A Winter Story by Sylvia Moon

It was meant to be a simple walk.

Lillian had suggested it — which, as she often reminds me, is never code for adventure. “Just a stroll,” she said that morning, “and then tea and cake at the new café by the lower gate.”

The sun was low but bright, the kind of pale winter light that makes everything seem polished and far away. Kimberley Park was quiet — the trees bare, their branches etched black against the sky, and a faint scent of salt drifting up from the harbour. Children’s laughter carried faintly from somewhere near the bandstand, though when we passed it, the benches were empty.

I said as much to Lillian.
“Echoes,” she replied briskly. “Sound carries strangely in cold air.”

I wasn’t convinced.

We walked slowly along the main path, the gravel crunching beneath our boots. Frost lingered on the grass like silver dust, and the old oaks seemed to lean closer than usual.

Halfway down the avenue, we noticed something peculiar.

The park’s central fountain — long out of use, its basin dry and filled with leaves — was running. Water spilled gently from the stone cherub’s jar, even though the pipes had been sealed years ago. The water shimmered faintly, tinged with the palest blue.

Lillian frowned. “Must be a burst pipe from the mains.”

“Or a blessing,” I said.

She shot me a look. “Let’s just hope it’s not sewage.”

We laughed — softly, because the sound seemed too loud for that still place.

Then we saw the footprints.

Small, light, and bare. They led from the fountain toward the shaded path that curved behind the rose garden — a place I’ve always found oddly unsettling, even in summer.

Lillian hesitated, which for her is practically panic. “Someone’s walking without shoes. We should—”

“Follow?” I suggested.

She sighed. “I was going to say call someone. But yes, apparently, we’re following.”

The footprints glimmered faintly, as though dusted with frost from within. We followed them under the yews, where the light dimmed and the air grew cold enough to mist our breath.

The path forked — and at its centre stood a girl.

She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, wearing a pale blue dress quite unsuited for winter. Her hair was white-blonde, her skin almost translucent. She was humming — a tune I didn’t recognise, though it made my chest ache with the feeling of remembering something I’d forgotten.

Lillian stepped forward, her voice gentle. “Hello, dear. Are you lost?”

The girl looked up. Her eyes were the colour of old glass.

“I’m not lost,” she said. “But you nearly were.”

Lillian froze. “I beg your pardon?”

The girl tilted her head, listening to something we couldn’t hear. “It’s closing now,” she whispered. “You should go.”

The air changed. The park seemed to fold in on itself — the trees bending closer, the light flattening. I could feel it: that subtle thinning of the world’s skin, when one place brushes too close to another.

Then came the sound — faint but clear — of bells. Not church bells or sleigh bells, but something older, softer, woven from air and memory.

I blinked, and the girl was gone.

The footprints ended where she had stood. The water in the fountain had stopped. Even the frost seemed to retreat.

Lillian, to her credit, said nothing for several seconds. Then, very quietly: “We should have had cake first.”

---

We found the café eventually — though when we arrived, it was closed. A handwritten sign hung in the window:

Closed for the season — reopening in the spring.

We looked at each other, both thinking the same thing: we had seen no one else in the park. No sign of workmen, no sound of pipes or pumps. Only that faint, impossible tune that followed us halfway home.

I’ve heard it twice since — once in a dream, once when passing the fountain after dusk. Lillian insists it’s just a trick of sound, a resonance in the stone.

Perhaps she’s right. But sometimes, when the winter air turns still enough, I fancy I see her — the pale-haired girl — watching from the far edge of the park, as if making sure we don’t stray too far again.

---

Postscript from Lillian:

The fountain is still not connected to the mains. I checked the council records. Sylvia claims this proves her “blessing theory.” I would prefer a leak. Still, I admit — there is something unusual about the acoustics there. It’s as though the park remembers who passes through.