The Shadow of the Gypsy on the Fresh Snow

**The Shadow of the Gypsy on White Snow**

The crisp, icy air of January seemed forever stained with the scent of burnt candles from the Christmas tree and the bitter tang of Mums tears. Those last days in the city blurred into a single painful memory. Alicethat was the girls name nowhadnt even made it to the school carnival. Mum, through trembling fingers and quiet sobs, had nearly finished sewing her a costume of the Mistress of the Copper Mountain, stitching green glass beads onto the dress so they shimmered like real emeralds. But the celebration never happened. Instead, there was only the endless, lulling train journey, snow-covered fields stretching beyond the window like a vast quilt, and the cold knot of grief lodged in her chest.

Dad he simply ceased to be. Not physically, no. He just dissolved, vanished from their lives as though hed never existed. Then came Grandmahis motherwith a face as sharp and hard as an axe. Her words carved themselves into Alices memory, precise, lethal: “We only tolerated you for his sake. A tree should be felled cleanly. Go back to your village where you belong. Hell pay child support, but no contact. None.”

And so they stood before the sagging but cosy cottage in the snow-dusted village square, unloading their meagre belongings under the watchful eyes of neighbours whod gathered as though for a spectacle. Some stared with sour pity. Others with barely concealed spite. Once, Mum had said, these same people had fawned over her, the “city girl” whod married well. Now they saw only an exile, dethroned.

School began in an instant. The new classroom met her with icy silence and prickling stares. She was an outsidera white crow in a dress that now felt foolish, with ribbons that screamed naivety. The girls, a cackling flock, pounced immediately.

“Look at Pinocchio in a skirt!” someone shrieked. “Legs like matchsticks!”

Alice shrank inward, willing herself invisible, but their gazes burned through her.

After school, the torment continued. The fresh snow that had seemed so inviting that morning became a weapon. Hard-packed snowballs, fuelled by cruelty, flew from every direction. Each strike stole her breath, forced tears to her eyes. She fell to her knees, arms over her head, ready to dissolve into the drift.

Thenchaos. The laughter turned to shouts of alarm and pain.

“Bomb em, city girl! Go on!”

She lifted her tear-streaked face. A boy stood shielding her, hurling snowballs with terrifying speed and fury until their tormentors scattered.

“Run! Its the Gypsy!”

He turned to her. And yes, he did look like a gypsy from a storybooktanned skin, messy dark curls escaping from his woollen cap, eyes like burning coals alight with mischief. He tried to seem rough, hands on hips, grin cocky, but his smilewhen it camewas startlingly kind.

“Youre the one from the city? Im Max. Short for Maximilian. Cry again, and theyll come back. Stop. From now on, youre under my protection.”

He said it with solemn, borrowed grandeur, then flushed at his own dramatics.

That was how their friendship began. Max wasnt actually a gypsyjust nicknamed for his looks. They were startlingly alike, both devouring books from the creaking village library. Max had already torn through Jules Verne and Jack London. Their shared obsession was adventure. Theyd sit for hours on the hill overlooking the Thames, wind whipping their faces, watching barges drift toward the unknown. He dreamed of sailing the world; she of singing on a grand stage, her voice carrying across oceans.

Years passed. Childhood friendship melted into something deeper, trembling and bright. His father bought him a motorbike, and it became their ticket to freedom. They raced down country lanes, wind roaring in their ears, her arms tight around his waist as she whooped with joy. They fished in distant lakes, picked blackberries in the woods, rode “to the edge of the world,” as they called it.

“Alice, youre blinding today. Prettier than yesterday,” hed say, eyes darting away, though hed sneak glances. “But stay clear of those city boys. They swarm around you like bees to honey.”

“Max, is that jealousy?” shed laugh, heart singing at his clumsy words.

And how could he not be jealous? The ugly duckling had become a swan. Her voicerich, velvetwon every village concert. She took first prize in the county talent show. There was a magic in her now, a beauty that shone from within: her grey eyes turned vivid green, her walk light and sure. And he? He remained just Max, the “Gypsy,” who felt lumbering and plain beside her.

Then came that sweltering June. Exams were done. Only graduation remained before universitytheyd both dreamed of studying journalism together. That day, Alice had a final rehearsal. Max had been asked by a neighbour to fetch medicine from town. He never said no.

On his way back, the sky split open. Rain fell in biblical sheets, lightning searing the air. Thunder drowned all sound.

Alice was singing her last song when dread clawed at her throat. Something was wrong. The air itself felt charged.

Then the door crashed open. A classmate stood there, drenched, sobbing. “MaxAlice, its Maxthe rainthe lorryhe didnt see”

The world didnt tilt. It shattered. Sound vanished. There was only silence, and the scream she couldnt hear tearing from her own lungs.

There was no graduation. Only a black dress, a coffin too small to hold her universe, and silence. She never sang again. Her voice had died with him.

Every evening, like clockwork, she went to him. The cemetery became their new sanctuary. There, under rustling leaves or crunching snow, she talked to him for hoursabout her day, about Mum, about how much she missed him. She tortured herself with memories, replaying that day, searching for the moment she could have changed it: if shed stopped him, begged him to wait out the storm A futile, agonising ritual.

Years passed. Studies, then work. She became a brilliant journalist, then editor at a regional broadcaster. Career, respect, wealthshe had it all. And nothing. Emptiness was her constant companion.

Once, years later, she asked her mothergrey-haired, wearywhy time hadnt healed her.

“Mum, why does it still hurt? Hes still here. I feel him every second. He wont let go.”

Her mother looked at her with infinite sorrow. “Sweetheart perhaps its you who wont let go?”

After a long, leaden winter, spring arrived at last. Sunlight warmed faces; people spilled into the streets. Alice, walking home, turned down an unfamiliar laneand froze.

“Gypsy, over here! Go on!”

Her heart stopped. Blood pounded in her temples. Slowly, afraid to scare the vision away, she turned.

On the football pitch, a match raged. At its centrea tan, dark-haired boy of about eleven. He dribbled past opponents, struck the ball into makeshift goals with fierce precision.

Alice leaned against the cold fence, barely breathing. The boy noticed her stare. Their eyes met. Flustered, she looked away and hurried off.

But she returned the next day. And the next. She hid behind oak trees, drinking in his features. Learned the building nearby was a childrens home. Her heart ached with painful hope.

One evening, she arrived to an empty pitch. Dusk thickened. Disappointed, she turned to leavethen saw him. He stood at the far fence, fingers gripping the mesh, watching her. Waiting.

“I thought you werent coming,” he said softly.

Her breath caught. “Lets introduce ourselves. Im Alice. And you?”

“Maximilian. But everyone calls me Max. And no, Im not a gypsy. Just tan.” He smiled. And it was *that* smilekind, shy, eyes crinkling. Her Maxs smile.

The next day, Alice sat in the directors office. Her decision was unmovable.

“I want to adopt Maximilian.”

The director, a tired-eyed woman, raised her brows. Boys his age were rarely chosen. His story was simple: parents lost in a crash, raised by a grandmother whod since passed.

When the paperwork was done and Max crossed her threshold, he told her one last thing.

“My grandmother she read cards. People came to her. Before she died, she took my hand and said, Dont fear, my boy. You wont be here long. A woman will come for you. Beautiful. Kind. Wait for her.” He met Alices gaze. “I did. And when I saw you by the fence, I knew. It was you.”

**P.S.**

Twenty years passed. Max grew into a strong, confident man with a wonderful wife and a mischievous son who shared their features. He no longer