But my words proved to have a jarring, opposite effect in Father.

Something stirred in him. Something that parted the storm clouds and made the dark, roaring embers of rage in his eyes vanish.

Preferably, he looked surprised, a mix of surprise at how I *nearly* knew how to say "hate" at my young age, and for being able to figure out the severity of his volcanic fury.

The biggest emotion, however, was *regret*.

He kneeled down, sitting with me, and I felt my short body being pulled into his lap. Although I wanted to verbally refuse, I was too exhausted from the crying and just settled in, the warmth overtaking me fast, and the tears stopped, put to bed by Father.

"Oh, Winterlyn..." he mumbled, the ash in his voice now plush, "you did do something *wrong*. You disobeyed me, and you learned the hard way why I have rules for you. You're still a baby - and the outside world is dangerous."

"Huh...?" For Pineshadow's sake, Father, I was *two*. Did you honestly expect me to understand a single thing you said?

"No going past the mailbox." Okay, that's better.

"And you know that's a no-no?"

"Daddy!" I whined, sobbing harder into his Allen Edmonds attire. Being reminded of how I almost *died* was haunting me.

And my eyes stung, and my head hurt, and I wanted to take a *nap* by all means necessary to erase the daylight.

"Winterlyn. Easy. Just because I yell at you doesn't mean I *hate* you. I'm very protective of you, ssh... I don't want you to get hurt. Yes, I'm mad... but all things heal."

*Hate*. Word jumble I do not understand. *Heel*.

I instinctively looked at my heels.

"Silly girl... I should have said *get better*."

"But... but I-" I protested, unable to comprehend why his mood had switched so suddenly. Hadn't I just avoided *dying* by a *whisker*?

He had a rightful reason to snap at me.

"Sssh. Relax. Daddy's here, baby. Daddy's not going to let you go."

Nestled in his arms, I began to settle down until my face had returned to its original pale color and my breathing was easy. He rocked me back and forth, rubbing my back and combing through my hair with his fingers.

Ten minutes later, the world was still and peaceful. A stark contrast to what had just happened those ten minutes prior.

How had Mom not heard us? A wonder to behold.

"Daddy?" I mumbled.

"Yes, Winterlyn?"

"Ore you mawd at me?"

"Still a little. But I love you, so very much, and I only become angry because I want to keep you safe, remember? I want you to be my perfect little girl, and even if you don't understand, you must listen to daddy's rules. Okay?"

I accepted his answer wholeheartedly. "Yes, daddy. I'm sawry."

"I accept your apology. Let's go inside, now, and not tell your mother... she doesn't need the extra stress."

The failed squirrel endeavor ultimately put an end to my curiosity. A part of it still remained in me, but from now on, I was careful. I didn't go past the mailbox, didn't go into the garage, and only helped my mom collect ingredients from the kitchen and garden - no utensils that were pointy or jagged.

Ever since that'd day, I'd detect a certain frostiness in Father that I could feel small taps of whenever he laid eyes on me. He didn't resent me, no... but there was something *in* him, a distant part, that was frozen over in a layer of ice.

These days, I assume it was part of his protective side, that it thawed when he felt like I was in danger. In a way, that made us feel bonded.

It could have also been Father expressing his emotions differently than Mom.

Compared to my father, who nipped curiosity in the bud, Mom was a free spirit who often encouraged it, but gingerly. She did want me to keep learning in small dosages, sensing how I had dialed back and not wanting to make Father furious. She taught me about various herbs and their usages, even letting me read her guide, *Culpeper's Herbal Remedies*.

Big book. So much glorious knowledge!

Sometimes, Mom would read the remedy book to me as a means to help me sleep, naming certain herbs and their usages to me, how herbs like mint and rosemary were used in cooking, and I'd envision them in my head as gradually, the great black yonder yanked me into the sleeping realm.

Father happened to see this one day, my two-year old body stretched out asleep on Mom's lap. From what Mom says, he ran to the shelf, grabbed the Polaroid, and snapped a picture. He thought it was adorable. Way too cute to pass up upon.

Soon, it gained a special place next to the birthmark photo on the wire. Mom and Father always said that it represented our family and just how close we were with each other, and I'd have to agree.

Back to Mom, she *loved* to indulge me with stories outside *Culpeper's Herbal Remedies*. Notably, she was the one that always read me bedtime stories, coming in late at night when I was in my crib and later switched to my own bed.

My favorite bedtime stories were *Goodnight Already!*, *Click Clack Moo*, and *The Snow Queen*.

Each time Mom flipped a page, she sounded so serene, so peaceful, and the way she pronounced every single word made me feel so *light*. Like I was full of light.

And shortly after she'd finish, or even before then, I'd be sleeping peacefully, no nightmares in sight. Mom was a *wizard* at bedtime stories.

Father... he was good too, but not nearly as good as Mom.

Although I wasn't old enough (*still*) to help in the kitchen, Mom would let me watch her cook breakfast (pancakes, waffles, French toast, SHE COULD MAKE ANYTHING), lunch (your finger sandwiches are NOTHING compared to hers), and dinner (Italian, Mexican, Mediterranean, YOU NAME IT!). When Father wasn't looking, she'd even slide me small pieces of cake, cookies, or a brownie before dinner.

A small hint at what was to come after a full meal.

Eventually, before I knew it, I had turned three years old. Already I had exhibited that I was picking up well on words, making me quite an early bloomer. I couldn't quite speak long, fluent sentences yet, but I could say basic words, like "and" and "but" and "yet" and "cat" and "hello" and so on. My mind became sharper and was able to render speech carefully. I was less wobbly when I walked, and I could make strides around the house without tripping over my own feet. The surroundings that blurred out at the edges of my vision sharpened *greatly*, and I could now see finer detailings in the woodwork and walls in the house.

I also saw the carving of a small, tiny bird on the door frame. What bird, I didn't yet know. But that bird will be important later.

My growth didn't go unnoticed by my parents, especially Father, who started to smile more and encouraged me to continue exploring, something he'd put off. It convinced him, persuaded him, *proved* to him, that I was ready.

Yes. I was ready.

It was time.

Time to adventure *beyond* the house, *beyond* the mailbox.

I was going to go out on a limb.

One of the *earliest* places I recall being taken to was a place many children akin to me enjoyed. They ran about the ground, plotted with messy, pointy chips of wood, and climbed these structures, green, brown, red, pink, blue, and yellow in color. The area in front of us was *dense*, tall trees reaching and clawing for the blue of the sky, trying to keep with from the beautiful triangular, snow-capped cones long behind them.

Just as quickly as I stepped two tiny feet into it, Pinelake Park became one of my favorite places.

I remember crawling into the little burrows underneath the park structure, peering through the holes in the gaps, pretending I was a super awesome spy on Mission Impossible: I had darkness to vanquish, enemies to uncover, and I was the only one meant for the job.

Please insert the theme of *Beverly Hills Cop* here.

Wanting to seek out better vantage points of the new area, I'd clamber up the ladder on the side of the structure with the holes and meander to the guard railing on one of the "castles." There, I'd get a *stunning* view.

The woods, imposing, mysterious, and full of leafy-green flora. The trees rustled in the wind, and several leaves would drift toward the park. I watched their movement and sighed, feeling the breeze tug at the hem of my sundress.

In the distance was the mountains, tall, and I'd soon learn that the range would lead to our neighbors in Canada. Wow! Nature does span a long way.

Moving away from the castle is a set of swings near the edge of the park. Mom and Father would push me high, and high, until I soared high into the air, where for a few moments, where gravity wasn't yanking me down to earth, I was one with the sky.

I'd close my eyes, imagining that I was a bird, like a goose or a crow, flighing high and through the clouds, getting lost in the sky lands that I was *eager* to call my home. I'd pretend I could grip the sky in the palm of my hand, feel the fluffy clouds, feeling peaceful with *everything*.

I giggled with glee, and it was contagious, bobbing up and down with me as I was pushed.

Often times, I'd find myself running across the woodchips, skidding and sliding. This didn't mean I was safe from the woodchips' retaliation, though, and a few unfortunate jogs and turns led to scraped, bloody knees.

Many, many tears were shed at Pinelake Park.

Many, many wounds were patched up by Father, who was probably so used to this he reacted on *instinct* each time I fell.

Is there a thing called Protective Parent Syndrome?

Soon enough, the adjacent woods had caught my attention. Those tall, ancient, prehistoric-looking trees, trees that actually seemed friendly and welcoming. A new land, undiscovered to me.

I wanted to see what was *in* there. Find out for myself and keep it as a treasure in my heart.

But there was a major obstacle in the way.

"You should *not* go into those woods, Winterlyn," Father would tell me, gripping my shoulder with his hand, "it's too risky. You don't know what you might find in there... and your safety is far more important."

"But I wanna!"

"*No*, Winterlyn. I will not let you explore the woods. They are *off limits*."

*Off limits*.

I stared sadly at the woods and conceded to Father - after what happened with the squirrel, I never wanted to piss him off the way I did *again*.

His rage was potent, having seemingly enough force to break a jaw. I couldn't leave his line of sight, not even if I wanted to, and I couldn't disobey him.

For one of the first times in my life, I saw his reasons and *understood*. Risking myself just to fulfill my own ambitions and my curiosity, wanting to *leap* right into the jaws of danger, was foolish.

I was three years old. *Three*.

And I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing Father and being screamed at by him. It made me ill and shiver.

So, I listened to Father, and even with my burning, constantly-evolving intrigue... I did not go into the woods.

Someday, when I was older, I would.

When traveling around in the car, whether it was shopping trips with Mom or breakfast trips or restaurant trips or just taking a whirl around Pineshadow, my face was glued to the window and wouldn't leave it. I'd watch the scenery around me change and evolve, transforming into pine and fir trees to smaller trees to shrubs and brick housing.

Driving through the cities, I'd encounter *shops*. Salons, clothing stores, pet stores, plant stores, *every* kind of store.

Compared to the neighborhoods, these stores were *bustling*. Full of strangers, full of *life*.

A place I'd be frequently taken to was the supermarket - Kroger or Haggen - and Mom would push me around in the cart, letting me pick up the items she needed.

I had the honor of swiping her debit card to confirm purchases and buying Father his newspaper. It was *fun*!

*Especially* when the nice women running the tortilla stand gave you a fresh, oven-baked tortilla to eat. Delicious!

The more I was driven around Pineshadow, the more I realized that this place *truly* was my home. From the people that would chatter for hours, that worked hard to earn money and buy food and drink, to the stores and institutions that dotted the city, to the children that played in the streets, to the animals and nature balancing out the urban developments, to us, the McCormick family...

I was exactly where I *belonged*.

I recall many of the places I visited in Pineshadow in my youth. On late nights, I'd be taken to Starbucks and given a cup of (decaf) coffee to slurp, hot with the winter season and ice cold in the summer.

We'd often visit small cafés for breakfast, lunch, and brunch. There was The Yodeling Egg, which has since closed, unfortunately, and they served savory omelettes and bacon that I'd gobble down in a heartbeat.

Second to that was The Pinesap Lodge, which served "log jam" pancakes stacked to the brim with butter and maple syrup (the mess was worth it) and plates full of whip cream and berries for extra toppings.

There were so many more.

Every Saturday, in Old Town Pineshadow, was a farmer's market, and unless personal circumstances got in the way, Father would take me to it. We'd purchase fresh fruits, vegetables, and flowers to put in the living room or grow in Mom's garden (something she enjoyed). Father would tie a bonnet around my head, which was dotted with daffodils and lavender, claiming that I was *adorable* in it and that it matched my light pink-and-purple sundresses.

Sure enough, I wooed the crowds and received compliment after compliment. All the attention made me blush - I thought I was on my way to becoming a celebrity.

When I was four, Father took me to my first major sporting event. It was a bit of a long drive to Seattle and a tough battle with thousands of squawking, metallic cars, but we made it to what I learned was the *park*.

Not like Pinelake Park. It was *huge*.

*Massive*.

It looked like a kingdom from my viewpoint. A *dominion*. That was my introduction to Safeco Field.

The game we were seeing was *baseball*, something raved about in Pineshadow from time to time from the streets to the sports bar.

Sadly, our team was the Mariners.

*They suck*.

The Mariners had sucked for *years*. That's what Mom always complained about and why she didn't want to come with us to the game, stating that it "wasn't good sportsball." She wanted to spend the time tidying the house and checking her garden, so it was just me and Father on our own little endeavor.

"Welcome to Safeco Field, Winterlyn. This is where the Mariners play," Father explained.

"Who are the Mariners playing?"

"The San Francisco Giants. The Mariners have been on such a hot streak lately, so maybe we'll win."

"What's a hot streak, daddy?"

"Winning a few games in a row," he answered, ruffling my all-over-the-place bangs. "What do you want to eat for lunch?"

"I don't know..."

"We'll see what food they have when we get our seating."

Inside Safeco Field was a *hub* of activity, and to young, four-year old me, it was as if I just entered a beehive, but the bees were humans.

Noise filled the interior, and it was a *cacophony*. Voices hollering, shouting, screaming, mixed in with the squeals of eager children and the fanboys and fangirls hoping to catch a home run or meet the stars of the show.

The majority of everyone here were fans of Jamie Moyer - his name was on the back of people's shirts and hats.

Drink and food vendors were scattered all around, and Father and I decided to try out this weird, thin meat-shaped *thing* called bratwurst.

I put some ketchup on it and tried a bite.

Eeh... it's okay, but not something I'd totally eat again in a heartbeat (unless you put a gun to my head, then I would).

Rushing through the crowds and squeezing through people, their idle conversations, and semi-drunken conversations (Father *quickly* yanked me away from people holding beer), we reached our seats down near what was called the bullpen.

Around me, people whispered, eating bratwurst, popcorn, slurping sodas and splashing it over the sides of their mouths. Kids screamed and cheered, waving caps, and others expressed their hope that for a moment, they'd get noticed by the one and only Jamie Moyer.

Me, on the other hand, was not as keen. For one thing, I hadn't been here before. For a second thing, I hadn't seen sports in person.

Third thing, I didn't know jack *shrimp* about how baseball worked.

Fourth thing, what was so appealing about Jamie Moyer? He's *just* a baseball player. A *guy*. Come back to me with someone more worthy.

Time was *slowly*, painfully ticking away, and nothing was happening. No Mariners players, no Giants players, just the blare of music and people *talking*.

"Daddy, I'm bored..." I complained, stamping my foot against the concrete under my chair.

"Baseball games tend to be slow, Winterlyn," he assured me, putting a hand on my shoulder and lifting one of my bangs with a finger. "Don't worry, it won't be long at all. In the meantime, would you like me to explain how baseball works?"

"Sure," I replied halfheartedly, giving Father the all clear. He missed how out of it I was.

As he recited the rules of the great American game, my thoughts traveled beyond the playing field, beyond the Mariners and Giants fans, beyond baseball, and my landscape turned from sports mania into a lush forest.

Ah, a change of scenery! So much better. I visualized a dense forest, full of pine and fir trees, and I could hear the call of birdsong, the rustle of leaves, and the beautiful sound of wind chimes, the harmonious melody filtering in and out of my ears.

This was serenity. Where I *wanted* to be. Where I *would* be, even if Father-

"And *that's* the rules of the game!" Father suddenly exclaimed, and the arcane vision was *whumped* right out of me by Father's hand *whumping* me in the back.

"Do you get it?"

"Uh, yeah!" I lied, convincing him that I was listening instead of longing to stand in a forest with woodland creatures and wanting to be Snow White's protégé.

Just a few minutes after, the game started, and immediately, Mom's sentiment about baseball proved to be reality.

The Mariners didn't score any runs. *Nope*, *nein*, *nada*. We kept hitting foul balls, accumulated outs, and barely got any bases.

We sucked, crashed, and *burned*.

The Giants prospered, hitting ten runs. The game was pretty much over after five innings.

When the ninth inning ended, the Giants came out on top ten to nothing, and I could sense the pain of Mariners fans who felt as if they wasted money only to see their team get *womped*.

And wasted money because Jamie Moyer didn't perform well.

Go figure.

"Well, that wasn't as fun as I hoped it would be... sorry, Winterlyn," Father apologized as we got up out of our seats.

"It's okay, daddy. Better luck next time," I stated as a way to reassure him, although for most of the game, I was staring at the clouds, wishing I could just be among them and walk on their wispy surfaces, and thinking of the forest, a place that made my heart *swell* with the need to investigate the woods near the park, a forbidden place that had me like a fish on a hook.

After we returned home following a long drive and more blistering traffic, Mom rolled her eyes at Father. "Told you it wasn't good sportsball," she huffed.

I've hinted at it, but by now, my bangs had mostly grown *over* my face, partially obscuring my visibility, but I rolled with it.

People did say I was *precious* with that hairstyle.

"Aww, your daughter is *soooo adorable*, sir!"

"She's a baby! Love her sundress!"

"Her hair is so pretty..."

The blushing continued, and more of Pineshadow and other cities found me cute, adorable, precious, beautiful, and the cherry on top, a *perfect* child.

Perfect, flawless. A perfect child with the perfect family and a perfect life.

Yet another year swung by, my memories of the gap few and far between, but now I was five years old, seeing clear, no more fuzziness in the corner of my eyes. I had grown taller, enough so that I was around as tall as where my head met Mom's hipbones, and my hair had grown past my shoulders at the edges. My bangs were still messy, but now lifted above my eyes so that strands of sandy-brown hair didn't tickle them.

It was when I was five that a *major* stepping stone in my life happened. A *monumental* change. An *epiphany*. A *step* that would propel me into the person I am today, a *twining* between me and the earth.

A new adventure, a *long journey*. An *expedition* to the very place my parents first met and married.

An *expedition* to a place remote and somewhere *long* outside the comfort of home.

Heartbeat Point, which in the words of my parents, was a mythical beach located along the shores of *California*.

California, the Golden State, home of palm trees, deserts, oceans, theme parks, and *Hollywood*.

How did I get here? Let me tell the story.

On a quiet morning in the dead of summer, where the sun was scorching, its rays battering the Washington neighborhoods (it wasn't a heat wave, just nice enough where you can sit outside and relax without dying of heat stroke), I heard my parents fishing for something in their room, pulling something, creating a *clatter* and a *ruckus*.

Curious, I put on my imaginary detective hat and trotted into their room, which I was now allowed in, and found a giant rectangular, leather blob on the floor. Two of them.

"Mommy, Daddy? What's these?" I asked.

"They're called suitcases," Father responded. "We're just about to get yours."

Suitcases? I had one? What did they mean? Did Father store his suits in these and lug them around?

Oh, why wasn't it making sense to me?

"Um... why?"

Mom laughed. "Oh, Winterlyn. We're going traveling!"

"Traveling?" I echoed, still confused. What *was* traveling? Some dance that's televised on TV? I don't know why I thought that, since I didn't know the *Macarena* was a thing yet.

"We're taking a trip! We're going to California!"

*California*. Gears clicked in my head, and the puzzle fell into place.

California was a state on the coast, like Washington, but farther down, bigger and far more lively. I've seen ads of California on the TV, where the palm trees glistened in the infinite sunlight, the blue skies bright and spanning miles, the starry nights and lapping waves of the beaches, and the summer clothing given to you by this clothing company "founded" in Cali called Hollister.

Oh, I love Hollister, and the way I'd kill to get some merch about now-

*Ahem*. Anyways.

"California? *California*??" I questioned, my feet tapping on the carpet in excitement.

"Yes, Winterlyn. You're going to *enjoy it*. Come on, I'm going to help you pack your clothes," remarked Father.

"Okay!" Happily, I pranced into my bedroom, and Father helped me select several sets of clothes, mostly my sundresses, for the trip.

Usually the fastest way to get to California is air travel, but to my parents, booking a flight on American Airlines or United or whatever was too expensive. Of course, I hadn't figured out the wonders of the aviation industry yet. We McCormicks preferred to live life to the fullest, to go off the roads, to follow the road unbeaten.

We were going to *drive* to California, which meant that I'd not only see southern Washington, but *Oregon* as well.

Hit up *two* states in one. Five-year old me thought I just won the lottery.

Once we had packed up all our things and brought plenty of money, snacks, and drinks for the road, we immediately set off.

It didn't take long for everything to *change*.

The small towns and forest towns turned to *big towns*. *Big* cities. Lush forests, mostly pine, spruce, and fur, and the mountains in the distance still followed us everywhere we went.

Pointing to one of the mountain ranges, I asked, "What are those mountains?"

"The Cascades, honey," Mom commented. "They lead to Canada, but we're heading away from them."

Throughout the trip, I continued to ask questions about the area. Information about the forests, the woods, what city and passes we were approaching.

My excitement built more and more, and I couldn't help but wonder what Heartbeat Point would look like. Was it heart-shaped? Romantic? Not that I was interested in romance, I was five and didn't have a single clue as to what romance was. Was it full of cliffs and trees, or would I encounter somewhere new and godly? The holiest of holy lands? That I was going to find out myself and put on the *map*.

The call of the wild pierced my ears, full of birdsong, leaves rustling, trees creaking, animals chirping and squawking and shouting, the wind *whistling* - letting me melt into the new atmosphere I was entering.

I've been painting every fence I know

Every color bleeds into the same

I took mental note of everything I learned. New types of trees, terrain, hills, ridges, and cities. The sloping, curving freeways, the waypoints that would guide us to the Golden State in a few days or less.

At one point, we passed what appeared to be a large institution in Pullman - Washington State University. Father scoffed at them, reminding us all that he hated the Cougs and preferred Washington, the Huskies.

I know someone who'd openly disagree with you, Father.

My abundant enthusiasm and *ooohs* and *aaahs* made my parents chuckle.

Cause before you go and walk away

Yeah, you better know where you're going

Soon, we had passed through Walla Walla and crossed the border into Oregon, entering a new uncharted state full of forest, woodland, trees, and mountains that seemed to touch the swirling blues of the sky.

Our first stop was Wallowa-Whitman National Forest, and we found a camp where we would set up for the night before continuing the next day.

The area was flat, browned green grass located near a small brook, the water lapping gingerly against the stones. Several sharp rocks were present as well as several bushes, and right in front of us was sloping, gray-and-brown rocked mountains.

Hey yeah, hey yeah

You're a wanderer just like me

We spent most of the day resting and taking short hikes around Wallowa-Whitman, with Mom furiously snapping photos for her scrapbook, and she got lucky when she happened to spot a lone deer - a doe, eating on the other side of the brook. That was memorable; I hadn't seen a deer up-close before.

Upon the conclusion of our hikes, the sun had set, pink and orange hues wispy and streaking through the once-blue sky, and gradually, those hues had faded, giving way to the night.

Blue, speckled with black, mixing together, and in the sky were hundreds of white dots, so distant, so far away...

A *galaxy* that I could hold my hand up to and pretend to be among.

Hey yeah, hey yeah

Yeah, you better know where you're going

"Trying to grab the stars, hmm?" my mother asked, laying down beside me.

"What are stars?" I asked, curiously nestled in the crook of her arm.

"Stars are little astronomical objects. Space objects. They're visible to us down here and are fixed points of light. They make excellent waypoints when traveling, little one." Sighing warmly, my mother closed her eyes, and I turned back up to the stars, seeing those little balls of light. The call of birds and crickets, along with the rush of the brook against the rocks, filtered in and out of my ears, and I melted right into my environment.

More importantly, the stars above me still glimmered and twinkled, never leaving my family alone, and I wondered if up there, the stars were like humans, acted like mortal beings, gods even, gods that would keep us safe.

"Goodnight, friends," I whispered when I was *certain* my parents were sleeping like rotting logs.

Yeah, you better know where you're going

The next morning, to my dismay, we packed quickly and left Wallowa-Whitman behind; I had wanted to stay for longer than a day to enjoy the nature and have *another* night under the stars, which had kept me safe like I thought.

Maybe I was right about the stars being like us...

There was more driving, endless driving for hours, as we drove through more forests and new rock thingies. Those are plateaus, if you're wondering.

I was getting tired of staring at trees now (surprise surprise) and chose to sleep.

Time slipped by faster than I had remembered. When I awoke, we had passed Harney Lake.

I saw a glimpse of the lake as we drove by it. "Why can't we camp there?" I questioned with a slight, exhausted whine to my tone.

Father didn't turn an eye to me, keeping his eyes on the road. "It's too early in the day to camp now, Winterlyn," he pointed out, turning the wheel a little to the left. "Our next stop is Upper Klamath Lake."

"Where's that?" I asked disbelievingly, getting used to the title. Who called a lake Upper Klamath? Did it have to do with the clams that Haggen occassionally sold in the seafood market that looked gross and soggy?

"It's near Ashland *and* near the border to California. We'll be in Cali by tomorrow with my rate of driving." He turned to face me just as he approached the bumper of a car on the freeway, and I tensed.

"Eyes on the road, Edwin!" Mom barked, her voice shrill, and she coughed into her shirt. I noticed a small rash on her hand, a sign that her lupus was flaring up again. But Mom had her lupus pills - Methotrexate - with her, and that meant she'd be held together in one piece.

I've been painting every fence I know

Every color bleeds into the same

In around a few blinks of the eye, we were at Upper Klamath Lake, and the sun had slowly begun to set, leaving the sky a blue rapidly turning pink and purple. Father parked the Subaru by the lakeshore, near where there was a small pit filled with logs, and pulled out several boxes of food. Marshmallows, graham crackers, and *chocolate*.

"No road trip without s'mores," he told me excitedly, giving me a wink.

"Heehee. They're gonna be good."

"Yep. Unless you burn yours."

"No I won't!" I puffed indignantly, crossing my arms over my sundress.

"I'm teasing you, Winterlyn. Come here!" Father pulled me into a tight hug, and he laughed, and I laughed. Meanwhile, Mom had set up her chair and sat down with a can of sparkling water, using it to down her medication, and I ran up to her.

Cause before you go and walk away

Yeah, you better know where you're going

"Hey momma. How's the lake?" I inquired, sitting down on the grass next to her.

"Nothing but water lapping at the grass and sweet peace," she murmured. "Ah, I could use that after all the driving..."

"Are we really going to California tomorrow?"

"You bet we are! Tell your father thanks later for being such a good driver."

"I will, momma!"

Hey yeah, hey yeah

You're a wanderer just like me

For the rest of the sunset, we wandered around the shores of Upper Klamath Lake, getting lucky to spot some wildlife, including ducks on the shore, diving for food, and mysterious birds unknown to me in the trees, chirping and cawing and flying off in a hurry. The grass crunched under the feet of my boots, tickling the leggings I was wearing. I kept my eyes on the sky, watching the colors change - sunsets functioned in alluring ways, turning the blue into all these colors.

It was magical, heavenly, even. But I soon learned that it came with the sun disappearing into the forests and atmosphere of the lake and the emerging of the moon and seemingly eternal night, broken up and blanketed by the far away stars.

Earth was a whole system I still had yet to fully understand.

We found a pier jutting out over some of the lake. I ran across it, hearing the wood planks *creak* under my boots, and coming to a halt at the edge, I sat down. The sun had almost disappeared over the edge of the treetops, casting dark shadows over them that eliminated the dark greens and browns they once were.

The lake was *beautiful* in the sunset colors. The water, usually so murky and uninviting, was a sparkling dark blue, streaked in deep pinks and purples and oranges that you could swirl around with one flick of a finger. If Father wasn't watching, I would have tried it. Alas, the sunset faded, and in came the night, leaving the lake pitch black.

Hey yeah, hey yeah

Yeah, you better know where you're going

Nearly pitch black except for the stars that were illuminated in it.

"Woah," I uttered, seeing the stars. Slowly, I brought my head up to the sky, where the blanket of stars had returned.

They hadn't deserted us.

*Are they our friends?*

Oh, there were many questions I wanted to ask...

You're a wanderer just like me

So many questions. So many things to ask Mom and Father. So many things to wonder about the stars.

I sat at the pier for a few more minutes, my heart content and beating restfully to the lap of the water against the dock poles and the shore. All was well. Quaint. The trip was perfect so far. I didn't regret a thing. Not a single *thing*.

I had seen new places, went *well* out of the comforts of Pineshadow and Washington, *and* had been immersed in many new environments.

The grass is always greener every place I go. And somehow, it's always sunny in Philadelphia.

"Winterlyn! Time to make s'mores!" Father called, breaking young me out of my thoughts, and I instinctively ran back to the campfire, where I got a stick. I crafted my (messy) s'more and hung it over the fire.

I cooked a perfect s'more while Father's burnt. Mom got hers a lovely golden, the marshmellow a toasted brown, and she devoured it quickly. So did I.

The fates had turned between me and Father.

The night passed all too quickly, and the stars faded, giving way to bright blue daylight. We were on the road, leaving the beautiful lake behind, leaving the pier, the pretty birds, the intrigue behind.

Yeah, you better know where you're going

We crossed through Ashland, and just like that, *boom*.

Oregon had been left in the dust.

We had officially reached *California*.

The scenery had changed once again, this time, less forests (for a time being) and more hot, dry land, rocky, yellow, and full of dry, chalky green plants.

No, this wasn't the Mojave Desert, which my parents had mentioned in the car. We were *way* too far away from the Mojave.

Hey yeah, hey yeah

You're a wanderer just like me

The areas became mountainous again, impossible to climb, and the windows became hot and *sticky*. I peeled my face away from the glass, woozy - ugh, the heat here was *brutal* compared to the calmer, mountain-cooled heat we got in Washington.

But the mountains went down again as the land began to thin out, the freeways desolate, and for a short time, I thought we were alone.

Until I saw a blue glimmer out of the corner of my right eye, and I turned out the window.

It wasn't just a blue glimmer, it was a wide *expanse* of blue.

A blue that could eat up more land and was *shimmering* in the sunlight. It was *infinite*. It could *never end*.

Hey yeah, hey yeah

Yeah, you better know where you're going

"What is *that*??" I questioned, pointing to it and gluing my finger to the sticky hot glass.

"The sea," Mom replied vaguely.

What on earth was a *sea*? Did she mean to *see*? Because I could *see* this blue thing clear as damn day.

It had these white sparkles and appeared to be *water*. Could so much water *be* held like that?

Earth had so many god-diddily-damn *secrets*.

I had to find out. I had to find out *soon*.

Heartbeat Point was still hours away, but we were fast approaching our final waypoint.

Los Angeles. Home of the Angels and Dodgers, Hollywood, and a city of *dreams*.

Yeah, you better know where you're going

And a city of *angels*. Though I don't think any were with us at this time.

Soon, we ran into *traffic*, congested, bunched up, and honking more profusely than the traffic it took to get to Safeco Field.

We were going to be stuck for a *while*.

Oh god, we didn't pack road games.

Great...

"Well, I should have thought this was going to happen," Father muttered, resting his head on the wheel.

I shut my eyes. The best weapon I had right now was sleeping, so it was wise not to waste it.

*FWOOOOOOOOSH*!

Yeah, you better know where you're going

Yelping, I slammed up into the backseat, looking around nervously. Was a gigantic animal about to leap into the Subaru and eat all three of us? Did the traffic clear? Were we being abducted by aliens? WHAT WAS HAPPENING???

"*What was that*???" I asked, my breathing hitched and jumbled, my heart pounding out of my chest.

Mom giggled. "Relax, Winterlyn. That was just a plane."

A *what*?

"A plane?"

"A plane is like a car, but in the sky, and it can take far more than just three passengers around the *world* for trips."

"Around the world???" I breathed incredulously. How on earth had we invented *travel* around the world? I could fly anywhere if I wanted to? *Wow*!

You're a wanderer just like me

"Yes, my dear, *anywhere* in the world. We are near the airport, so that's why you just heard a plane fly so low to us."

"What's an airport?"

"Where the planes land and depart from, and where you prepare for your trip and stuff," Mom explained.

"Why didn't we fly on a plane then?" Young me sure loved to point out the obvious.

Father chuckled. "Because your father likes immersive traveling... and yes, because he wanted to save money."

*FWOOOOOOSH*! Another plane flew by, and looking out the window, I saw a orange and teal tail with wavy stripes.

"What's that one?"

"That's America West Airlines."

Yeah, you better know where you're going

"Cool! Would we ever fly them?"

"No... they're becoming US Airways. And your father doesn't want to fly them."

"Not after they got me stuck in Arizona for *three days*..." Father muttered.

I stopped asking about the planes after that, but watched as they'd fly by, small ones, small ones with ROARING GIGANTIC engines or *tiny propellers* or BIG JETS THAT COULD PROBABLY KILL MY EARDRUMS.

The jet watching paid off, and soon, the traffic cleared. We drove through Los Angeles safe and sound.

And *then*, after days of traveling, hours in the cool forests and hearing the lake water lap against the shore and the calls of many animals and songs and choruses and planes roaring among other things...

...we arrived at Heartbeat Point.

You're a wanderer just like me

Father parked the Subaru on a small, flat parking spot atop a mini dark gray-stoned cliff face. The sun was still high in the sky, the sole object up there to not be a vast, crisp blue, and I inhaled the air.

Strangely, it was... *salty*.

Why was the air *salty*? Air is not supposed to be like salt. Was I *inhaling* salt?

*Am I cooking myself???* I wondered in shock.

A sign nearby said:

*Heartbeat Point*

*Let your heart be your guide*

*Let the waves carry you home*

I tilted my head, confused. Waves? Heart? Guide? Five-year old me was struggling to comprehend this sign's puzzle.

Also... why Heartbeat Point? There was nothing about heartbeats here...? My heartbeat was a normal human heartbeat. So were my parents'.

The point flew over my head like a foul baseball.

I hopped out of the car, wearing a pair of sandals Mom had gotten me before the trip.

"Where are we going?"

"Down below," Father said, taking my hand and walking me to the slope that would lead us down to what Heartbeat Point was. "When we get there, you can take off your sandals. You won't need them."

"Uh- okay?" But Father, you always said I had to wear shoes when I went outside. What do you mean I had to take them off now?

It was not until I reached the bottom and truly arrived at Heartbeat Point that I finally understood *why* it was named the way it was.

Why no shoes were necessary.

*Why* my parents had wanted to bring me here.

Heartbeat Point was an area that was covered in a wide expanse of *sand*. Lots and lots of sand, imprinted by feet and swirls, impaled by colorful umbrellas, sat upon by colorful human rears, and played in by fellow children with a pail and scoop.

I quickly threw my sandals off and let my small feet soak into the warm sand, grains filling the cracks between my toes, and it tickled me. I chuckled. The feeling was *insanely* pleasuring, and I giggled some more.

But the sand was not the highlight of the beach.

My parents quickly took me to a more open part, and there, I stared into something that once I found, I could *never* rip my gaze away from.

The blue water I had seen earlier, now up close, still glinting in the sunlight, still *there*.

It was *everywhere*, far as the ice-blue eye could see.

"Welcome to Heartbeat Point, Winterlyn," Father stated. "And this is the ocean... where your Mom and I first met and made our vows of love *eternal*."

*The ocean*.

The wind whistled past my face, taking my long hair with it, and it blew to my right, lifting my bangs up over my eyes, never once leaving the ocean.

My parents hadn't just *met here* and hit it off. They *married* here. Declared how much they *loved each other* here. Now I, their daughter, was here to see how *special* the beach was itself.

The ocean was *blue*. *Glittery*, *inviting*, and plucking at the sand at the edge of the beach, making it darker, wetter, and squelchy.

I watched the tide pull in, and pull back out, retreating with white foam and brown sand, my ice-blue eyes following every move meticulously.

Something in me *changed*.

Follow the rhythm

The world around me tuned out, my parents out of the picture, and all that ringed through my ears was the sounds of the *ocean*. The waves reflected in my ice-blue eyes, calming, *enticing*, pulling me toward them. The annoyed squawks of the seagulls fighting over dropped pretzel bites and fries. The thrash and *crash* of the blue waves as they surged toward me and retreated.

I didn't escape their pull.

I didn't *want* to.

They had gravitated me, reached out to me, and I would heed that call.

Running away from the limelight

All is ending by design

Through the mist it makes me blind

Follow the rhythm

The sun warmed the top of my head, bathing me in a cozy, soft glow, and I inhaled, the sea air no longer strange and tangy to me, but *welcoming*. I didn't notice my parted mouth, one that had parted in surprise, but that was irrelevant.

Nothing in life mattered. Nothing else in life mattered. Nothing but the ocean and me and the distance between us.

The ocean was pure, see-through, and lapping closer and closer to my bare feet. It had a message to give me, and I can see it was baiting me, wanting me to listen to it. My heart *thumped*, thumped like the tides that rolled in and out, and things in me acquired *steam*.

And the curse you leave behind

In the place that you denied

The trail of life is all I find

Follow the rhythm

It was all so *beautiful*, *mystifying* to me. How the tides were gentle, resting upon the warm, sandy shores of Heartbeat Point before retreating into the ocean and returning for another gasp of air. I watched every movement and realized that it was natural.

The ocean was meant to do this. It had *always* been meant to do this. Everything that took place here, love blossoming, children playing, the movement of the tides, the fights of the seagulls... it was *natural*. It was *life*.

The ocean had *always* meant to come to me one day, to invite me here, to partake in its fun. It always was graced by the warm rays of the sun, which granted it a shine so distinct and unique it could be seen from miles away.

The blues were infinite, forever in a day, spreading left, to right, to anywhere my gaze followed, and it was something right out of a *dream*.

But no, Winterlyn, this was no dream; this was real, and I grew determined.

Determined to make my mark here.

My heart thumped harder, and harder, and harder, until I was *certain* I was going to explode.

Everything flowed in unity.

Everything was perfectly *constructed*.

Everything here, from the blue, cloudless sky to the yellow ball of sun to the shimmering, tranquil shores of Heartbeat Point, was *intertwined*.

My heart was at its limit, the energy in me built up so much the only thing I had left to do happened in one, single second.

I let it go.

Suddenly, without any warning to my parents, I took *off* down the shores, barefoot, my tiny feet hammering the warm sand, sending it flying everywhere. My dark blue flowered sundress fell in stride behind me, taken by the wind, and my long sandy-brown hair cascaded beside me as I ran alongside the shore.

Glee pulsed through my veins, sugary and full of *vindication*. Like I had *always* been meant to do this. *Trained*. Chasing *destiny*. Be *free*, full of *liberty*, escape the confines of life and all of its wonders and questions to just embrace this *spirituality* in me.

The wind howled, roared, piercing like a tea kettle, carrying out my pride, and I kept running on, the sand nice and soft against the soles of my feet. I was getting breathless, but the beat of my heart didn't make me stop *once* to catch it. Time waits for no one, and I had my moment here. I was going to *enjoy it*; nothing else was getting in the way.

Seeing a slippery rock, I took a chance and leapt up onto its black surface, feet landing perfectly despite the slickness, and a big wave crashed into it, sending salty water over the edges of my sundress. I laughed. *Whoa*.

Water trickled between my feet, water from the ocean, *the great blue ocean*, that spanned for *miles*. I wonder what was across the ocean, what other worlds were beyond it. Places I had yet to see, places I wanted to learn.

My heartbeat was wilding and could not be stopped. So be it. Me and the ocean were *connected*, and I wasn't going to break that connection for a split second. I hadn't just let the energy go, I had let it become a *part* of me.

The tide rolled in again, and eager to feel the wet sand instead of the dry sand, I licked my lips and prepared to dive right into the tide.

"Winterlyn! Be careful, please-"

Father's shout did not reach me, bouncing off an invisible bubble I had cast around myself.

Then I took the leap, plunging right into the wet sand, and my feet sunk into the damp grains, which were almost as dark as my hair.

It felt so *relaxing*. So compelling.

I was running before Father could even *yell* at me to slow down. I was running with the tides. I was *one* with the tides.

I was following the beat of my own drum.

I was following wherever the tides went.

I was following my heart.

I was following the *rhythm* I needed to *survive*.

The water splashed against my sundress, and in any case, I would be shivering and wanting a towel. But in the endless California sunlight, I was warm, a glowing orb, a *spark*, dancing with the shallow end and lapping tides of the ocean and the sand that warmed the beach. I was playing with many shades of nature, and the nature wanted to play with me too.

I was only five, and yet, I was confident that this was what *freedom* was.

This was the *rhythm*, the rhythm of nature.

This place was called Heartbeat Point because the rhythm of the ocean was a *guide*.

It led me here, led me to its shores, led to to let go of all of the energy that had built within me.

The only entity residing in me was *peace*.

"Winterlyn!" Father shouted, trotting up to me, also shoeless, and swinging me in his arms. "Oh, you silly girl! You worried me when you jumped off that rock!"

"What did you think I was gonna do, daddy?" I fired back. "Fall into the sand and get eaten by the ocean?"

"No! Rip currents! I didn't want you being catapulted to Japan!"

"Wuh?" What on earth was *Japan*? And what on earth was being *catapulted*? Uh, was he trying to say the ocean was *dangerous*?

The ocean was absolutely *harmless* (update from modern times: yes, it actually can be dangerous, but the part where I was playing wasn't). Father could be no fun sometimes to child me.

"Things you'll learn someday, hun. Now c'mon, you need to dry off... and it's time to have lunch."

Running away from the limelight

All is ending by design

Through the mist it makes me blind

Suddenly I remembered that I was human, a five-year old child, and that I wasn't going to live based off embracing liberty and zipping around the edges of the beach.

My stomach growled.

*I needed food*.

"Lunch? I'm hungry," I uttered, rubbing my low-on-fuel stomach.

"No worries, pumpkin. There's a place just up the beach that has food."

I licked my lips in satisfaction. If it wasn't far from here, then I wouldn't have to wait long at all to replenish myself.

Just what were they serving? Hmm.

And the curse you leave behind

In the place that you denied

The trail of life is all I find

Me, Father, and Mom walked up the beach and came across a small, outdoor grill hut where a chef in a Hawaiian flower suit and beige shorts was fast-chopping and fast-cooking all these meats and vegetables, so fast they'd be moved and fried in a blink of an eye. It was taking all my nerve to not have drool spilling out of my *mouth*. Green beans, broccoli, mushrooms, onions, along with some tomatoes and other fruits, but all these meats, too...

I recognized pork, beef, and chicken, but some other meats I didn't recognize, one that smelled... *fishy* and another that also smelled *fishy*.

"So yummy..." I mouthed, nearly leaning into the grill just to continue smelling the *richness*.

In the end, I got a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and little, small black rolls with rice and fish meat inside them called *sushi*. More specifically, California rolls. They were *delicious*, interesting and new, but *delicious*. Father loved them and put *way* too much ginger on them (enough to give me a stomachache, for you to visualize).

Before we had even known it, the day was fast fading, and the *striking* powerful blue of the sky was reduced to a pinkish-blue beginning to get streaked by orange and purple. The sun had sunk and was continuing to plunge into the depths of the ocean, appearing to bleed into it like an open wound, vanishing forever when it would appear good as new the next day to give the world light, and joy, and *color*.

My parents had packed up our little beach set; Mom was holding the umbrella and had it slung into her shoulder. She coughed for a second. I, meanwhile, had trotted back near the shore, back in my sandals.

It was time to leave and say farewell. Tonight began the long trip back to Pineshadow, and with it the fights with traffic, the hot, stuffy environment, camping out in forests, and long roads and what music channel had the good music to listen to (seriously, just pick an older channel; I don't want to hear Gwen Stefani saying it's bananas and then painfully spelling it out for a thousand years).

"Winterlyn! Time to go!" Mom exclaimed, waving at me. I turned to face her, taking a step when I stopped.

I couldn't move any further. My body didn't want to.

Instead, it turned right back to the *ocean* straight on command, and my eyes met the sparking expanse of blue water, now tinted in the shades of the sunset, for a second time.

It was on sight, as instantly, I *snapped* to it, and the world began to tune out around me again. There was nothing, nothing but me and the shores and the serenity.

I was *home*. At my secondary home, the shelter that Heartbeat Point had given me.

The ocean's waves bit at my sandals, water soaking the soles of my feet, and I inhaled the salt-laden air.

"Winterlyn!" Mom yelled, making her yell at bit more pointed, and she hacked into her hand slightly. Due to her lupus, her throat was not well cut out for higher-pitched noises.

I ignored her, much to her astonishment, and took a step *closer* to the ocean.

I heard the late squawks of seagulls, some flying over my head, and the ocean's tides thrashed higher, grabbing my ankles but not pulling me into its yawning depths, but rather playing it me, wanting me to stay just for a little longer.

I heard its demands loud and clear, and playfully, I kicked sand into its depths. The tide returned the favor and dumped more sand at my feet.

"*Winterlyn*!" Father yelled this time, making a move toward me. To him, it appeared like I wasn't paying attention.

But no. I had a mission.

The ocean *needed* me, just for one final time. My heartbeat was flying again, going at the speed of sound, and warmth coursed through my body until it was static. There was electricity, there was certainness, there was *conviction*.

A flare. A spark.

It had all built up in me and glowed...

"*Winterlyn*, it's time to *go*-"

And then, without warning, I let it soar into the air like a Chinese lantern.

Kneeling down onto the beach, I splashed a current of water right onto Father's shirt, laughing as a tide crashed down over me, soaking my hair and plastering it to my face and neck.

Father looked at me, his eyes seeing me as a lunatic and devious child, and he opened his mouth, ready to rebuke me.

Instead, the magic of Heartbeat Point erupted in him as it did in me, and he laughed, also kneeling down and splashing the water at my already-drenched body.

"Oh you two!" Mom snorted, having no choice but to join in, and we frolicked on the beachshore, just us, the others having long left, throwing water and sand onto each other, and laughing, and hugging, and dancing, and running with the current as it pulled out and in.

We played, soared, splashed, and triumphed, and by the very end, the sun had nearly disappeared from the sky. It was dark outside, the last part of the sun spilling into the ocean, and the oranges, pinks, and purples became no more than a memory.

As I left Heartbeat Point that day, making the climb back up to the cliff and the car, a new feeling welled in my heart, one of pride, one unique, but familiar only to me and what I had come to learn.

I was *connected* to nature. No doubt about it, I had seen *everything* in that ocean, *saw* what the ocean had, and *felt* what it had wanted me to do. When I was with nature, I was *free* to do what I *wanted*. There was nothing holding me *back*.

When I ran wild, I found I had so many chapters of my life to fill, and I would *fill* them all.

When I left California and the charming, *everlasting* shores of Heartbeat Point behind, I made a secret vow to myself.

I would *always*, *always* follow the rhythm - what my heart desired outlasted the will of *others*.

*Follow the rhythm*, I told myself, and the words stuck for the rest of my life.

Whew! For only the first chapter, *that* was a lot of information. It's probably going to be like this for the remainder of my time to talk, so sit back, relax, and get ready.

That being said: *liberty* is consecrated. *Liberty* is a blessing, granted to few, to those who *deserve* it. Liberty was a feeling of bliss, and belonging, to enjoy oneself and to not let any other thoughts prevent you from *being* you. Personal freedom and just being *free* is a huge part of what *builds* our autonomy, and it's very well-woven into mine, with me ever since that fateful trip to California.

It changed me in more ways than one. It brought me and my parents closer together, granting us years of memories worth remembering and sharing.

But major winds of change were on the horizon, blowing in my direction and fast. My childhood innocence was strong, but it had tests to face.

So when those innocences began to shed, I myself began to dive into a whole other world.

And this world was where the lines of reality began to *blur*.

## Cast

* **Mae Whitman** as Winter
	+ **Hala Finley** as young Winter
* **Cozi Zuehlsdorff** as Lorelei
* **Jim Pirri** as Edwin
* **Timothy Olyphant** as Saul
* **Dee Bradley Baker** and **Kari Wahlgren** as additional voices

## Songs

* Varien - *Snowlight*
* Vicetone - *Nevada* (ft. Cozi Zuehlsdorff)
* WRLD - *By Design*

## Trivia

* The chapter is heavily inspired by the WRLD song *By Design*, which makes an appearance itself when Winter visits Heartbeat Point. The song plays in its full duration as she explores the beach and vows to "follow the rhythm," the hook line of the song.
	+ The poster is also a redraw of the *By Design* cover art.
* What Winter is quoting at the beginning of the chapter are the verses to the Varien song *Dawn Will Bring Us Death*, which is what the fourth chapter is named after.
* In her opening monologue, Winter references both *Snowblind* by Au5 and *The Girl* by Hellberg, two of her many theme songs.
* As Winter's earliest memories are showcased, the Varien song *Snowlight* plays in the background. *Snowlight* is heavily tied into her name etymology, and the chapter is partially named after *Snowlight* itself.
* Winter's mannerisms as a child, such as her vocabulary and mispronunciations, are inspired by some of Av's own behaviors when she was little.
* Winter's old house is essentially, to Av, the former house of her grandmother, who died in September 2022. The only difference is that instead of a pool in the back, the yard houses a garden tended to by Lorelei.
* It is revealed that:
	+ Winter was born on December 15th, 1999, therefore making *Evie and Mya* as a whole take place in 2012.
	+ Winter's middle name, Falin, is actually her mother's maiden name. Lorelei's full name before marrying Edwin was Lorelei Falin.
	+ It was Winter's father who named her Winterlyn, and the name stuck with him and Lorelei.
	+ Winter bears a striking resemblance to her mother, which disappointed her father, as she barely inherited any traits from him (other than her short temper, which she does not disclose in this chapter).
		- She also shares her wild curiosity and love of nature and the stars with her mother.
	+ Winter was born small and spent extra weeks in the hospital out of doctors' fears that she could have inherited her mother's lupus genes. When she was deemed healthy and lupus-free, she was allowed to be taken home.
	+ Winter almost died in her youth twice:
		- She nearly consumed her mother's lupus medication, which would have had disasterous effects on her young body.
		- She almost got hit by the truck belonging to her neighbor, Saul.
	+ Winter's favorite movie is *The Fox and the Hound*.
	+ The pictures that would later be stored by Winter in her box were taken with her mother's Polaroid, one of the most valuable assets in the McCormick house. The photos were hung on a wire in the kitchen.
	+ Winter's first word was "snow."
	+ Winter learned to walk rather fast.
	+ Winter enjoyed her mother reading bedtime stories to her, and her favorites were *Goodnight Already!*, *Click Clack Moo*, and *The Snow Queen*.
		- Winter also enjoyed her mother's cooking.
	+ Winter was prohibited from going into the Piney Woods from a young age due to her father believing the woods were dangerous.
	+ Winter went to a Seattle Mariners game when she was four, which ultimately ended with a blowout Mariners loss.
		- T-Mobile Park's former name of Safeco Field is used in the chapter, as the place still goes by Safeco Field in the *Evie and Mya* timeline.
	+ Winter's parents first met and later married at a fictional beach in California known as Heartbeat Point.
		- When she was five, Winter was taken to Heartbeat Point, and the sight of the beach permanently bound her to her love of nature. To this date, it is one of her most sacred memories, and because of the trip, she'll always "follow the rhythm" in her heart.
* When Winter mispronounces Yahweh's name repeatedly, she accidentally references or almost directly names Chinese technology corporation Huawei and *Minecraft* YouTuber Huahwi.
* Winter comparing her father to Roz from *Monsters, Inc*. is actually a fitting comparison since Roz always had her eyes on Mike throughout the film.
* The mention of Tuesday Morning being Lorelei's go-to place to shop for home goods in Pineshadow, as well as the additional information that the location is now permanently closed, is hilarious to Av, as Tuesday Morning itself would go out of business just two months after she wrote that scene.
* Lorelei shopping for her spices at Penzeys is a reference to how Av's grandmother used to do the same thing.
* One of Lorelei's shirts, the one with a coffee mug, was a shirt Av's mother used to wear when Av was four.
* Winter stating that nostalgic hipsters saved the Polaroid is a reference to a rhyme of Av's from fifth grade: "Polaroid almost died, but the nostalgic hipsters kept it alive."
* Lorelei reading through a Montgomery Ward catalog is ironic, as around the time she is reading it, Montgomery Ward would collapse and shutter all of its locations. However, the company still lives on today with modern catalogs, which Av's grandmother used to collect.
* Winter watching Weatherscan is an allusion to how Av used to be obsessed with the channel in her childhood.
* Lorelei's herb book, *Culpeper's Herbal Remedies*, was the actual guide Victoria Holmes used when writing the herbs featured in the *Warriors* book series.
* The bird carved in the doorframe is likely a hummingbird given that it is Winter's spirit animal.
* Winter obtaining tortillas from a stand at one of the supermarkets is a reference to a frequent event in Av's childhood: she would receive fresh tortillas from stands at either Central Market or Kroger.
* As Winter and her family travel to California, the Vicetone song *Nevada* is heard in the background. Notably, *Nevada* features the voice of Lorelei, Cozi Zuehlsdorff, as the vocalist of the song.
	+ The chapter's release date and the appearance of *Nevada* unintentionally coincide with the seventh anniversary of the song's release.
* Winter being dubious over Hollister being founded in California is a reference to the faux lore created for the clothing company by its owner, Abercrombie & Fitch. Supposedly, Hollister was founded in 1922 in California, though Abercrombie, in actuality, created Hollister in Ohio in 2000.
* When Winter notes that she "knows someone" who'd "openly disagree" with her father's support of the Washington Huskies, she is referring to Daniela, who in canon is a major fan of Washington State.
* Winter stating that it's "always sunny in Philadelphia" is a nod to *It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia*.
* After Winter notices a plane belonging to America West Airlines, she asks her parents if they'll ever fly them, and her mother points out that the airline was in the process of merging with US Airways. Although the two airlines would not fully merge until 2007, both had started to engage in merger talks by the time the scene takes place.