5 The Frost

...

It felt like forever since I last reincarnated into this world, and I grew fed up with it. With my last shred of hope, I prayed that I was still on Earth. I started developing excuses to assure myself that I would surely return to my human body.

But for now, dragging my way along the forest floor, I was resolved to find an exit out of this god-forsaken forest.

My claws were killing me, and my mind was as lost as it could be. I lost all sense in my feet.

A rock broke my trek, making me fall on my beak. I was too tired to think any longer.

'Maybe I'll just rest for a bit...'

And so I laid there in the cold snow.

Yet, I somehow felt lonelier in its embrace.

...All of a sudden, I missed home.

There in the white forest, I lay on the ground. The tips of my wings and the bottom of my tail numbed by the cold, and succumbing to frostbite.

The dark night held up stars in the unfamiliar sky, providing the illusion that the snow blanketing me felt warm.

I sank into a daze, wondering when this day would end; when I would go back to living my life as a disabled human. I wished it were a dream. I didn't want to live as a bird or whatever the hell I became.

I never asked for any of this.

Maybe, if I let my body rest here, I would return to Earth. Then, I would go back to having my regular life. Even if it's without a father or a caring mother, at least I'd still have the privilege of being human.

'...Maybe this is all just a wild dream?' I thought while closing my eyes, allowing the cold to encase my body in a layer of snow.

'Chirp.'

...

Wooden sandals strolled on the ground covered in snow. Oddly enough, no footprints followed.

The old man, to whom the sandals belonged, hummed a sweet song. His braided beard moved up and down with each note. The tune reverberated through the deep forest.

A black cloak draped over his shoulders, coming close to but not touching the ground. With his pale skin and black horns, he looked demonic. His black eyes scanned the forest ground, then shot to his right instantaneously. Out of the brush, something resembling a fox leaped out. It attacked the old man with a vicious, slobbering mouth.

But before the fox could come any closer, it fell to the ground, almost as if it had lost every muscle in its body. Its feet twitched, and the creature's eyes rolled back. A thin cut appeared on its neck, growing wider and releasing more blood.

The head detached from its body.

The old man looked down at the thing without much emotion, casually grabbing the body by the tail and slinging it over his shoulder. He trudged on in the deep forest, leaving the head of a fox head in the snow, which the ground swallowed.

He weighed the thing, a wide smile crawling on his wrinkled face, "I've caught a plump one today. Tonight will be a feast!"

The sweet tune returned to his joyful beard as his jolly sandals carried him back to a cottage of wood and stone. The construction was clumsy, but stable enough to reside in. It was hidden in such an inconspicuous spot that one would have trouble finding it even with directions.

The old man hobbled into the house with the fox over his shoulders.

The home's interior was humble, with only a table and chair, a small bed, and a tiny kitchen. There were two rooms behind separated doors. It was smaller than a regular apartment but was enough for one to live everyday life. It seemed like he was the only one who stayed there.

The old man threw his cloak over the chair, revealing his burly body; it was covered in scars and large, recently stitched wounds. One had to wonder who or what caused his injuries.

He headed over to the kitchen to prepare the fox. The old man didn't do much prep work, nor attempt to disinfect it; he simply threw it in a large pot of boiled water, fur and all, and let the water do its work.

Sitting in his chair, he massaged his shoulders and looked around, bored. It wasn't long before he got up and grabbed his cloak for a stroll around the area while waiting for his meal.

The cold chill of the dark forest sunk into his skin, and his eyes glazed over the platters of scattered snow. He was too familiar with this forest; knowing every twist and turn, he never got lost. The mystical winter wonderland received no reaction from the elder. He'd lost count of how many times he'd seen the same scene.

Bored of the forest, he started hating the color white; yet for some reason, he didn't leave.

He glanced up at the forest canopy to gauge the time, and decided to head back. But just as he was about to turn around, he paused. His pointy ears twitched. The old man turned around and walked behind a tree, seeing nothing but a pile of dead leaves and white snow.

Out of nowhere, he bent down and dug the snow, and discovered a shivering newborn bird underneath. The expression on his was was indescribable. As he was about to walk away, the man stopped once more. His eyes looked reminiscing, mixed with longing.

Cupping his hands, he picked up the dying bird. A sigh escaped his mouth.

He returned to the cottage with swift steps, the bird in his cold, pale hands. He could tell it didn't have much longer to live.

He entered the cottage and swiftly wrapped it in a warm blanket. Setting it on a small pillow, he stared helplessly as it shivered. Unfamiliar with taking care of others and unsure of what else to do, he snapped his fingers, and a small flame lit on his hand.

All he could do now was wait and hope for the best.

Warm, black eyes stared at the bird, and another long sigh left him.

...