It seemed just like any other ordinary day in Shimla. Except—it was not.
That day, the snow, forgetting its pure white hue, was tainted a deep crimson red. It was horrific. Yet, beside a pile of bloodied snow, a girl knelt. She wasn't crying or wailing, but the sorrow in her eyes was unmistakable. Her mind was hazy, her thoughts barricaded, and her body so heavy she couldn't lift a finger. She appeared perfectly fine on the outside, but within, her mind and heart were drowning in a turbulent sea of emotion.
She was anxious. Shattered. Silently grieving.
Her mouth uttered no sound, and her mind offered no clarity. If it had been any other day, she'd probably be at the university teaching something complex—like Euler's product formula or Gaussian integrals. Instead, she was kneeling, motionless.
Of course, one could guess why.
Her fiancé had been brutally murdered. Her brother—her only family—was behind bars, accused of killing his best friend, who also happened to be her fiancé. Her world was crumbling.
As the sirens faded into the distance, she slowly returned to her senses. Voices encircled her. Some cried. Others whispered. Familiar faces called out, trying to snap her back to reality.
Snow continued falling, blanketing the crimson stains until they vanished.
She tried to stand but fell. Thankfully, helping hands steadied her. Eventually, she walked home—now as hollow as her eyes, which had lost their sparkle. Her mind played tricks, flashing illusions of the past—an irreversible past.
She collapsed again, only to awaken in a hospital bed, her best friend at her side. A tube connected her veins to a bottle of glucose. She heard a doctor discussing her condition with a policeman.
When her eyes fluttered open, the doctor flashed a light in them, asking questions.
"Who are you? How do you feel?"
She wanted to scream: I'm dead inside. I feel horrible.
But she answered plainly.
Once the doctor was satisfied, the officer stepped forward, ready to bombard her with questions. A new face. A stranger. She knew nearly every officer in her town—after all, both her brother and her fiancé had been one.
"Why are you crying?" a voice cut into her thoughts.
She blinked, surprised to find herself holding a book—and crying. Not like her at all. Her nickname was Porcelain Doll, known for her emotionless composure.
Yet something about the story broke her.
She was amazed at how familiar those characters felt.
A beep from her phone snapped her back.
Kids are hungry, read the message.
She looked up. The children's hair was turning white.