As the snow fell, you slept and were buried in the drifts. When the white sun glowed, the snow crawled into the ocean, and you lay there, frozen in the cold. At last, you crack open your eyes, fragmenting the ice over your lids. You stir. Your skin frozen, clear porcelain and smooth. You lay there for months, cracking your chest to breathe.
The air laces your lungs with frost. From where you lay, you can see thick grooves in the beach--there were boats here. While you were asleep.
Where are you?
You breathe. Your ball-jointed limbs jerk, unfamiliar with their stiff movements. The stem of your stump hardened, with dots of white bone where the buds used to be. You breathe, and slowly you rise.
Letters, memories of voices as you slept below the snow. Where are you? they asked. Voices lost in the rolling sea. For a moment you falter, sinking with your elbows in the sand, your china head heavy. It hurts, but you rise, and trembling under the weight of gravity you totter to your feet.
There. A boat on the horizon. So far away but clearly heading in your direction. Blinking, ice falls from your face and facets in the light.
