There once lived a boy with candles for eyes. His mother kept him inside most of the time; the outside, she said, was where the cold wind blew and cold winds, she said, were deadly in the winter and the winter, she said, could snuff a candle out.

And so the boy kept to his mother's rules for six years of the warm, cozy inside and there, he remained—gazing out the window on occasion, watching a forever snow fall and cloak the land outside in a gentle hush.

His humble house stood at the top of a quiet hill, absent of voices and company except the lone howling of the wind that was strongest at the highest point of their snowy village. There, the air was never once without a chill and though seasons were a thing, they did not seem to exist in a place so cold and barren.

The village, it looked the best in winter where roofs were white and windows sills were dusted with powdered sugar and the entire streets appeared like white buttercream icing that tasted of vanilla.

Beautiful as it may seem, there were times when the snow was feared and those times, the boy would witness his mother returning from their garden in the backyard with half the supposed harvest and fingers that had turned purple from the time she'd spent outside caring for her fruits and vegetables. And so he'd always had the impression that the snow was something akin to a monster, ready to bite and to freeze and to scare and therefore worthy of fear and intimidation. All the more, he did not wish to go outside.

One day however, he was gazing the window by the fireplace when he chanced upon a pair of children playing at the top of the hill some distance away from his front yard, running around in circles and falling on the snow with red noses and flushed cheeks but smiling quite like he'd never imagined was possible on a cold winter morning.

They were doing something. Each had gathered a mound of snow in their gloved hands and patting it together to form something vaguely firm. A large, round ball on the ground. Steadily, it grew with every bit of snow they added to the mound and soon, it took on the shape of what appeared like an eight.

He heard a knock on his door.

"Hello! Good morning. I'm Alfred. And this is Julie. We hope we aren't intruding—we're just looking for sticks. Or branches. Two, to be exact," said the stranger boy named Alfred who was very much polite and had the manners to introduce himself despite the immense cold that was outside. His companion had bunch of pebbles in her hands that were cupped.

"I have some from the fireplace," said candles for eyes.

"That would do very well. Thank you so much."

And so the boy fetched the pair of children a couple of branches his mother would gather from time to time and waved them goodbye. Upon closing the door, he continued to watch them from the safety of the inside, through his window.

The branches, he realized, were a substitute for arms and the mound of snow shaped like an eight was supposedly a person; the top sphere as a head and the one on the bottom, a body. The pebbles were eyes and a smile.

A snow-person.

When the children were done for the day, they left the snow-person at the top of the hill and held hands on their way home to the village further down below. Candles for eyes was not expecting this to happen—for what would become of the snow-person out in the cold, where the winds blew and the winters froze? Surely, it would feel very well.

He thought, five seconds. Five seconds and he'd be back at the front door. Armed with his mother's cloak, leg warmers and three mufflers of different shades, the boy dashed out into the open, wrapped the snow-person's neck in scarves, placed a hat upon its head, and made it back into his house within ten seconds.

Twice the limit he'd set, but still. The candles were there.

Admittedly, he'd felt them flicker for a moment at a gentle breeze but otherwise, he was fine. The flames were still and they were lit and they burned. He watched the snow-person from his window until he fell asleep.

________________

The next morning, candles for eyes woke to see the snow-person gone. Fearing the worst, he bolted out of bed and headed for the door but as soon as he opened it to the coming of cold winds, he was greeted by the snow-person himself.

"Good morning," said the snow-person, voice muffled by the many scarves around his neck. "I merely wished to express my gratitude for the many clothes you were kind enough to provide me with."

Candles for eyes did not understand very much of the snow-person's vocabulary but he was relieved, first, and then slightly intrigued. He didn't know snow people could talk. Or walk, for the matter. Or perhaps his mother had been the one to move him? He would have to ask later in the evening after her work at the diner.

"What's your name?"

"A name... I haven't quite considered a name. I'd come into being mere hours ago and the first thing on my mind had been to thank you for the clothes. I haven't quite thought about anything else. And you? Do you have a name?"

Candles for eyes had to crouch by his doorstep to meet the gaze of his companion, who did not appear very keen on raising his snow-head. "Yeah. I can tell you if you come inside."

"Inside?" Echoed the little mound of snow. "I don't quite... ah. I see now. You are in the inside. I am here, on the outside. Is that what you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Well... well I suppose that would be nice. Yes. Yes, I will come inside." Snow with scarves was surprised when the boy proceeded to pick him up and bring him inside the house where it was warm. He placed him beside the fire where he personally liked best, and made plans for offering the snow-person some nice hot chocolate but as soon as the boy returned with two mugs of what he deemed as the best beverage across the land, he noticed that his friend had been crying.

"What's wrong?" He said to the snow-person, who had tears streaming from his eyes and down his cheeks to the floor.

"I don't know. I feel like I'm disappearing."

"Don't cry."

"Perhaps I don't belong here. How odd—the fire. It burns."

"Okay, I'll bring you back outside," said candles for eyes and at once, he was picking up the mound of snow and sure enough, could feel his fingers sink deeper into its powdered-sugar body. He was soft.

The crying seemed to stop as soon as he returned his companion to the outside, just a little to the right of his doorway where they could comfortably carry out a conversation.

"Thank you. How strange it is to cry. I've never thought they could sting, tears could."

"Sometimes they do."

"Does it hurt for you then?"

"Sometimes."

"Even for candles?"

"The wax," he admitted, albeit unsure about baring his weakness to a stranger, to be this honest about crying when his father had often said that crying was for children who could never grow up. "It stings too."

"That does seem like a valid point. That said, perhaps I don't very much mind the tears as long as we get to speak to one another."

How odd it was to have a friend made of the very thing he thought akin to a monster to be feared; the little snow-person was nothing close. Mildly sharp with honesty but as snow would sometimes be. Just a little chill.

"I can't go outside. Annie says it's dangerous. The wind is cold."

"Well then, Annie is quite right. It is, indeed, rather chilly outside where I am. Fortunately, I am quite literally made to thrive in the cold. The cold, hard truth appeals to me very much too."

The boy did not understand what the snow-person meant by the cold, hard truth. He made a vague association to his earlier thoughts about being sharp with honesty before recalling the entire reason he'd tried to show his companion inside.

He was about to say his name when, again, tears began running down the snow-person's cheeks. This time, slower—less noticeable. But still there.

"You're crying again." He reached out to wipe the tear with the muffler he provided the day before when, the moment he neared, the tears brimmed further fast. Two; three, streamed from the little snowman's pebble eyes.

"Oh dear. Am I?"

"Yeah," said the boy, confused and retracting his hand. "But you're no longer inside."

And that was when he realized that it was not the warmth of the inside that had tears streaming down his companion's cheeks but the candles.

It was the candles in his eyes.

And so

He snuffed

Them out.