Like the softness of a snowflake

They said she moved like the softness of a snowflake, and once you saw her, the phrase stopped being a metaphor.

She appeared in the winter street without announcing herself, bare to the cold yet untouched by it, as if the snow had chosen her as its quiet companion. Flakes settled on her skin and hair, resting there gently, never rushing to melt—out of respect, perhaps.

Her green eyes carried the strange calm of falling snow: light, deep, and impossible to hold. People passed behind her, busy with warmth and noise, but she existed in another rhythm, slower, softer. She turned her head just enough to remind the world that fragility can be a form of strength.

There was nothing dramatic about her presence. No spell, no warning. Just a delicate gravity that drew attention without asking for it. The cold paused. Footsteps softened. Hearts followed suit.

And when she finally disappeared into the drifting white, the street felt louder, rougher somehow—
as if everyone had briefly forgotten
how gentle the world could be.