The snow has not stopped for seven days.
It falls without interruption, without apology—a slow, relentless curtain of white that has buried Crystal Country in a silence so complete it feels almost sacred. The gardens of Roselle Mansion, once a carefully tended tapestry of green and bloom, have disappeared beneath winter's weight.
Only the winter jasmine still shows its face—tiny yellow blossoms, stubborn and brave, pushing through the snow like whispered promises that spring will eventually return.
Today, we leave for X Country.
The car waits at the bottom of the steps, black and sleek against the endless white, its engine humming softly in the frozen air. Secretary Nick stands beside the open door, holding an umbrella over me with his usual practiced patience. Snow gathers on the black fabric before sliding off in quiet rivulets, disappearing into the white below.
