Tale 67- The Winter Wanderer

 The snow was thick and swirling around the Traveler as she walked, the girl wishing she had a light to find her way easier. Shivering, she saw a light in the distance and despite her inhibitions, walked toward it. If Sarafelle had taught her anything, it was the value of trusting strangers with good intentions. Though there were plenty of rotten apples, a true friend was worth more than any wealth. The wind pushed her forward, the girl gently touching the frozen brass knocker, before firmly tapping. A young woman answered the door, covered in a shawl and shivering slightly from the wind. Recognizing the girl was just a pauper, she invited her in and stoked the fire, explaining she only had one bed but that the Traveler was welcome to rest on the sofa. Sitting down, the nice woman draped a blanket around the girl and gave her a pillow she’d sewn herself, the Traveler then realizing she was a seamstress. The woman was working on a long dress covered in furs and warm layers, the Traveler watching her sew, repeating the same motion. She wondered if Sarafelle sewed, considering her clothes looked pretty handmade and reminded her of how the Traveler’s own mother would sew their clothes. Shirts, baby clothes, dresses, her mother could create anything, and she felt the same warm aura from this seamstress. The lady smiled at the Traveler, and offered to tell her why she was sewing such a garment. Nodding, the Traveler took out her book, preparing to write the tale of ‘the Winter Wanderer’

‘Once a year, a mysterious woman with snowflake freckles and beautiful crystalline eyes appears from seemingly nowhere, dressed in a ragged garment that has been worn out by the year past. She travels far and wide and brings the snow with her each time, decorating the world in flurries and sparkles of white, no tree left untouched. Each year, she visits the home of a seamstress, decorating the windows in curls of frost and the doorways with the trickles of icicles. The carpet even freezes up when she steps on it, but her heart is warmer than the sun, so the seamstress pays it no heed. Each year, she sews a warm, fluffy coat and dress for the wanderer, with a considerable discount, and in return, the wanderer often brings her rare fabrics and treasures to keep her business and money afloat. When she departs, the snow remains still, as a reminder of the times they shared, and will share henceforth.’

The woman smiled, explaining she was anticipating the wanderer and almost panicked, thinking she was the Traveler. The Traveler gave a smile, before dozing off slightly, eyes locked onto the flickering flames that reminded her no longer of that painful night, but of warm hearts.

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