That December day, you stood at the winter fair, admiring your most precious ice sculpture⸺I, your muse. From the bridge of her nose to the curve of her spine, she resembled me entirely. Although you carved us both, she seemed immortal, while I had long been deceased. 

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As you continued to chisel details into your sculpture, occasionally you would glance into her cold eyes. Reflecting back at you was always the same distorted figure. You never looked long enough to realize that the figure was an image of the fractured man you had become. 

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Bustling people stopped to admire your sculpture, but your gaze never waivered. For a moment, you thought it was me on that pedestal⸺a testament to your skill and your etched memory of me. Just like you had before you bid me a final goodbye, you leaned forward pressing your soft cheek against her icy one.

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Numbed by the cold, you wrapped your arms around her frail body as tears began to form. Under the warmth of your embrace and the salt of your tears, slowly, she began to hollow; her ice turned to water.

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Without hesitation, as the devoted father that you were, you reached for a bucket and tried to collect the drops as they dispersed. From above, I could see you grasping at the parts of me that had begun to melt away. And the people who had gathered around to witness a commotion, instead, watched as you anguished in a profound puddle of grief.