Snow fell steadily from a pale gray sky, soft and relentless, coating the cobblestones in white. Bare trees stood like silent witnesses, their branches heavy with frost. Street vendors huddled beneath wool scarves and steaming breath, their voices muted by the thick air. Children dragged sleds across the square, laughter echoing sharply before dissolving into the cold. Elderly couples sat wrapped in blankets, watching the snowfall as if it were a slow, solemn performance.
It looked like an ordinary winter day.
One that would be forgotten by nightfall.
But for three people, that day would divide their lives into before and after.
Eleven-year-old Clara Whitlock walked across the frozen plaza with boots two sizes too big and a coat patched at the elbows. Snow clung to the hem of her dress and melted into dark stains. Her fingers were red and cracked from the cold, yet she didn’t hurry.
She walked as if guided by something unseen.