The Shadow of the Wanderer on the Fresh Snow

The Shadow of the Gypsy on White Snow

The crisp, icy air of January seems forever stained by the scent of burnt candles from the Christmas tree and the bitter taste of Mums unchecked tears. The last days in the city blurred past like a painful, unfocused memory. Emilythat was the girls name nownever even made it to the school carnival. Mum, between sobs and trembling hands, had still managed to stitch her a costume of the Snow Queen, embellishing the silver dress with sequins that shimmered like real diamonds. But the celebration never happened. Instead, there was an endless, swaying train journey, snowy fields outside the window like a vast patchwork quilt, and a frozen lump of sorrow lodged beneath her ribs.

Dad he simply ceased to be. Not physically, no. He just dissolved, vanished from their lives as if hed never existed. And then came Grandma, his mother, with a face as sharp and hard as an axe. Her words carved into Emilys memory forever, precise, lethal: *”We only tolerated you for our sons sake. A tree must be felled cleanly. Go back to your village, where you belong. Hell pay child support, but no contact. None.”*

And now they stoodon a snow-covered village square before Grandmas crooked but cosy cottage. They unloaded their meagre belongings under the scrutiny of dozens of curious eyes. Neighbours. Theyd come out as if for a show. Some watched in silent, sour pity. Others barely hid their spiteful glee. Once, Emily remembered Mum saying, these same people had fawned over the “city girl” whod married well. Now, they only saw a fallen woman, cast from her pedestal.

The holidays ended in a blink. The new school greeted her with icy silence and prickly, probing stares. She was an outsider. A black sheep in a city dress, with ribbons that now seemed absurdly naive. The girls, a cackling flock of magpies, swooped in at once.

*”Look at Little Miss Fancy!”* someone shrieked with laughter. *”Legs like twigs!”*

Emily hunched, willing herself invisible, but their stares burned right through her.

After school, the torment continued. The pure, fluffy snow that had charmed her in the morning became a weapon. Snowballs, packed with hatred, flew from all directions. Each strike was precise, cruel, knocking the breath from her lungs as treacherous tears threatened to spill. She dropped to her knees, shielding her head, ready to dissolve into the snowdrift.

Thenchaotic shrieks turned to shouts of fear and pain.

*”Go on, city girl! Give it back!”* rang out a bright, reckless voice above her.

She lifted her tear-streaked face. A boy stood before her, shielding her, hurling snowballs with such speed and fury that the bullies scattered like leaves.

*”Run! Its wild Jack!”*

He turned to her. Yes, he *did* look like a gypsy from a storybookdark skin, unruly black curls escaping from an old woolly hat, and eyes like burning coals, alive with mischief. He tried to act tough, hands on hips, gaze defiant, but the smile tugging at his lips was startlingly kind.

*”Youre the one from London, yeah? Im Jack. Well, Jackie to mates. Cry again, and theyll be back. Enough. From today, youre under my protection. No one touches you.”*

He said it with theatrical gravity, clearly borrowing the line from somewhere, then flushed crimson at his own dramatics.

And so their friendship began. Jack wasnt really a gypsythe nickname stuck for his looks. They were startlingly alike, both devouring books from the creaky, musty village library. Jack had already torn through every Jules Verne and Robert Louis Stevenson. Their shared obsession was adventure. Theyd spend hours on the hill above the River Thames, wind whipping their faces, watching boats drift toward the unknown. They shared dreamshed sail the world; shed sing on stages across the ocean.

Years passed. Childhood friendship melted into something deeper, tender and unspoken. His dad 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, chased the horizon just for the thrill of it.

*”Em youre glowing today. Prettier than yesterday,”* hed mutter, eyes darting away, but stealing glances all the same. *”Just stay away from those posh city boys. Theyll swarm you like bees to honey.”*

*”Jack, is that jealousy talking?”* shed tease, heart singing at his clumsy words.

And how could he not be jealous? The ugly duckling had become a swan. Her voicerich, velvet, powerfulleft crowds spellbound. No village fair was complete without her. She won the countys talent show. There was a magic in her now, a radiance: her plain grey eyes turned vivid green, her walk sure and graceful. And he he stayed the same, “gypsy” Jack, who felt awkward and ordinary beside her.

Then came that sweltering June. Exams were done. Just graduation, then off to London for university. Theyd both dreamed of studying journalism, imagined sharing a flat. That day, Emily had her final rehearsal for the school play. Jack had gone to fetch medicine for old Mrs. Wilkinshe never said no to anyone.

On his way back, the sky split open. Rain fell in biblical sheets, lightning searing the dark, thunder shaking the earth.

Emily was singing her last song when her chest tightened with primal dread. Something was wrong. The air itself crackled with disaster.

Then the hall doors burst open. A classmate stood there, soaked, wild-eyed, sobbing.

*”Jack Em, Jacks”* she choked. *”The rain he couldnt see the lorry”*

The world didnt fade. It shattered. Sound vanished. Only silence, and the raw, animal scream tearing from her own throat.

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

Every evening, like clockwork, she visited 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 couldve changed it: begged him to wait, called him, *something.*

Years slipped byuniversity, then a career. She became a brilliant journalist, then editor of a regional paper. Success, respect, comfort. She had everything. And nothing. Emptiness was her constant companion.

Once, years later, she asked Mumgrey-haired, weary, never recovered from losing both a husband and the boy shed loved like a son

*”Why doesnt time heal? Hes still with me. Every second. He wont let go.”*

Mum looked at her with infinite sadness. *”Love, maybe *you* wont let *him* go.”*

After a long, leaden winter, spring finally came. Sunlight warmed her face as she walked home, detouring through an unfamiliar neighbourhood. Thena shout, piercing as a knife.

*”Oi, Gypsy! Over here!”*

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

On a scruffy football pitch, a game was raging. At its centrea dark-haired boy, maybe eleven, weaving past opponents with effortless grace before slamming the ball into a makeshift goal.

Emily gripped the cold chain-link fence, barely breathing. The boy noticed her stare. Their eyes met. Flustered, she looked away and hurried off.

But the next day, she returned. And the next. She hid behind old oak trees, studying his face. Learned the three-storey building nearby was a childrens home. Her heart ached with painful hope.

One evening, she arrived to an empty pitch. Dusk was falling. Disappointed, she turned to leavethen saw him. He stood at the far fence, fingers tangled in the wire, watching her. Waiting.

*”Thought you werent coming,”* he said softly.

Her breath caught. *”Lets start over. Im Emily. And you?”*

*”Jack. But everyone calls me Jackie. And no, Im not a gypsy. Just dark.”* He smiled. And it was *his* smilekind, shy, crinkling at the eyes. Her Jacks smile.

The next day, she sat in the directors office. Her mind was made up.

*”I want to adopt Jack.”*

The director, a tired-eyed woman, raised her brows. Boys his age were rarely chosen. His story was sad but simpleparents gone in a crash, raised by a grandmother whod passed years ago.

When the paperwork was done and Jack crossed