How long has the night been, she thinks, and walking on an endless carpet of dead snow-flakes, hearing them mourn their mayfly lives. If only we could have lived longer, but they wept, their icicle tears clotting the air. She wished that she could have stayed with them long enough to erase their pain, promising them of reincarnations to come; of being rain, but a jade sea or a tumbling brook. But alas she has to leave for she has other promises to keep, other dead to heal.
